A SPEECH.
"When he returned to the Works the noon-bell was ringing, and the hands
were crowding through the gates on their way to their midday meal. Among
those going out he met Floxham, who spoke to him as he passed.
"Theer's some o' them chaps," he said, "as wunnot show their faces
again."
"Aye," said Haworth, "I see that."
Ffrench had left the bank and was pacing up and down his room
panic-stricken.
"What have you heard?" he exclaimed, turning as Haworth entered. "Is
it--is it as bad as you expected?"
"Aye," said Haworth, "worse and better too."
"Better?" he faltered.
Haworth flung himself into a chair. He wore a look of dogged triumph.
"Leave 'em to me," he answered. "I'm in th' mood fur 'em _now_."
But it was not until some time afterward that he delivered the message
Rachel Ffrench had intrusted to him.
On hearing it her father appeared to rally a little.
"It seems a rather dangerous thing to do," he said, "but--it is like
her. And perhaps, after all, there is something in--in showing no fear."
And for a few moments after having thought the incident over he became
comparatively sanguine and cheerful.
As Floxham had predicted, when the work-bell called the hands together
again there were still other places vacant. Mr. Briarley, it may be
observed, had been absent all day, and by this time was listening with
affectionate interest and spasmodic attacks of inopportune enthusiasm to
various inflammatory speeches which were being made at a beer house.
Toward evening the work lagged so that the over-lookers could no longer
keep up the semblance of ignorance. A kind of gloom settled upon them
also, and they went about with depressed faces.
"It'll be all up to-morrow," said one, "if there's nothing done."
But something was done.
Suddenly--just before time for the last bell to ring--Haworth appeared
at the door of the principal room.
"Lads!" he shouted, "them on you as wants a speech from Jem Haworth
gather in th' yard in five minutes from now."
There was no more work done. The bell began to ring; implements were
thrown down and a shout went up from the crowd. Then there was a rush
into the yard, and in less than the five minutes the out-pouring of the
place thronged about its chief doorway where Jem Haworth stood on the
topmost step, looking down, facing them all, boldly--with the air of a
man who felt his victory more than half won.
"Let's hear what tha'st getten to say," cried some one well hidden by
the crowd. "Out wi' it."
"It's not much," Haworth shouted back. "It's this to start with. I'm
here to find out where you chaps stand."
But there was no answer to this. He knew there would be none and went
on.
"I've been through th' place this morning," he said, "and through th'
town, and I know how th' wind blows as well as any on you. Th' lads at
Marfort and Molton and Dillup are on th' strike. There's a bad lookout
in many a place besides them. There's a lot of fools laying in beer and
making speeches down in Broxton; there were some here this morning as
didn't show this afternoon. How many on you's going to follow them?"
Then there was a murmur which was not easy to understand. It was a
mixture of sounds defiant and conciliatory. Haworth moved forward. He
knew them better than they knew him.
"_I'm_ not one o' the model soart," he called out. "I've not set up soup
kitchens nor given you flannel petticoats. I've looked sharp after you,
and I should have been a fool if I hadn't. I've let you alone out of
work hours, and I've not grudged you your sprees, when they didn't stand
in my way. I've done the square thing by you, and I've done it by
myself. Th' places I've built let no water in, and I let 'em to you as
easy as I could and make no loss. I didn't build 'em for benevolent
purposes, but I've not heard one of you chaps complain of 'em yet. I've
given you your dues and stood by you--and I'll do it again, by----"
There was a silence--a significant breathless one.
"Have I done it," he said, "or haven't I?"
Suddenly the silence was broken.
"Aye," there was a shout, "aye, lad, yo' ha'."
"Then," he shouted, "them as Jem Haworth has stood by, let 'em stand by
Jem Haworth!"
And he struck his big fist upon his open palm with a fierce blow, and
stood before them breathing hard.
He had the best metal on his side somehow, and the best metal carried
the day. The boldness of his move, the fact that he had not waited, but
had taken the lead, were things all for him. Even those who wavered
toward the enemy were stirred to something like admiration.
"But what about th' Union?" said a timorous voice in the rear. "Theer'll
be trouble with th' Unions as sure as we stand out, Mester."
Haworth made a movement none of them understood. He put his hand behind
him and drew from his hip-pocket an object which caused every man of
them to give a little start and gasp. They were used to simple and
always convenient modes of defense. The little object he produced would
not have startled an American, but it startled a Lancashire, audience.
It was of shining steel and rose-wood, and its bright barrels glittered
significantly. He held it out and patted it lightly.
"That's for the Union, lads," he said. "And more like it."
A few of the black sheep moved restlessly and with manifest tremor. This
was a new aspect of affairs. One of them suddenly cried out with much
feebleness:
"Th--three cheers for Haworth."
"Let the chaps as are on the other side go to their lot now," said
Haworth.
But no one moved.
"There's some here that'll go when th' time comes," he announced. "Let
'em tell what they've heard. Now lads, the rest on you up with your
hands."
The whole place was in a tumult. They held up their hands and clenched
and shook them and shouted, and here and there swore with fluency and
enthusiasm. There were not six among them who were not fired with the
general friendly excitement.
"To-morrow morning there'll be papers posted up, writ in Jem Haworth's
hand and signed with his name," cried Haworth. "Read 'em as you come
along, lads, and when you reach here I'll be ready for you."
"Is it about th' pistols?" faltered the timorous voice.
"Aye," Haworth answered, "about th' pistols. Now go home."
He turned to mount the step, flushed and breathing fast and with
high-beating pulses, when suddenly he stopped. Before the iron gate a
carriage had stopped. A servant in livery got down and opened the door,
and Rachel Ffrench stepped out. The hands checked their shouting to look
at her. She came up the yard slowly and with the setting sun shining
upon her. It was natural that they should gaze at her as she approached,
though she did not look at any of them--only at Haworth, who waited.
They made a pathway for her and she passed through it and went up the
step. Her rich dress touched more than one man as she swept by.
"I thought," they heard her say, "that I would call for my father."
Then for the first time she looked at the men. She turned at the top of
the step and looked down--the sun on her dress and face.
There was not a man among them who did not feel the look. At first a
murmur arose and then an incoherent cry and then a shout, and they threw
up their caps and shouted until they were hoarse.
In the midst of it she turned aside and went in with a smile on her
lips.
In Haworth's room they found her father standing behind the door with a
startled air.
"What are they shouting for?" he asked. "What is the matter now?"
"I think _I_ am the matter," Miss Ffrench answered, "though I scarcely
know why. Ah," giving him a quiet glance, "you are afraid!"