Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "We'll make our own terms. We'll be the masters now!"]
TOO DEARLY BOUGHT
OR
THE TOWN STRIKE.
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"HIS ADOPTED DAUGHTER," "THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY,"
"WILL FOSTER OF THE FERRY," "MADGE HARDWICKE,"
ETC.
With Illustrations.
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C.
STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE.
IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale.
Cr. 8vo, 2/6.
WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews.
Cr. 8vo, 2/6.
"The treatment is so admirable we can understand Miss Giberne's
book being a help to many."—_Athenæum._
HIS ADOPTED DAUGHTER; or, A Quiet Valley.
Large Cr. 8vo, 5/—.
"A thoroughly interesting and good book."—_Birmingham Post._
THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE.
Large Cr. 8vo, 2/6.
"A pathetic tale of country life, in which the fortunes of a family are
followed out with a skill that never fails to interest."—_Scotsman._
THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY; or, Not Forsaken.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 2/6.
"An admirable book for girls."—_Teachers' Aid._
FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Hand-maid.
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MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley.
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"An extremely interesting book, and one that can be read with profit
by all."—_The Schoolmaster._
WILL FOSTER OF THE FERRY.
Cr. 8vo, 2/6.
"We are glad to see this capital story in a new shape."—_Record._
TOO DEARLY BOUGHT.
Cr. 8vo, 1/6.
"A timely story, which should be widely circulated."
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. FLAGS AND BANNERS
II. PETER POPE'S SPEECH
III. THE STRIKE BEGUN
IV. WHAT STUCKEY THOUGHT
V. DUCKED
VI. SEED-CAKE
VII. THE CHILDREN
VIII. HOLDFAST'S SPEECH
IX. A COLD EVENING
X. THE QUEER LOOK OF THINGS
XI. BABY HARRY
XII. ANOTHER MEETING
XIII. A DISCUSSION
XIV. HOW IT ALL ENDED
[Illustration]
TOO DEARLY BOUGHT
OR
THE TOWN STRIKE.
CHAPTER I.
FLAGS AND BANNERS.
THE procession was coming down Pleasant Lane!
A great number of noisy little boys came trooping on ahead, with
shrill cries, to announce this important fact. Hardly one among them
understood exactly what the procession was about; but flags and banners
are the delight of a boy's heart. Not seldom this particular form of
affection for coloured bunting lasts on into manhood.
The wives and mothers, who turned out of their doorways to enjoy the
sight, were, however, more learned than their little boys as to the
cause of the stir. And everybody was aware that Peter Pope was to be at
its head.
Peter Pope, a smooth-tongued and comfortably-dressed individual, had
been very busy lately in the town. Most of his business had been in
the way of talk; but what of that? There was a committee, of course,
behind him, which did a good deal of work while Pope did the talk. He
had been sent down, as a delegate from London, for the express purpose
of teaching the inhabitants of the town; and teaching commonly means
a certain amount of talk. Peter Pope had come to teach the men of
the town to appreciate their degraded and enslaved condition. With
this object in view he had talked vigorously for many weeks; and the
men were becoming fast convinced of the truth of his words. They had
not dreamt before what a melancholy thing it was to be a British
working-man; but now their eyes were opened.
If you want to convince the British Public about anything,—especially
that part of the British Public which reads very few books, and knows
very little of history, and never goes out of England, just remember
this! There is not the least need that you should be clever or learned
yourself, or even powerful in speech. You only have to go on saying the
same thing over and over and over again, with dogged pertinacity; and
in time you are sure to be believed. The British Public is wonderfully
easy of belief, and will swallow anything,—if only you give it time!
Peter Pope had done this. He had talked on, with a resolute and dogged
pertinacity; he had given his hearers plenty of time; and now he was
rewarded by seeing the biggest boluses he could offer, meekly gulped
down.
It was a dingy and smoky town enough to which he had come; one of the
crowded manufacturing towns, of which England owns so many. Not a clean
or pretty town, but a prosperous one hitherto, with a fair abundance of
work for willing toilers. Those who were unwilling to toil did badly
there as elsewhere; and these were the men who first swallowed Peter
Pope's bait.
Pleasant Lane was not the least narrow and dingy of many narrow dingy
streets. The houses on either side were small, and for the most part
not over clean. One little home near the centre formed a marked
exception as to this last point; boasting dainty muslin blinds, windows
filled with plants, and a spotless front doorstep.
On that step stood Sarah Holdfast, in her clean print gown, watching
like others for the coming procession. Not that she had the least idea
of seeing her husband figure in it. She was only dandling her baby, and
lifting it up to be amused with the stir.
