“Go to it now, McNish!” said Maitland.
Echoing the laughter, McNish once more held up his hand. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,” he said in his deepest and most solemn tone. The phenomenal absurdity of a joke from the solemn Scotchman again tickled the uncertain temperament of the crowd into boisterous laughter.
“Men, listen tae me!” cried McNish. “Ye mad a bad mistake the nicht. In fact, ye're a lot of fules. And those who led ye are worse, for they have lost us the strike, if that is any satisfaction tae ye. And now ye want to do another fule thing. Ye're mad just because ye didn't know enough to keep out of the wet.”
But at this point, a man fighting his way from the rear of the crowd, once more raised the cry “Scabs!”
“Keep that fool quiet,” said McNish sharply.
“Keep quiet yourself, McNish,” replied the man, still pushing his way toward the front.
“Heaven help us now,” said Maitland. “It's Tony, and drunk at that!”
It was indeed Tony, without hat, coat or vest.
“McNish, we want those scabs,” said Tony, in drunken gravity.
“There are nae scabs here. Haud ye're drunken tongue,” said McNish savagely.