"No. The masters have good houses over their heads, and their bankers' books to supply their wants while they are waiting—and their orders are not so great that they need fear much pressure on that score. The London houses would dispatch a few extra orders to Paris and Grenoble, and the masters here might enjoy a nice little trip to the sea-side while our senses were coming back to us. But where should we be? Out at elbows, out at pocket, out at heart; some starving, some in the workhouse. If you want to avoid those contingencies, Joe Fisher, you'll keep from strikes."
Fisher answered by an ironical cheer. "Here, missis," said he to the landlady, who was then passing him, "let's have another pint, after that."
"That'll make nine pints you owe for since Monday night, Joe Fisher," responded the landlady.
"What if I do?" grunted Fisher irascibly. "I am able to pay. I ain't out of work."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE LADIES OF HONEY FAIR.
It was Saturday night in Honey Fair. A night when the ladies were at leisure to abandon themselves to their private pursuits. The work of the past week had gone into the warehouses; and the fresh work brought out would not be begun until Monday morning. Some of them, as Mrs. Buffle has informed us, did not begin it then. The women chiefly cleaned their houses and mended their clothes; some washed and ironed—Honey Fair was not famous for its management—not going to bed till Sunday morning; some did their marketing; and a few, careless and lazy, spent it in running from house to house, or congregated in the road to gossip.
About half-past eight, one of the latter suddenly lifted the latch of a house door and thrust in her head. It was Joe Fisher's wife. Her face was red, and her cap in tatters.
"Is our Becky in here, Mrs. Carter?"