THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP.
The next morning, when he appeared at the Works, Murdoch found he had to
make his way through a group of the "hands" which some sufficiently
powerful motive had gathered together,--which group greeted his
appearance with signs of interest. "Theer he is," he heard them say. And
then a gentleman of leisure, who was an outsider leaning against the
wall, enjoying the solace of a short pipe, exerted himself to look round
and add his comment.
"Well," he remarked, "he may ha' done it, an' I wunnot stick out as he
did na; but if it wur na fur the circumstantshal evidence I would na ha'
believed it."
Floxham met him at the entrance with a message.
"Haworth's sent fur thee," he said.
"Where is he?"--coolly enough under the circumstances.
The engineer chuckled in sly exultation.
"He's in the office. He didna say nowt about givin' thee th' bag; but
tha may as well mak' up thy moind to it. Tha wert pretty cheeky, tha
knows, considerin' he wur th' mester."
"Look here," with some heat; "do you mean to say you think I was in the
wrong? Am I to let the fellow insult me and not resent it--touch me with
his foot, as if I were a dog?"
"Tha'rt particular, my lad," dryly. "An' tha does na know as much o'
th' mester koind as most folk." But the next instant he flung down the
tool he held in his hand. "Dom thee!" he cried. "I loike thy pluck.
Stick to it, lad,--mesters or no mesters."
As Murdoch crossed the threshold of his room, Jem Haworth turned in his
seat and greeted him with a short nod not altogether combative. Then he
leaned forward, with his arms upon the table before him.
"Sit down," he said. "I'd like to take a look at the chap who thought he
could thrash Jem Haworth."
But Murdoch did not obey him.
"I suppose you have something to say to me," he said, "as you sent for
me."
He did not receive the answer he was prepared for. Jem Haworth burst
into a loud laugh.
"By George! you're a plucky chap," he said, "if you are an American."
Murdoch's blood rose again.
"Say what you have to say," he demanded. "I can guess what it is; but,
let me tell you, I should do the same thing again. It was no fault of
mine that I was in your path----"
"If I'd been such a fool as not to see that," put in Haworth, with a
smile grimmer than before, "do you think I couldn't have smashed every
bone in your body?"
Then Murdoch comprehended how matters were to stand between them.
"Getten th' bag?" asked Floxham when he went back to his work.
"No."
"Tha hannot?" with animation. "Well, dang _me_!"
At the close of the day, as they were preparing to leave their work,
Haworth presented himself in the engine-room, looking perhaps a trifle
awkward.
"See here," he said to Murdoch, "I've heard something to-day as I've
missed hearing before, somehow. The inventing chap was your father?"
"Yes."
He stood in an uneasy attitude, looking out of the window as if he half
expected to see the frail, tall figure again.
"I saw him once, poor chap," he said, "and he stuck to me, somehow. I'd
meant to stand by him if he'd come here. I'd have liked to do him a good
turn."
He turned to Murdoch suddenly and with a hint of embarrassment in his
off-hand air.
"Come up and have dinner with me," he said. "It's devilish dull spending
a chap's nights in a big place like mine. Come up with me now."
The visit was scarcely to Murdoch's taste, but it was easier to accept
than to refuse. He had seen the house often, and had felt some slight
curiosity as to its inside appearance.
There was only one other house in Broxton which approached it in size
and splendor, and this stood empty at present, its owner being abroad.
Broxton itself was a sharp and dingy little town, whose inhabitants were
mostly foundry hands. It had grown up around the Works and increased
with them. It had a small railway station, two or three public houses
much patronized, and wore, somehow, an air of being utterly unconnected
with the outside world which much belied it. Motives of utility, a
desire to be on the spot, and a general disregard for un-business-like
attractions had led Haworth to build his house on the outskirts of the
town.
"When I want a spree," he had said, "I can go to Manchester or London,
and I'm not particular about the rest on it. I want to be nigh the
place."
It was a big house and a handsome one. It was one of the expressions of
the man's success, and his pride was involved in it. He spent money on
it lavishly, and, having completed it, went to live a desolate life
among its grandeurs.
The inhabitants of the surrounding villages, which were simple and
agricultural, regarded Broxton with frank distaste, and "Haworth's" with
horror. Haworth's smoke polluted their atmosphere. Haworth's hands made
weekly raids upon their towns and rendered themselves obnoxious in their
streets. The owner of the Works, his mode of life, his defiance of
opinion, and his coarse sins, were supposed to be tabooed subjects. The
man was ignored, and left to his visitors from the larger
towns,--visitors who occasionally presented themselves to be entertained
at his house in a fashion of his own, and who were a greater scandal
than all the rest.
"They hate me," said Haworth to his visitor, as they sat down to dinner;
"they hate me, the devil take 'em. I'm not moral enough for 'em--not
moral enough!" with a shout of laughter.
There was something unreal to his companion in the splendor with which
the great fellow was surrounded. The table was covered with a kind of
banquet; servants moved about noiselessly as he talked and laughed; the
appointments of the room were rich and in good taste.
"Oh! it's none of my work," he said, seeing Murdoch glance about him. "I
wasn't fool enough to try to do it myself. I gave it into the hands of
them as knew how."
He was loud-tongued and boastful; but he showed good-nature enough and
a rough wit, and it was also plain that he knew his own strength and
weaknesses.
"Thirty year' your father was at work on that notion of his?" he said
once during the evening.
Murdoch made an uneasy gesture of assent.
"And it never came to aught?"
"No."
"He died."
"Yes."
He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and gave the young fellow a
keen look.
"Why don't you take the thing up yourself?" he said. "There may be
something in it, after all, and you're a long-headed chap."
Murdoch started from his chair. He took an excited turn across the room
before he knew what he was doing.
"I never will," he said, "so help me God! The thing's done with and shut
out of the world."
When he went away, Haworth accompanied him to the door. At the threshold
he turned about.
"How do you like the look of things?" he demanded.
"I should be hard to please if I did not like the look of them," was the
answer.
"Well, then, come again. You're welcome. I have it all to myself. I'm
not favorite enow with the gentry to bring any on 'em here. You're free
to come when th' fit takes you."