“He was hungry, you say.”
“Famished, ma’am. Most of the young ones in Crabb Lane are so just now.”
The Squire was walking up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. He halted, and faced the Doctor.
“Look here, Cole—what has brought this state of things about? A strike!—and prolonged! Why, I should as soon have expected to hear the men had thrown up their work to become Merry Andrews! Who is in fault?—the masters or the men?”
Cole lifted his eyebrows. “The masters lay the blame on the men, the men lay it on the masters.”
“What is it the men are holding out for?”
“To get more wages, and to do less work.”
“Oh, come, that’s a twofold demand,” cried the Pater. “Modest folk generally ask for one favour at a time. Meanwhile things are all at sixes-and-sevens, I suppose, in Crabb Lane?”
“Ay,” said the Doctor. “At worse than sixes-and-sevens, indoors and out. There are empty cupboards and empty rooms within; and there’s a good deal of what’s bad without. It’s the wives and children that suffer, poor things.”
“The men must be senseless to throw themselves out of work!”