An aged man, Abel White's father, usually called old White, who was past work, and had a seat at his son's chimney corner, leaned forward and spoke, his voice tremulous, but distinct. 'Samuel Shuck, did you ever know strikes do any good, either to the men or the masters? Friends,' he added, turning his venerable head around, 'I am in my eightieth year: and I picked up some experience while them eighty years was passing. Strikes have ruined some masters, in means; but they have ruined men wholesale, in means, in body, and in soul.'
'Hold there,' cried Sam Shuck, who had not brooked the interruption patiently. 'Just tell us, old White, before you go on, whether coercion answers for British workmen?'
'It does not,' replied the old man, lifting his quiet voice to firmness. 'But perhaps you will tell me in your turn, Sam Shuck, whether it's likely to answer for masters?'
'It has answered for them,' returned Sam, in a tone of irony. 'I have heard of back strikes, where the masters were coerced and coerced, till the men got all they stood out for.'
'And so brought down ruin on their own heads,' returned the old man, shaking his. 'Did you ever hear of a lock-out, Shuck?'
'Ay, ay,' interposed quiet, respectable Robert Darby. 'Did you ever hear of that, Slippery Sam?'
Slippery Sam growled. 'Let the masters lock-out if they dare! Let 'em. The men would hold out to the death.'
'And death it will be, with some of us, if the strike comes, and lasts. I came down here to-night, on my son's arm, just for your good, my friends, not for mine. At your age, I thought as some of you do; but I have learnt experience now. I can't last long, any way; and it's little matter to me whether famine from a strike be my end, or——'
'Famine' derisively retorted Slippery Sam.