"Quiet 'em down now," begged John. Even his limited perspicacity had seen that the other men thought Parker had gone too far.
If Mary realized it, she made no sign of conciliation.
"Mr. Hunting," she sneered dramatically. "And who is this Mr. Hunting?"
"Our secretary—man from Manchester."
"Yes, your secretary, the organizer of the Northern Branch of the Farm Labourers' Union. A man you've seen for two or three weeks and about whom you know nothing. And you've known me for eight and twenty years, and you say I've never done you any harm. I tell you that you're being offered a fair wage. He apparently says you're not. Which are you going to believe?"
She stood in the centre of the doorway, her hands clasping both the side posts, her eyes bright with excitement. She only knew that this was really thrilling and dramatic. Unfortunately, she had omitted to ask herself whether it was necessary.
"We mun do what our secretary says. We mun have our rights." The old parrot cry echoed monotonously. Having exhausted their carefully learnt phrases, the men had nothing more to say. Deane whispered to Parker. Fred Stephens shuffled and blushed scarlet with perplexity and detestation of anything approaching a scene.
"You stop now, honey. Better offer 'em another ten shillings," urged John in a hoarse whisper.
But Mary would not stop.
"Yes, you'll have your rights though you don't know what they are. And you'll follow a hot-brained tub-thumper from Manchester, whose business it is to fool you left and right. Don't you know that he's being paid to fool you? Oh, dear, no, not you! You think you're all so clever and modern and you'll be as independent as the miners and have a strike on your own. Very well then, you can have it. We'll do without you. The weather's fine. There are some who have more sense than to be driven off their heads by a red-tied radical. You needn't think you are indispensable. We can manage without you far better than you can manage without us."