“You think it’ll answer?” asked Bright.

  The men looked at each other, smiling enigmatically.

  “Try it, sir!” said the spokesman.

  Bright reflected for a moment; then he rose and buttoned his overcoat.

  “Very well!” he answered.

  The elder man of the four, who had sat silently listening to all that was said, laid a hand on Bright’s sleeve.

  “Mr. Marrashaw!” he said. “You don’t know our folk as I know ’em! For all their hardness and obstinacy and similar qualities, they’re as easily swayed as corn before a wind! This Howroyd lot swayed ’em in one direction two days since, but Mally Watki’son swayed ’em in another to-night. It’s as Grew there says — this is t’ psychological moment! You go, sir, and give orders for full speed ahead to-morrow morning, and you’ll see t’ owd machine’ll move on! — we know, here, what we’re talking about.”

  VIII

  BRIGHT WENT AWAY from that secret conference full of somewhat perplexing thoughts. He saw now what Grew had meant when he spoke of wheels within wheels, cliques within cliques, movements inside a movement. He was impressed, too, with what the elder man had just said as to the mutability of the people. He had heard his father voice similar sentiments: Ellerthwaite, too, had spoken to him more than once of the way in which democracy sways and shifts under the influence of one demagogue or another. But he had never heard a working man speak so frankly, nor with such conviction and now he seemed to see the folk who at that moment were getting their suppers in the warmth and comfort of their cottages in an entirely new light. Demos, then, after all, was not the united, concentrated force, one-minded, one-purposed, clear-thinking, that he had imagined, but truly a many-headed body, subject as water to wind. To-day, Hermie Clough; to-morrow, Mally Watkinson! — the impression of the moment always being strongest.

  Lockwood himself appeared at the door of his house in answer to Bright’s knock, and exclaimed in surprise on recognising his visitor.

  “All right, Lockwood,” said Bright. “Alone?”

  “Aye, I’m alone — and shall be,” responded Lockwood, as he ushered his master in and closed the door. “Them two — you know who I mean! — have gone off to Brelforth, and they’ll not come back to-night. T’ truth is,” he continued, as he drew forward a chair for Bright, “there was a bit of a sickener for t’ Howroyd lot at that meeting in Bolton’s Fold to-night. That woman ‘at came up to your place this morning, Mally Watki’son—”

  “I was at the meeting,” interrupted Bright. “I heard Mally. Then you think she really put a spoke in their wheel?”

  Lockwood gave a dry chuckle.

  “I think she put such a spoke in their wheel that it’s like to upset t’ entire cart and cargo!” he said. “An’ they know it, and all! — you see, it was t’ first bit of practical common sense ‘at most o’ t’ folk had heard. It touched their pockets! And as soon as owt touches a Haverthwaite man’s pocket, he’s on guard. This Howroyd gang coddled all t’ rest into believing two things, Mr. Bright — one was that t’ trades-union ‘ud back ’em up; t’ other that you’d give way as soon as you saw they meant business. They’re being disappointed in both.”

  “You say they know things aren’t going well for them?” asked Bright.

  “I’ll tell you,” replied Lockwood. “They’ve already got deserters, or at any rate, half-and-halfers in their camp. After that meeting to-night, they’d a bit o’ hurried talk amongst theirselves, and our Hermie and Allot Howroyd set off there and then to Brelforth, to get help. Their lot — this syndicalist lot — is strong in Brelforth: they’ve gone there to get ’em to back ’em up here and with t’ trades-union headquarters. I got to know that just now fro’ Tom Watmough — Hermie sent him wi’ a message to me about being away for t’ night, and Tom told me t’ rest. He’s been one o’ Howroyd’s chief supporters, but he says now, as lots on ’em are saying all over t’ place, that if there’s to be no union support, he’s had enough. You see how it is, Mr. Bright? — they’re none going to face them cold hearths and empty bellies ‘at Mally Watki’son prophesied, none they! They know better!”

  “I’ll tell you what it is, Lockwood!” exclaimed Bright, suddenly. “They seem to me to be more like a lot of children than anything else! They’re ready enough to start a game at anybody’s suggestion, and the first thing in it that they don’t like, why, then, they aren’t going to play any longer!”

