by Ellen Wood
Joe Fisher tossed his head and growled. He was a tall, dark man; clothes and condition both dilapidated. The questioner took a few whiffs, and repeated his question. Joe growled again, but did not speak.
“Well, you might give a chap a civil answer, Fisher.”
“What’s the matter, you two?” cried a third.
“Ben Wilks asks me is there any news!” called out Fisher, indignantly. “I thought he might ha’ heered on’t without asking. Our pay was docked again to-night; that’s the news.”
“No!” uttered Wilks.
“It were,” said Fisher savagely. “A shilling a week less, good. Who’s a-going to stand it?”
“There ain’t no help for standing it,” interposed a quiet-looking man named Wheeler. “I suppose the masters is forced to lower. They say so.”
“Have your master forced hisself to it?” angrily retorted Fisher.
“Well, Fisher, you know I’m fortunate. As all is that gets in to work at Ashley’s.”
“And precious good care they take to stop in!” cried Fisher, much aggravated. “No danger that Ashley’s hands’ll give way and afford outsiders a chance.”
“Why should they give way?” sensibly asked Wheeler. “You need never think to get in at Ashley’s, Fisher, so there’s no cause for you to grumble.”
A titter went round at Fisher’s expense. He did not like it. “I might stand my chance with others, if there was room. Who says I couldn’t? Come, now!”
A man laughed. “You had better ask Samuel Lynn that question, Fisher. Why, he wouldn’t look at you! You are not steady enough for him.”
“Samuel Lynn may go along for a ill-natured broadbrim!” was Fisher’s retort. “There’d not be half the difficulty in getting in with Mr. Ashley hisself.”
“Yes, there would,” said Wheeler, quietly. “Mr. Ashley pays first wages, and he’ll have first hands. Quaker Lynn knows what he’s about.”
“Don’t dispute about nothing, Fisher,” interrupted a voice, borne through the clouds of smoke from the far end of the room. “To lose a shilling a week is bad, but not so bad as losing all. I have heard ill news this evening.”
Fisher stretched up his long neck. “Who’s that a-talking? Is it Mr. Crouch?”
It was Stephen Crouch; the foreman in a large firm, and a respectable, intelligent man. “Do you remember, any of you, that a report arose some time ago about Wilson and King? A report that died away again?”
“That they were on their last legs,” replied several voices. “Well?”
“Well, they are off them now,” continued Stephen Crouch.
Up rose a man, his voice shaking with emotion. “It’s not true, Mr. Crouch, sure — ly!”
“It is, Vincent. Wilson and King are going to wind up. It will be announced next week.”
“Mercy help us! There’ll be forty more hands throwed out! What’s to become of us all?”
A dead silence fell on the room. Vincent broke it. Hope is strong in the human heart. “Mr. Crouch, I don’t think it can be true. Our wages was all paid up to-night. And we have not heard a breath on’t.”
“I know all that,” said Stephen Crouch. “I know where the money came from to pay them. It came from Mr. Ashley.”
The assertion astonished the room. “From Mr. Ashley! Did he tell it abroad?”
“He tell it!” indignantly returned Stephen Crouch. “Mr. Ashley is an honourable man. No. Wilson and King have a tattler too near to them; that’s how it came out. Not but what it would have been known all over Helstonleigh on Monday, all particulars. Every sixpence, pretty near, that Wilson and King have, is locked up in their stock. They expected remittances by the London mail this morning, and they did not come. They went to the bank. The bank was shy, and would not make advances; and they had nothing in hand for wages. They went to Mr. Ashley and told him their perplexity, and he drew a cheque. The bank cashed that, with a bow. And if it had not been for Mr. Ashley, Ned Vincent, you and the rest of their hands would have gone home to-night with empty pockets.”
“Will Mr. Ashley lose the money?”
“Not he. He knew there was no danger of that, when he lent it. Nobody will lose by Wilson and King. They have more than enough to pay everybody in full; only their money’s locked up.”
“Why are they giving up?”
“Because they can’t keep on. They have been losing a long while. What do you ask — what will they do? They must do as others have done before them, who have been unable to keep on. If Wilson and King had given up ten years ago, they had then each a nice little bit of property to retire upon. But it has been sunk since. There are too many others in this city in the same ease.”
