'I'll give you ten shillings; I have said so. You may take it or not; it's at your own option.'
More contending; but the pawnbroker was firm; and Mrs. Dunn was forced to accept the offer, or else take away her silk.
'How long is this strike going to last?' he asked, as he made out the duplicate.
The words excited the irascibility of Mrs. Dunn.
'Strike!' she uttered, in a flaming passion. 'Who dares to call it a strike? It's not a strike; it's a lock-out.'
'Lock-out, then. The two things come to the same, don't they? Is there a chance of its coming to an end?'
'No, they don't come to the same,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'A strike's what it is—a strike; a act of noble independence which the British workman may be proud on. A lock-out is a nasty, mean, overbearing tyranny on the part of the masters. Now, old Cox! call it a strike again.'
'But I hear the masters' shops are open again—for anybody to go to work that likes,' replied Mr. Cox, quite imperturbable.
'They be open for slaves to go to work, not for free-born men,' retorted Mrs. Dunn, her shrieking voice at a still higher pitch. 'I hope the men'll hold out for ever, I do! I hope the masters 'll be drove, everyone of 'em, into the dust and dregs of the bankruptcy court! I hope their sticks and stones 'll be sold up, down to their children's cradles——'
'There, that's enough,' interposed the pawnbroker, as he handed her what he had to give. 'You'll be collecting a crowd round the door, if you go on like that. Here's somebody else waiting for your place.'