One Saturday afternoon, as Mrs. Randall was buying greens and potatoes,
old Jack, waiting without, strolled toward a crowd standing about a
speaker. A near approach discovered the speaker to be Mr. Joe Parsons,
who was saying:--
"----strike pay is little enough at the time, of course, but don't
forget what it will lead to! An' strike pay does very well, my frien's,
when the party knows 'ow to lay it out, an' don't go passin' it on to
the lan'lord. Don't give it away. When the lan'lord comes o' Monday
mornin', tell 'im (polite as you like) that there's nothink for 'im till
there's more for you. Let the lan'lord earn 'is money, like me an' you.
Let the lan'lords pay a bit towards this 'ere strike as well as the
other blaggards, the imployers. Lan'lords gits quite enough out o' you,
my feller workers, when--"
"They don't git much out o' you!" shouted old Jack in his wrath; and
then felt sorry he had spoken. For everybody looked at him, and he knew
some of the faces.
"Ho!" rejoined the speaker, mincingly. "There's a gent there as seems to
want to address this 'ere meetin'. P'r'aps you'll 'ave the kindness to
step up 'ere, my friend, an' say wot you got to say plain." And he
looked full at old Jack, pointing with his finger.
Old Jack fidgeted, wishing himself out of it. "You pay me what you owe
me," he growled sulkily.
"As this 'ere individual, after intruding 'isself on this peaceful
meetin', ain't got anythink to say for 'isself," pursued Mr. Joe
Parsons, "I'll explain things for 'im. That's _my_ lan'lord, that is:
look at 'im! 'E comes 'angin' round my door waitin' for a chance to turn
my pore wife an' children out o' 'ouse and 'ome. 'E follers me in the
street an' tries to intimidate me. 'E comes 'ere, my feller workers, as
a spy, an' to try an' poison your minds agin me as devotes my 'ole life
to your int'rests. That's the sort o' man, that's the sort o' lan'lord
_'e_ is. But 'e's somethink more than a greedy, thievin', overfed
lan'lord, my frien's, an' I'll tell you wot. 'E's a dirty, crawlin'
blackleg; that's wot else 'e is. 'E's the on'y man as wouldn't come out
o' Maidment's; an' 'e's workin' there now, skulkin' in an' out in the
dark--a dirty rat! Now you all know very well I won't 'ave nothink to do
with any violence or intimidation. It's agin my principles, although I
know there's very often great temptation, an' it's impossible to
identify in a crowd, an' safe to be very little evidence. But this I
will say, that when a dirty low rat, not content with fattenin' on
starvin' tenants, goes an' takes the bread out o' 'is feller men's
mouths, like that bleedin' blackleg--blackleg!--blackleg!--"
Old Jack was down. A dozen heavy boots were at work about his head and
belly. In from the edge of the crowd a woman tore her way, shedding
potatoes as she ran, and screaming; threw herself upon the man on the
ground; and shared the kicks. Over the shoulders of the kickers whirled
the buckle-end of a belt. "One for the old cow," said a voice.