“And what’s to become of us hands that’s throwed out?” asked Vincent, returning to his own personal grievance.
“You must try and get taken on somewhere else, Vincent,” observed Stephen Crouch.
“There ain’t a better cutter than Ned Vincent going,” cried another voice. “He won’t wait long.”
“I don’t know about that,” returned Vincent gloomily. “The masters is overdone with hands.”
“Of all the bad luck as ever fell upon a town, the opening of the ports to them foreign French was the worst for Helstonleigh,” broke in the intemperate voice of Fisher.
“Hold th’ tongue, Fisher!” exclaimed a sensible voice. “We won’t get into them discussions again. Didn’t we go over ‘em, night after night, and year after year, till we were heart-sick? — and what did they ever bring us but ill-feeling? It’s done, and it can’t be undone. The ports be open, and they’ll never be closed again.”
“Did the opening of ’em ruin the trade of Helstonleigh, or didn’t it? Answer me that,” said Fisher.
“It did. We know it to our cost,” was the sad answer. “But there’s no help for it.”
“Oh,” returned Fisher ironically. “I thought you were going to hold out that the opening of ’em was a boon to the place, and the keeping ’em open a blessing. That ‘ud be a new dodge. Why do they keep ’em open?”
“Just hark at Fisher!” said Mr. Buffle in a mincing tone. “He wants to know why Government keeps open the British ports. Don’t every dozen of gloves that comes into the country pay a heavy duty? Is it likely Government would give up that, Fisher?”
“What did they do afore they had it?” roared Fisher. “If they did without the duty then, they could do without it now.”
“I have heered of some gents as never tasted sugar,” returned Mr. Buffle; “but I never heered of one, who had the liking for it, as was willing to forego the use of it. It’s a case in pint; the Government have tasted the sweets of the glove-duty, and they stick to it.”
“Avaricious wolves!” growled Fisher. “But you are a fool, dandy, for all that. What’s a bit of paltry duty, alongside of our wants? If a few of them great Government lords had to go on empty stomachs for a month, they’d know what the opening of ports means.”
“In all political changes, such as this, certain localities must suffer,” broke in the quiet voice of Stephen Crouch. “It will be the means of increasing commerce wonderfully; and we, that the measure crushed, must be content to suffer for the general good. The effects to us can never be undone. I know what you say, Fisher,” he continued, silencing Fisher by a gesture. “I know that the ports might be re-closed to-morrow, if Government so willed it. But it could not undo for us what has been done. It could not repair the ruin that was wrought on Helstonleigh. It could not reinstate firms in business; or refund to the masters their wasted capital; or collect the hands it scattered over the country, to find a bit of work, to beg, or to starve; or bring the dead back to life. It could not do any of this. Neither would it restore a flourishing trade to those of us who are left.”
“What’s that last, Crouch?”
“It never would,” emphatically repeated Stephen Crouch. “A shattered trade cannot be brought together again. It is like a shattered glass: you may mourn over the pieces, but you cannot pu
t them together. Believe me, or not, as you please, my friends, but the only thing remaining is, to make the best of what is left to us. There are other trades a deal worse off than we are.”
“I have talked to ye about that there move — a strike,” resumed Fisher, after a pause. “We shall get no good till we try it — —”
“Fisher, don’t you be a fool and show it,” was the imperative interruption of Stephen Crouch. “I have explained to you till I am tired, what would be the effects of a strike. It would just finish you bad workmen up, and send you and your children into the nearest dry ditch for a floor, with the open skies above you for a roof.”
“We have never tried a strike in Helstonleigh,” answered Fisher, holding to his own opinion.
“And I trust we never shall,” returned the intelligent foreman. “Other trades may have their strikes if they choose, and it’s not our business to find fault with them for it; but the glove trade has hitherto kept itself aloof from strikes, and it’s to be hoped it always will. You cannot understand how a strike works, Joe Fisher, or you’d not let your head be running on it.”
“Others’ heads be running on it as well as mine, Master Crouch,” said Fisher, nodding significantly.