  Lockwood laughed satirically.

  “Why, you’ll excuse me, sir, but that’s a bit of a platitude,” he said. “Well enough known to me, anyway, and to a great many more on us. They are children! — and they’re over susceptible to glibness o’ tongue. You’d hear and see to-night — our Hermie carried ’em away in one direction wi’ all that old tale ‘at she owt to be ashamed o’ dwelling on, and Mally Watki’son flung ’em back in another, ten minutes after Hermie’d sat down. Aye, they’re children!” he continued, with a sigh. “Like them ‘at owd Paul wrote about ‘tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness’ — that’s it, sir!”

  “Subject to the impression of the moment!” said Bright.

  “There’s no doubt on it!” affirmed Lockwood.

  “Then — are they, just now, under the influence of Mally’s Watkinson’s speech?” asked Bright. “That’s the last thing they had forced on them!”

  “I should say there’s naught else being talked about, fro’ one end o’ these streets to t’ other,” affirmed Lockwood. “Aye! — they’ll talk about no other thing to-night, and to-morrow morning an’ all. No union support — no strike pay — t’ pawnbroker’s shops — cold hearths — empty bellies — crying childher: it’ll take a lot o’ talk fro’ our Hermie to drive them ghosts out o’ their minds! Especially out o’ t’ women!”

  Bright rose from his chair.

  “Then there’s only one thing to be done!” he said. “And I’ll do it. We’ll start work again to-morrow morning! Just as usual — as if nothing had happened. Can it be done, Lockwood?”

  Lockwood considered matters for a moment or two. He glanced at the old clock which stood in a corner of his living-room.

  “Oh, aye, it can be done,” he answered. “Yes — there’s no difficulty about that. There’s naught to do but warn our engine-men and foreman, and so on, and just give t’ work to two or three o’ t’ old workers, such as Mally Watki’son — they’ll have t’ news spread all round before ten o’clock. Fortunately, t’ men that you want, for starting again, are all on our side — there’s naught to do but to just see ’em and tell ’em to get to their jobs i’ t’ morning, just as usual.” He paused, looking thoughtfully at Bright. “I see your point, your notion,” he said suddenly. “It’s to just — quietly go on, ignoring t’ events o’ t’ last two days?”

  “That — and to find out if there aren’t a good many that’ll be glad to come back with no questions asked,” asserted Bright.

  “Just so,” said Lockwood. He picked up a cap, muffler, and overcoat that lay near him and began to prepare for going out. And suddenly he gave Bright a half shy smile. “You’ll say I’m a bit of a sentimentalist, Mr. Bright,” he remarked as he wrapped himself up. “Happen I am — but I can assure you ‘at I’ve never heard no sweeter music i’ my life than t’ sound o’ t’ clattering clogs on their way to t’ mill of a morning! This morning, I heard naught — it was all dead silence hereabouts, an’ I’m none ashamed to say ‘at I dropped a tear or two on t’ pillow — I did so! But to-morrow—”

  Bright slipped his hand within the old overlooker’s arm and gave it a squeeze.

  “Come on, Lockwood!” he said. “You’ll hear the clogs clatter for many a morning yet!”

  IX

  AS LOCKWOOD AND Bright left the house, the front lights of a motor-car turned the corner of the street and coming slowly toward them halted before the gate of the overlooker’s little garden. The driver leaned forward from his seat, peering at the two figures advancing along the path.

  “Is that Mr. Clough?” he called.

  “Aye, it’s me,” replied Lockwood. “What’s wanted?”

  “Have you seen aught of Mr. Marrashaw to-night, Mr. Clough?” asked the driver. “I’m seeking him, and I heard ‘at you’d be like to know where he is if he’s down this way.”

  Bright had already recognised the man’s voice, and knew him for Ellerthwaite’s chauffeur. He went out of the gate and up to him.

  “I’m here,” he said. “What is it — who wants me?”

  “Mr. Ellerthwaite, sir,” replied the driver. “I didn’t see it was you, sir. T’ master wants to see you particular — he sent me across to Marrashaw Royd with orders that if you weren’t at home, I was to find you and bring you back to our place at once. I heard from your servants that you’d gone out and might be down this way, so I came on.”

