One or two even expressed a sort of dogged regret. The grinder Reynolds, a very honest fellow, admitted, to Mr. Cheetham, that he thought it a sorry trick, for a hundred men to strike against one that had had a squeak for his life. "But no matter what I think or what I say, I must do what the Union bids me, sir."
"I know that, my poor fellow," said Cheetham. "I quarrel with none of you. I fight you all. The other masters, in this town, are mice, but I'm a man."
This sentiment he repeated very often during the next six days.
The seventh came and the grinders never entered the works.
Cheetham looked grave. However, he said to Bayne, "Go and find out where they are. Do it cleverly now. Don't be noticed."
Bayne soon ascertained they were all in the neighboring public-houses.
"I thought so," said Cheetham. "They will come in, before night.
They sha'n't beat me, the vagabonds. I'm a man, I'm not a mouse."
"Orders pouring in, sir," sighed Bayne. "And the grinders are rather behind the others in their work already."
"They must have known that: or why draw out the grinders? How could they know it?"
"Sir," said Bayne, "they say old Smitem is in this one. Wherever he is, the master's business is known, or guessed, heaven knows how; and, if there is a hole in his coat, that hole is hit. Just look at the cleverness of it, sir. Here we are, wrong with the forgers and handlers. Yet they come into the works and take their day's wages.
But they draw out the grinders, and mutilate the business. They hurt you as much as if they struck, and lost their wages. But no, they want their wages to help pay the grinders on strike. Your only chance was to discharge every man in the works, the moment the grinders gave notice."
"Why didn't you tell me so, then?"
"Because I'm not old Smitem. He can see a thing beforehand. I can see it afterward. I'm like the weatherwise man's pupil; as good as my master, give me time. The master could tell you, at sunrise, whether the day would be wet or dry, and the pupil he could tell you at sunset: and that is just the odds between old Smitem and me."
"Well, if he is old Smitem, I'm old Fightem."
At night, he told Bayne he had private information, that the grinders were grumbling at being made a cat's-paw of by the forgers and the handlers. "Hold on," said he; "they will break up before morning."
At ten o'clock next day he came down to the works, and some peremptory orders had poured in. "They must wait," said he, peevishly.
At twelve he said, "How queer the place seems, and not a grindstone going. It seems as still as the grave. I'm a man; I'm not a mouse."
Mr. Cheetham repeated this last fact in zoology three times, to leave no doubt of it in his own mind, I suppose.
At 1.00, he said he would shut up the works rather than be a slave.
At 1.15 he blustered.
At 1.20 he gave in: collapsed in a moment, like a punctured bladder.
"Bayne," said he, with a groan, "go to Jobson, and ask him to come and talk this foolish business over."
"Excuse me, sir," said Bayne. "Don't be offended; but you are vexed and worried, and whoever the Union sends to you will be as cool as marble. I have just heard it is Redcar carries the conditions."
"What, the foreman of my own forgers! Is he to dictate to me?" cried Cheetham, grinding his teeth with indignation.
"Well, sir, what does it matter?" said Bayne, soothingly. "He is no more than a mouthpiece."
"Go for him," said Cheetham, sullenly.
"But, sir, I can't bear that your own workman should see you so agitated."
"Oh, I shall be all right the moment I see my man before me."
Bayne went off, and soon returned with Redcar. The man had his coat on, but had not removed his leathern apron.
Cheetham received him as the representative of the Unions. "Sit down, Redcar, and let us put an end to this little bother. What do you require?"
"Mr. Little's discharge, sir."
"Are you aware he is with me on a month's notice?"