“It is not improbable,” was the equable rejoinder of Stephen Crouch. “Go and strike next week, half a dozen of you. I mean the operatives of half a dozen firms.”
“Every firm in the place must strike,” interrupted Fisher hastily. “A few on us doing it would only make bad worse.”
Stephen Crouch smiled. “Exactly. But the difficulty, Fisher, will be, that all the firms won’t strike. Ask the men in our firm to strike; ask those in Ashley’s; ask others that we could name — and what would their answer be? Why, that they know when they are well off. Suppose, for argument’s sake, that we did all strike; suppose all the hands in Helstonleigh struck next Monday morning, and the manufactories had to be closed? Who would have the worst of it? — we or the masters?”
“The masters,” returned Fisher in an obstinate tone.
“No. The masters have good houses over their heads, and their bankers’ books to supply their wants while they are waiting — and their orders are not so great that they need fear much pressure on that score. The London houses would dispatch a few extra orders to Paris and Grenoble, and the masters here might enjoy a nice little trip to the sea-side while our senses were coming back to us. But where should we be? Out at elbows, out at pocket, out at heart; some starving, some in the workhouse. If you want to avoid those contingencies, Joe Fisher, you’ll keep from strikes.”
Fisher answered by an ironical cheer. “Here, missis,” said he to the landlady, who was then passing him, “let’s have another pint, after that.”
“That’ll make nine pints you owe for since Monday night, Joe Fisher,” responded the landlady.
“What if I do?” grunted Fisher irascibly. “I am able to pay. I ain’t out of work.”
CHAPTER XXI.
THE LADIES OF HONEY FAIR.
It was Saturday night in Honey Fair. A night when the ladies were at leisure to abandon themselves to their private pursuits. The work of the past week had gone into the warehouses; and the fresh work brought out would not be begun until Monday morning. Some of them, as Mrs. Buffle has informed us, did not begin it then. The women chiefly cleaned their houses and mended their clothes; some washed and ironed — Honey Fair was not famous for its management — not going to bed till Sunday morning; some did their marketing; and a few, careless and lazy, spent it in running from house to house, or congregated in the road to gossip.
About half-past eight, one of the latter suddenly lifted the latch of a house door and thrust in her head. It was Joe Fisher’s wife. Her face was red, and her cap in tatters.
“Is our Becky in here, Mrs. Carter?”
Mrs. Carter was busy. She was the maternal parent of Miss Betsy. Her kitchen fire was out, her furniture was heaped one thing upon another; a pail of water stood ready to wash the brick floor, when she should have finished rubbing up the grate, and her hands and face were as grimy as the black-lead.
“There’s no Becky here,” snapped she.
“I can’t find her,” returned Mrs. Fisher. “I thought her might be along of your Betsy. I say, here’s your husband coming round the corner. There’s Mark Mason and Robert East and Dale along of him. And — my! what has that young ‘un of East’s been doing to hisself? He’s black from head to foot. Come and look.”
Mrs. Carter disdained the invitation. She was a hard-working, thrifty woman, but a cross one. Priding herself upon her cleanliness, she perpetually returned loud thanks that she was not as the dirty ones around her. She was the Pharisee amidst many publicans.
“If I passed my time staring and gossiping as some does, where ‘ud my work be?” was her rebuke. “Shut the door, Suke Fisher.”
Suke Fisher did as she was bid. She turned her wrists back upon her hips, and walked to meet the advancing party, having discerned their approach by the light of the gas-lamps. “Be you going to be sold for a blackamoor?” demanded she of the boy.
The boy laughed. His head, face, shoulders, hands, were ornamented with a thick, black liquid, not unlike blacking. He appeared to enjoy the treat, as if he had been anointed with some fragrant oil.
“He is not a bad spectacle, is he, Dame Fisher?” remarked the young man, whom she had called Robert East.
“What’s a-done it?” questioned she.
“Him and Jacky Brumm got larking, and upset the dye-pot upon themselves. We rubbed ’em down with the leather shreds, but it keeps on dripping from their hair.”