  “All right,” answered Bright. “I’ll come with you in a moment.” He turned back to Lockwood and drew him aside. “Now, Lockwood!” he whispered. “Get on with what we’ve been talking about. Get hold of half-a-dozen of likely people to spread the news, and see that everything’s ready for a start first thing in the morning. I’ll be down here myself in good time — meet me at the mill. Now I’ll go and find out what Mr. Ellerthwaite wants.”

  All the way through the town and its outskirts and across the dark moor, Bright wondered what it could be that had made Ellerthwaite send for him so late in the evening. He was still wondering when he arrived at the house, where he was at once shown into the dining-room. There his wonder changed to surprise at the scene before him; it was certainly one which he had never expected to see. For the second time that night he suddenly grasped the significance of Grew’s remark about wheels within wheels — he had evidently been hailed to yet another secret conference.

  Ellerthwaite sat at one end of the dinner table in the centre of the room. He was leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, a cigar in the corner of his lips, a half-amused, half-cynical smile in his eyes, listening to one of two men who sat on either side of the table, at his right and left hand. These men, too, had their cigars, and they had glasses before them: Ellerthwaite, with his usual ready hospitality had made them at home. And a little in the background, by the hearth, sat Milly, keenly interested in whatever it was that was going on. She was watching the man who was talking: Bright knew him well enough as one of his own employees, Walshaw: a young, energetic, pushing fellow; he knew the other man, too: Burton, an older man, also a Marrashaw’s mill-hand. Both were strikers.

  Ellerthwaite turned a shrewd and informing eye on Bright as he walked in — there was a world of meaning in his glance as he waved his cigar towards the two workmen.

  “There you are!” he said. “I thought we should rouse you out somewhere. Here’s two of your men who’ve been having a bit of talk with me about my having a bit of talk with you. But I tell ’em — they’d better say what they have to say straight out to Mr. Marrashaw. Sit you down, Bright.”

  Bright dropped into a chair at the other end of the table, nodding to his two men as he drew closer. He saw that this was going to be a moment of confidence, and he had no mind to adopt a stand-offish attitude.

  “I don’t know in the least what it’s all about,” he remarked, pleasantly, “but I’ve no objection to hear. What is it — what’s the mystery?”

  The two men glanced, half-sheepishly, at Ellerthwaite, and Ellerthwaite laughed.

  “I seem to have been elected to be a sort of intermediary,” he said, “so I suppose I must preface matters. The fact is,” he went on, “there’s a cave in the opposition camp! Some of ’em already fled to Adullam — and here’s two ambassadors that want to start negotiations. They’ve some interesting things to tell. You’d better hear ’em.”

  Bright turned to the two men.

  “Well?” he said. “But what? I rather think you two were pretty zealous on the side of Howroyd and his party, weren’t you?”

  The two men looked at each other, and at Ellerthwaite; the younger man smiled and turned on Bright with a sudden assumption of almost childlike confidence.

  “Well, we were, Mr. Marrashaw!” he said, ingenuously. “It’s quite true, sir — we did our bit in that way. You can put us down as holding commissioned rank in t’ rebel army, if you like. But now—”

  “Stop a bit!” said Bright. “Let’s be clear. I know you two — you’ve both got headpieces on you. Now both of you, personally — what did you strike for?”

  “Well, that’s a fair question, sir, and I’ll answer it,” replied Walshaw. “I’ll answer for both. We thought your treatment of Howroyd and Jubb was harsh and arbitrary. I think so now, Mr. Marrashaw — I think you’ll think so yourself, some day, on reflection. You were a bit too impulsive — too sharp.”

  “It wasn’t what your pa ‘ud ha’ done, Mr. Marrashaw,” said Burton, a man whose plain-spokenness of character manifested itself in his face. “He was a strict and a hard ‘un, was your pa, but he’d ha’ gone more closely into t’ matter. There was too much o’ t’ autocrat in your behaviour, sir — for a free people!”

  “All right,” said Bright. “Those are fair answers — from your point. If you thought my conduct was harsh, you’d a perfect right to protest against it, in your own way. You did! — by striking. But — now?”

  Walshaw favoured the gathering with a comprehensive smile.

  “The fact of the case, Mr. Marrashaw,” he said, “is — we feel we’ve been done!”