Martha Stevens, a young and pretty woman in the next doorway, had no
such security about her husband. Roger Stevens was morally sure to be
in the thick of whatever might be stirring,—whether it were good or
bad. He was a well-meaning man, and not usually unsteady; but, like
a good many of his companions, he was easily led, always ready to
believe what he was told, and ever prepared to follow the crowd. As
the stream of public opinion—the public opinion of the little world
around himself—happened just then to run in the direction of a grand
procession, Martha had not a shadow of doubt that her husband would
find his place somewhere in the said procession.
"What's it all about, mother?" asked Robert, a rosy child of nine.
"It's the men, Bobbie," she said. "They're having a procession."
"What for?" asked Bobbie.
"They want something that the masters won't give 'em. They want higher
wages and shorter hours."
"But what's the 'cession for?" persisted Bobbie.
"I'll tell you what it's for," volunteered a slovenly woman in the
left-hand doorway, tossing a ragged infant in her arms. "It's to show
that they're Men, and they're going to have their Rights! Time enough
too! Working-men ain't a-going to be trampled on no longer, nor their
wives neither. We won't put up with no more tyranny nor nonsense."
Martha moved her head from one side to the other, and was silent.
But Sarah Holdfast remarked dryly, "There's a sort of tyranny in
the home that isn't so easy got rid of! And there's a tyranny of
working-man to working-man, which I'd like to see done away with. It
may be harder tyranny than the tyranny of capital, which folks talk
such a lot about nowadays."
"Oh, you! I dare say—you're sure to say that!" the untidy woman
retorted with contempt. "Your husband's such a poor-spirited chap—all
on the side of the masters."
"He is not on the side of the masters," Sarah answered resolutely.
"He's on the side of doing what is right; and he's against tyranny of
every sort,—it don't matter whether it's tyranny of masters or of men.
That's what the lot of you don't and won't see."
"Here it comes!" cried Bobbie.
Except to a young imagination such as Bobbie's, the advancing
procession was not perhaps very imposing; but it made a good show
in point of numbers, and the men kept well together, in a solid and
orderly phalanx. Outside the main body walked detached individuals,
carrying money-boxes; for the processioners had a practical object in
view beside the mere display of numbers. They would not only march
round the town, endeavour to impress the imaginations of people
generally, and pay a visit to their employers' office to make formal
demand of what they required, but also they hoped to gather funds by
the way for the coming struggle. Most of the men appeared thus far to
be sober; but some towards the rear showed signs of a recent visit to a
public-house.
At the head of the procession marched a brass band, playing lively
jigs, very much out of tune; and the amount of flags and banners
following was really quite respectable.
First might be seen a great sheet of white calico, stretched across two
poles, and bearing the portentous inscription—
"WE DEMAND FIFTEEN PER CENT. AND EIGHT HOURS."
Next swaggered unsteadily along a second white calico sheet, with the
words—
"UNION IS STRENGTH!"
An axiom so self-evident that nobody could question its truth.
An "Oddfellows" banner, drooping gracefully from its single pole, came
next. It had a picture of the good Samaritan on a blue ground, and was
not peculiarly appropriate to a strike; but flags of all kinds help to
swell the general effect, and this with others was borrowed.
After the good Samaritan, a loaf stuck upon a pole was borne along. No
especial meaning might be attached to the uplifted loaf; but no doubt
bread is always an impressive object. What would man be without the
"staff of life"? There is also an obvious connection between loaves and
wages.
At the tail of the procession, after sundry other appropriate and
inappropriate flags, made or borrowed, came the final output of native
genius—another big square of white, having its inscription painted with
a tar-brush—
"WE MEAN TO GET OUR RIGHTS!"
This sentiment began with a magnificent "W," and tapered gradually
off to an absurdly diminutive "s"; no doubt the natural expression of
artistic feeling.
A loose crowd of open-mouthed followers clattered along behind, deeply
impressed by the whole affair.
"It's a grand lot of flags, mother, ain't it?" said Bobbie.
Martha was gazing, as if she did not hear, and little fair-haired
Millie said, "Daddy's there!"
One look in the direction where the tiny hand pointed, and Martha
turned away.
"Come, Millie,—come, Bobbie,—we'll go indoors now."
"O mother, I want to wait," cried Bobbie. But he yielded to her touch
and went in, only asking eagerly—"'Why mayn't we stay?"
Martha made no answer. How could she bear to tell her child that his
father had been drinking?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]