Fisher stretched up his long neck. "Who's that a-talking? Is it Mr. Crouch?"
It was Stephen Crouch; the foreman in a large firm, and a respectable, intelligent man. "Do you remember, any of you, that a report arose some time ago about Wilson and King? A report that died away again?"
"That they were on their last legs," replied several voices. "Well?"
"Well, they are off them now," continued Stephen Crouch.
Up rose a man, his voice shaking with emotion. "It's not true, Mr. Crouch, sure—ly!"
"It is, Vincent. Wilson and King are going to wind up. It will be announced next week."
"Mercy help us! There'll be forty more hands throwed out! What's to become of us all?"
A dead silence fell on the room. Vincent broke it. Hope is strong in the human heart. "Mr. Crouch, I don't think it can be true. Our wages was all paid up to-night. And we have not heard a breath on't."
"I know all that," said Stephen Crouch. "I know where the money came from to pay them. It came from Mr. Ashley."
The assertion astonished the room. "From Mr. Ashley! Did he tell it abroad?"