“Won’t Charlotte warm his back for him!” apostrophised Mrs. Fisher.
The boy threw a disdainful look at her, in return for the remark. “Charlotte’s not so fond of warming backs. She never even scolds for an accident.”
The boy and Robert East were half-brothers. They entered one of the cottages. Robert East and his sister were between twenty and thirty, and the boy was ten. Their mother had died early, and the young boy’s mother, their father’s second wife, died when the child was born. The father also died. How Robert and his sister, the one then seventeen, the other fourteen, had struggled to make a living for themselves, and to bring up the baby, they alone knew. The manner in which they had succeeded was a marvel to many; none were more respectable now than they were in all Honey Fair.
Charlotte, neat and nice, sat by her bright kitchen fire, a savoury stew cooking on the hob beside it. It was her custom to have something good for supper on a Saturday night. Did she make home attractive on that night to draw her brother from the seductions of the public-house? Most likely. And she had her reward: for Robert never failed to come. The cloth was laid, the red bricks of the floor were clean, and Charlotte’s face, as she looked up from her stocking-mending, was bright. It darkened to consternation, however, when she cast her eyes on the boy.
“Tom, what have you been doing?”
“Jacky Brumm threw a pot of dye over me, Charlotte.”
“There’s not much real damage, Charlotte,” interposed her brother. “It looks worse than it is. I’ll get it out of his hair presently, and put his clothes into a pail of water. What have you got to-night? It smells good.”
He alluded to supper, and took off the lid of the saucepan to peep in. She had some stewed beef, with carrots, and the savoury steam ascended to Robert’s pleased face.
Very few in Honey Fair managed as did Charlotte East. How she did her housework no one knew. Not a woman, married or single, got through more glove-sewing than Charlotte. Not one kept her house in better order: and her clothes and her brother’s were neat and respectable, week-days as well as Sundays. Her work was taken into the warehouse on Saturday mornings, and her marketing was done. In the afternoon she cleaned her house, and by four o’clock was ready to sit down to her mending. No one ever saw her in a bustle, and yet all her work was done; and well done. Perhaps one great secret of it was that she rose very early i
n the morning, winter and summer.
“Look, Robert, here is a nice book I have bought,” said she, putting a periodical into his hands. “It comes out weekly. I shall take it in.”
Robert turned over the leaves. “It seems very interesting,” he said presently. “Here’s a paper that tells all about the Holy Land. And another that tells us how glass is made; I have often wondered.”
“You can read it to us of an evening while I work,” said she. “It will be quite a help to our getting on Tom: almost as good as sending him to school. I gave — —”
The words were interrupted. The door was violently burst open, and a woman entered the kitchen; knocking at doors before entering was not the fashion in Honey Fair. The intruder was Mrs. Brumm.
“I say, Robert East, did you see anything of my husband?”
“I saw him go into the Horned Ram.”
“Then I wish the Horned Ram was into him!” wrathfully retorted Mrs. Brumm. “He vowed faithfully he’d come home with his wages the first thing after leaving work. He knows I have not a thing in the place for to-morrow — and Dame Buffle looking out for her money. I have a good mind to go down to the Horned Ram, and be on to him!”
Robert East offered no opinion upon this delicate point. He remembered the last time Mrs. Brumm had gone to the Horned Ram to be “on” to her husband, and what it had produced. A midnight quarrel that disturbed the slumbers of Honey Fair.
“Who was along of him?” pursued she.
“Three or four of them. Hubbard and Jones, I saw go in: and Adam Thorneycroft.”
A quick rising of the head, as if startled, and a faint accession of colour, told that one of those names had struck, perhaps unpleasantly, on the ear of Charlotte East. “Where are your own earnings?” she asked of Mrs. Brumm.
“I have had to take them to Bankes’s,” was the rueful reply. “It’s a good deal now, and they’re in a regular tantrum this week, and wouldn’t even wait till Monday. They threatened to tell Brumm, and it frightened me out of my seventeen senses. And now, for him to go into that dratted Horned Ram with his wages! and me without a pennypiece! It’s not more for the necessaries I want to get in, than for the things that is in pawn. I can’t iron nothing: the irons is there.”