"No!" Another voice, harsh and sharp as a steel file, cut through the uproar. "Work! Work! Is the Law! God say: 'By the sweat of brow!' Work! Ye ken?" It was the cadaverous individual with the snarl who was speaking. "Ye ken?"
"We ken!" The answer came in chorus, like a ragged thunderclap. The old man refastened his apron and sat down again, as did his companion. The belt flapped.
"Now look here!" Jonathan was furious. "I said...."
"It's no use, sir." Tom was plucking at his sleeve. "You might as well talk to the Lapis, now; come."
At the mansion, Jonathan sat for hours with his head between his hands, trying to think of some way to lift the curse riveted on New Patmos. He waved away the luncheon which Tom brought, then, as the old man started to leave the room, called him back. "Who's in charge at the factory?" he asked.
"There's nobody rightly in charge, sir; things just run themselves."
"Who is that creature with the voice like a squeaky hinge, then?"
"Oh, that's Jock, the men's supervisor, sir. He only...."
"Jock!" Jonathan caught his breath. "Could that be Jock MacPherson, 7th, a descendant of Sir Jonathan's original overseer?"