“Then I’ll tell ye what it is, sir,” he cried. “Flesh and blood can’t bear it no longer. I be a-goin’ on strike.”
Mr Old surveyed him for a moment; then he glanced at Jess’s fellow-workers, just the fraction of a gleam being perceptible in his inscrutable eyes. But Martin and his companions raked away as if their lives depended on the speed with which they accomplished their task.
“Oh, ye be goin’ on strike, be ye?” he observed. “Goin’ to strike all by yourself seemingly.”
Again he glanced at the gang of rakers, whose efforts became if possible more strenuous than before, and who appeared quite unconscious of what was going on; then he set his legs a little more wide apart and whistled.
“Ye want a rise of wages, I suppose?” he continued calmly.
Jess considered, and then threw out his hand impressively. There was a certain appearance of tension about the bent backs of the workers. It would be a queer thing if, after all, the master were going to give in to Jess.
“No, Measter,” said the latter with a virtuous air. “Ye rose me last year an’ I b’ain’t the man to ax for more now; but a drap o’ beer’s another thing. I be goin’ on strike, Measter Old, till you agree for to send us out a drap o’ refreshment at such times as these.”
“I’m glad ye didn’t ax for more wage, Jess,” returned Old, still mildly, “because ye wouldn’t ha’ got it. As for sendin’ out refreshment, as I did tell ye jist now, I’ve got no notion o’ doin’ no sich thing.”
“Well, Measter,” responded Jess, “I’m sorry for to disapp’int ye but I’ll ha’ to knock off work till ye give in.”
“Jist oblige me by handin’ me that there rake,” said the farmer. “There’s a couple o’ teeth gone—I’ll have to fine ye three-pence for that. Ye shouldn’t throw my property about that way. I can pay ye the rest o’ your wage now if ye like. To-morrow comes off, of course.”