"What can be afoot?" asked Chepstow, after a pause. "The men are working well."
"They're working as well as 'scabs' generally do," Mason complained. "And thirty per cent, are 'scabs,' now. They're all slackers. They're none of them lumber-jacks. They haven't the spirit of a 'jack.' I have to drive 'em from morning till night. Oh, by the way, parson, that reminds me, I've got a note for you. It's from the sutler. I know what's in it, that is, I can guess." He drew it from his pocket, handed it across to him. "It's to tell you you can't have the store for service to-night. The boys want it. They're going to have a singsong there, or something of the sort."
The churchman's eyes lit.
"But he promised me. I've made arrangements. The place is fixed up for it. They can have it afterward, but——"
"Hadn't you better read the note, uncle?" Betty said gently. She detected the rising storm in his vehemence.
He turned at once to the note. It was short, and its tone, though apologetic, was decided beyond all question.
"You can't have the store to-night. I'm sorry, but the boys insist on having it themselves. You will understand I am quite powerless when you remember they are my customers."
Tom Chepstow read the message from Jules Lieberstein twice over. Then he passed it across to Mason. Only the brightness of his eyes told of his feelings. He was annoyed, and his fighting spirit was stirring.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Mason inquired, as he passed the paper on to Betty in response to her silent request.
"Do? Do?" Chepstow cried, his keen eyes shining angrily. "Why, I'll hold service there, of course. Jules can't give a thing, and, at the last minute, take it away like that. I've had the room prepared and everything. I shall go and see him. I——"