His old companions were half mad with rage and vexation. What could be done? They were determined that he should be served out in some way, and that he should be prevented from appearing at the meeting. Come what would, he should not stand up and triumph in his teetotalism on the platform—that they were quite resolved on. Some scheme or plan must be devised to hinder it. And fortune seemed to favour them.
A short time after it became generally known that Johnson was to speak, a young lad might be seen hurrying home in his coal-pit-clothes to a low, dirty-looking cottage that stood on the outskirts of the village.
“Mother,” cried the boy, as soon as he reached the house and could recover his breath, “where’s fayther?”
“He’s not come home yet,” said the mother; “but what ails you, John?”
“Why, mother,” said the boy, with trembling voice, “fayther gave me a shilling to get change just as we was leaving the pit-bank, and I dropped it somewhere as I were coming down the lane. I’m almost sure Ben Taylor’s lad found it, and picked it up; but when I axed him if he hadn’t got it, he said ‘No,’ and told me he’d knock my head against the wall if I didn’t hold my noise. I see’d fayther go by at the lane end, but he didn’t see me. He’ll thrash the life out of me if he finds I’ve lost the shilling.—I’ve run for my life, but he’ll be here directly. You must make it right, mother—you must.”
“Ay, ay, lad; I’ll speak to your fayther. He shan’t beat you. Just keep out of the road till he’s cooled down a bit. Eh! here he comes for sure, and a lot of his mates with him. There—just creep under the couch-chair, lad. They’ll not tarry so long. Fayther’ll be off to the ‘George’ as soon as he’s had his tea.”
So the poor boy crept under the couch, the hanging drapery effectually hiding him from the view of any who might come in. Another moment, and Will Jones the father entered the house with half-a-dozen companions.
“Well, and what’s up now?” asked the wife, as the men seated themselves—some on chairs, and one or two on the couch.
“Never you heed, Martha,” said her husband; “but just clap to the door, and take yourself off to Molly Grundy’s, or anywhere else you’ve a mind.”
“I can tell you I shall do nothing of the sort,” was the reply. “A likely thing, indeed, as I’m to take myself off and leave my own hearth-stone while a parcel of chaps is turning the house out of the windows. If you’re up to that sort of game, or if you want to be talking anything as decent folk shouldn’t hear, you’d better be off to the ‘George.’ It’s the fittest place for such work.”