“I dunno’ ’bout that,” said one, removing his pipe. “Strike pay is as good as master’s pay, an’ less work to get it. I could do with a bit of an ’oliday.”
“Strike pay may be as good as master’s while it lasts, but it won’t last,” rejoined Marsten.
“When it gives out we’ll go back to work,” returned the man. The others laughed.
“Some of you won’t get back,” said Marsten. “That’s always the way after a strike. Better keep a good job while we have it.”
“Oh, I could do with a bit of an ’oliday,” repeated the spokesman of the “pub” crowd, indifferently.
“My God!” cried Marsten, indignantly, “if you take no more interest in your condition than that, how can you ever expect to better it?”
“Well, I thort,” answered the other, good-naturedly, “when I sees you a-comin’ along, as ’ow you’d better it by arstin’ us to ’ave a drop o’ beer with you.”
“You’re muddled with beer already,” said the young man shortly, as he turned and disappeared up the court.
The crowd smoked on in silence for some minutes after he had left them.
“Cocky young feller that,” said one at last, jerking his pipe over his shoulder in the direction Marsten had gone.