There was a long silence and McTavish said, “They can’t win down there ... everything’s against ’em. It’ll be over in two months and a lot of ’em never be able to get work within ten miles of a mill ever again.”
Philip said nothing. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of Jim Baxter’s coat.
“They tried it too soon. They weren’t strong enough. They’ll win some day, but the time isn’t yet.”
Philip looked at him sharply. “I’m on their side. I know what it’s like down there. Nobody else knows, except Irene Shane and Mary Conyngham.”
“Does your Ma know it?” asked McTavish, with a grin.
“She must know it. She pretends not to.”
“And the Reverend Castor?”
“No ... I suppose he doesn’t.”
Philip thanked him abruptly, and went out of the door. When he had gone, McTavish poked up the fire, and sat staring into it. “I’m a regular old woman in some ways,” he thought, “trying to meddle in people’s affairs. But it needs a whole army to cope with Em.”