  “That’s it!” muttered Burton. “Done, sir. Been, as it were, taken in. Been made mugs on — as t’ saying goes. And that’s worse than t’ other!”

  Ellerthwaite laughed: it was evident that he was deriving some huge secret amusement out of the situation. But Bright was puzzled. He turned a blank face on the victims of duplicity.

  “Who has been making mugs of you?” he asked.

  “This Howroyd lot!” answered Walshaw. “Howroyd himself!”

  “And t’ woman,” added Burton. “Yon Hermione! She’s t’ worst. If that there sort’s going to get t’ upper hand i’ politics, then I’m going to have no more to do with ’em!”

  Bright looked more puzzled than ever. He glanced at Ellerthwaite, and Ellerthwaite nodded at Walshaw.

  “You’d better explain, my lad,” he said. “Mr. Marrashaw’s wondering what it’s all about.”

  Walshaw turned to Bright, and leaning over the table, began to check off his points on the tips of his fingers.

  “Well, you see, Mr. Marrashaw, it’s been like this,” he said. “Your father never knew it, and you’ve never known it, But Allot Howroyd, and Hermie Clough, and that lot have been spreading their doctrines among t’ people for a good while back — on t’ quiet. Now then, when this do came between you and Howroyd, they determined on forcing a strike, though I know for a fact that they’d far rather ha’ put it off for a couple of years, till they were in better condition. But there was an excuse, and they decided to take it. They persuaded the bulk of us to come out — and we did come out. But now — how did they persuade us? First of all, Howroyd, at a sort of private, secret meeting that was attended the other night by principal chaps, like Burton there and myself, assured us that our trades-union would most certainly back us up, and that if it showed any signs o’ not doing so, he’d the means to force its hand — he asserted, positively, that him and his lot had got t’ trades-union head officials in a string, and could do what they liked with ’em, and that they were powerful enough to smash t’ union all to pieces.”

  “And you believed — that?” asked Bright.

  “Aye, we believed it!” said Walshaw. “He’s a very persuasive chap, is Allot Howroyd, when he’s on his legs, and of course he’s a highly-educated man, compared to us, and he can deal with figures and facts and statistics and so on in a fashion that ‘ud make anybody take his word for gospel. We did believe him — we believed, after what he said, that if we came out, the union would back us up, that there’d be strike pay, and all t’ rest of it. But there was more than that — it wasn’t only Howroyd’s assurance that made us come out that morning — there was another!”

  “T’ woman!” muttered Burton. “She was t’ main persuader!”

  “Aye!” assented Walshaw. “Hermie Clough! I’ll not say,” he continued, “that we shouldn’t ha’ come out, even if she’d said naught, for t’ feeling was very bitter again you, Mr. Marrashaw, about turning them two away in such cavalier fashion, but what she did say when Howroyd had done certainly settled t’ matter. It put t’ cap on! You know what a tongue she has! — she’d persuade some folk that black’s white, if she were minded that way.”

  “I’m waiting to hear what she told you,” said Bright. “What was it?”

  Walshaw glanced slyly at Ellerthwaite; the glance wandered round to Milly before it settled on Bright.

  “Well, Mr. Marrashaw!” he answered, with a depreciating smile. “You mustn’t mind if it seems a bit personal: I’m just acquainting you, as it were, with the strictly secret sides of the case, so I shall have to tell some personal things. When Howroyd had said his say about the trades-union aspect of the matter, Hermie said hers on another. She’d got her campaign all ready mapped out — seems to me, she’d had it all laid by in a pigeon-hole for some time, ready to take out when occasion rose. She said that she’d make herself responsible for bringing the campaign to a victorious conclusion. She said it would be a short and sharp one, and it would end — couldn’t but end! — in a complete victory for us. Then she told why. She said that she’d been Charlesworth Marrashaw’s right hand for the last years of his life; that he’d more than once said that she knew far more about his business than he did himself; that it was really her that had been the controlling force in the business for some time, and that when she left Charlesworth over some tiff they had, he’d privately tried to bribe her heavily to come back, saying that the business couldn’t do without her, and that she was coming back, at a tremendous salary, when he suddenly died. Then—”

 

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