She paused. The men stared at her open-mouthed. This was certainly a new Mrs. Robson.
"Well," she cried. "Well? What are you going to do? Have you asked your precious union what sort of pay it's going to give you while other men get the harvest in? Why didn't you wait a bit before you started this game?"
There was no answer. The silence infuriated her. She had by this time lost her last vestige of self-control. A shrill note of hysteria rose in her voice.
"You'll be back here soon," she stormed, "whining for us to let you in again, and you'll find it too late. Then you'll know who's master. Now you can go. Strike if you like, but don't expect any sympathy from us if it isn't as nice as you think. Go on. Get out of here! Get out, you fools, and never let me see you hanging round the door again. Go to your precious Hunting—and if he can't feed you, then starve! I don't care. Get out of here!"
Not quite sure whether Mrs. Robson was mad or angry or merely making a fool of herself, and finding any of these possibilities equally embarrassing, the men began to turn away. Only Waite looked back.
"All right, missus," he said. "But you bain't shut on us yet."
One by one they filed out of the yard. Their footsteps died away along the road.
John faced Mary. For the first time in his life he was really angry with her.
"Well, you have done it," he said. "What on earth did you want to fly out like that for? I thought you had more sense."
Mary closed the door.