“Who is it?” somebody called.
“I—Monjoy. Open the door.”
The bolt was shot back, and the two men entered.
The heavy loom-frame filled the greater part of the room, and about it stood a dozen—a score—it was not easy to tell how many men. Immediately Murgatroyd cried in a high voice, “Ye’ve come, but ye’ll mind that that were sattled at th’ Slack!” In his hand he held a clasp-knife.
Swiftly Monjoy’s eyes sought Ellah. He lay, a motionless heap, in one corner. He was dressed in his shirt only, and he was blackened from head to foot. Monjoy strode past the loom-seat and turned Ellah’s face up; it was of the colour of a bruised and rotten plum, and Monjoy drew in a long sibilant breath between his teeth.
“Whose work’s this?” he roared.
Murgatroyd had given a quick glance about him; a nod or two backed him up, and he stood before Monjoy.
“Keep ye to your business, Arthur,” he said, truculently. “All were sattled. Ye needn’t look at th’ knife—nobody’s been cutten yet; ’tis us tak’s ho’d now. We foun’ him all black like that; we’ve naughbut gotten out o’ him how mich he got for th’ job, and it were a hunderd pound. Now we’ve a bit o’ business.... Where were we, lads?”
“Me an’ Leventoes, an’ Dick o’ Dean, five; that’s fifteen,” a voice said.
“Fifty-five, then, and Pim ’ll mak’ it sixty.”