"Oh. Been out of work since that business with Mrs. Robson?"
"Ay."
"Foolish woman, very. Ah, what's that?"
From the road towards Market Burton came a rumbling clatter. An exultant procession of small boys appeared round the corner of the hedge. Then a column of dark grey smoke rose beyond it, and finally a traction-engine lumbered into view, with its trail of thrashing-machine and elevator.
It drew up beside the Robsons' stackyard gate, where the two men were standing.
"Hello there! D'you know if Robson's foreman is anywhere about?" called the driver.
"I doan't," growled Waite, "and I don't care."
The driver turned to his companion, a mechanic seated on the foot board.
"Here, mate!" he exclaimed. "This is one of the famous strikers of Anderby, I'll be bound. Where's the Red Flag, mate? Is that your union man?" He pointed a' derisive finger at Coast. "Come on, sonny," he called to a stout urchin who gazed in rapt enthusiasm at the engine. "Where's your dad?"
"He's waitin' for you somewheres—wants to get to Hardrascliffe to-night."