Tarbox, too, was a Saxon six-footer of thirty.
But he had sagged one inch for want of self-respect.
He had spoilt his color and dyed his moustache.
He wore foxy-black pantaloons tucked into red-topped
boots, with the name of the maker on a gilt shield.
His red flannel shirt was open at the neck and caught
with a black handkerchief. His damaged tile was
in permanent crape for the late lamented Poole.
“We allow,” says Bill, in a tone halfway
between Lablache’s De profundis and a
burglar’s bull-dog’s snarl, “that
we’ve did our work as good as need to be did.
We ’xpect we know our rights. We ha’n’t
ben treated fair, and I’m damned if we’re
go’n’ to stan’ it.”
“Stop!” says Wade. “No swearing
in this shop!”
“Who the Devil is go’n’ to stop
it?” growled Tarbox.
“I am. Do you step back now, and let some
one come out who can talk like a gentleman!”
“I’m damned if I stir till I’ve
had my say out,” says Bill, shaking himself
up and looking dangerous.
“Go back!”
Wade moved close to him, also looking dangerous.
“Don’t tech me!” Bill threatened,
squaring off.
He was not quick enough. Wade knocked him down
flat on a heap of moulding-sand. The hat in mourning
for Poole found its place in a puddle.
Bill did not like the new Emperor’s method of
compelling kotou. Round
One of the mill had not given him enough.
He jumped up from his soft bed and made a vicious
rush at Wade. But he was damaged by evil courses.
He was fighting against law and order, on the side
of wrong and bad manners.
The same fist met him again, and heavier.
Up went his heels! Down went his head! It
struck the ragged edge of a fresh casting, and there
he lay stunned and bleeding on his hard black pillow.
“Ring the bell to go to work!” said Wade,
in a tone that made the ringer jump. “Now,
men, take hold and do your duty and everything will
go smooth!”
The bell clanged in. The line looked at its prostrate
champion, then at the new boss standing there, cool
and brave, and not afraid of a regiment of sledge-hammers.
They wanted an Executive. They wanted to be well
governed, as all men do. They wanted disorder
out and order in. The new man looked like a man,
talked fair, hit hard. Why not all hands give
in with a good grace and go to work like honest fellows?
The line broke up. The hands went off to their
duty. And there was never any more insubordination
at Dunderbunk.
This was June.
Skates in the next chapter.
Love in good time afterward shall glide upon the scene.
A CHRISTMAS GIFT.
The pioneer sunbeam of next Christmas morning rattled
over the Dunderbunk hills, flashed into Richard Wade’s
eyes, waked him, and was off, ricochetting across
the black ice of the river.
