Parker shuffled forward and spat on the flags by way of prelude.
He was evidently the head of the deputation, a Hardrascliffe man only hired last year and less bound by a tradition of service to his master than were the others. Mary smiled as she realized how the older men made a virtue of necessity by shifting the odium as well as the difficulty of speech on to a comparative stranger. She saw old Deane, who once worked for her father, twisting a greasy cap in embarrassed fingers. They were all there but Mike, Shepherd and Foreman. Waite, who had nothing to do with the farm any longer—even he had come and hovered in the background, manifestly enjoying the situation. Champions of liberty and progress! This was the outcome of David's fine talking. Mary wondered what he would think of them.
It was Parker who finally spoke.
"We ain't going to work to-day, maister."
"Oh, I gave orders to Foreman on Saturday night that the sixty-acre had to be opened up."
"Ay, you did."
"Well, then, why aren't you going to do it?"
"We can't make money at this job."
"Money? What's wrong with your money? Haven't you high enough wages? I've offered ten shillings more than last year."
Mary, locking and unlocking her fingers, endeavoured to curb her growing desire to push John's lumbering ineffectiveness aside, and herself deal with the envoys of the union. While she fretted Parker found his word, a drifting echo of Hunting's Saturday night oration.