"You think that a damaging thing to say, do you, Sir George? Perhaps the day will come—not so far off, neither—when the magistrates will be no longer your creatures, but ours. Then we shall see!"
"Well, prophecy is cheap," said George. "Console yourself with it, by all means."
The two men measured each other eye to eye.
Then, unexpectedly, after the relief of his outburst, the philosopher's instincts which were so oddly interwoven with the rest of Tressady's nature reasserted themselves.
"Look here," he said, in another manner, advancing a step. "I think this is all great nonsense. If Madan has exceeded his duty, I will see to it. And, meanwhile, don't you think it would be more worthy of us, as a couple of rational beings, if, now we have met, we had a few serious words on the state of things in this valley? You and I fought a square fight at Malford—you at least said as much. Why can't we fight a square fight here?"
Burrows eyed him doubtfully. He was leaning on his stick, recovering breath and composure. George noticed that since the Malford election, even he had lost youth and looks. He had the drunkard's skin and the drunkard's eyes. Yet there were still the make and proportions of the handsome athlete. He was now a man of about thirty-two; but in his first youth he had carried the miner's pick for some four or five years, and during the same period had been one of the most famous football-players of the county. As George knew, he was still the idol of the local clubs, and capable in his sober spells of amazing feats both of strength and endurance.
"Well, I have no objection to some conversation with you," said Burrows, at last, slowly.
"Let's walk on, then," said George.
And they walked past the gate of Ferth, towards the railway-station, which was some two miles off.
About an hour later the two men returned along the same road. Both had an air of tension; both were rather pale.