On one of the uprights of the loom Mish was cutting a tally of notches; he cut another notch. “Charley an’ Belch, how mich?” he demanded; and the low hum continued.
Monjoy had turned to Ellah again. A man standing by him remarked over his shoulder, “He’d been trying to climb up th’ chimley when we come; he’s all for smout-holes now,” and turned again to the business in hand.
“Take him on the other side, James,” Monjoy muttered; “he’s horrible to see this way.” They began with their handkerchiefs to wipe the soot from Ellah’s face.
However he had come by it, there was little doubt of Ellah’s madness now. He shuddered convulsively under their hands, and fell back in fear into his corner. The corner was foul where he had lain for days. Cope had known better than to put this figure into the box; and Monjoy groaned. “I didn’t think to bring him to this when I cast him down,” he said with a shudder.
The ominous low conference continued. They pressed about the loom, and by and by Murgatroyd said briefly, “Seventy-three. How much you, Hell Harry?”
“A month’s weyvin’; I ha’ nowt else.”
Mish made a scratch by the side of his tally, and all at once Monjoy stepped towards him.
“What is this?” he demanded. “D’ye hear? What is it?”
“A hunderd pounds,” said a sullen voice from the other side of the loom. “He’s paid it, he’s ha’ it back”; and “Ay, ay,” came the consenting murmur.
“Who shall?... Damnation, Murgatroyd, but you shall not play with me!”