CHAPTER IV.
WHAT STUCKEY THOUGHT.
"SO there's a lot more of you to-day, a-setting to work to run your heads agin a stone wall," said Stuckey.
He had a basket of ferns in his hand, which he was carrying home, taking Pleasant Lane on his way.
"Nothing of the sort," responded Stevens. "There's no stone wall at all. You just wait, and you'll see."
"Sure to do that! For why? 'Cause I can't help it," said Stuckey. "Nor wouldn't if I could. It's a werry interesting contemplation."
"What's interesting?"
"Why, this here strike," said Stuckey. "I've come along here for the werry purpose of examining into your state of mind, and learnin' how you're all a-looking on the state of affairs. Once on a time I'd ha' gone along with you all, afore I got to be more enlightened."
"Oh, you're enlightened, are you?" said Stevens, with contempt.
"Hope so," Stuckey answered. "Not as I means for to say that enlightenment o' the understanding goes alongside of a garden spade more than of a pick. But since I've laid by the pick and took up the spade, I've learnt to look upon things in a more reasonable sort of a light, there ain't no denying."
"Glad to hear it," said Stevens incredulously. "You don't go the best way to show your sense by talking of a stone wall."
"Maybe I do, more'n you're aware. Maybe it's an inwisible stone wall, as none o' you'll see, till heads go bang agin it. But ye all seem mighty cheerful this evening. Mr. Hughes 'll ask me by an' by,—"
"'Well, Peter,' he'll say, 'and how's the men getting along to-night?'" he'll say.
"And I'll tell him, 'Not a bit depressed nor down in the mouth, sir,' I'll say, 'but all as merry as crickets, thinking o' the nice long holiday they're a-going to get."
"And he'll say, 'Poor fellows!'"
"Mr. Hughes has been down the road himself, and heard Pope, so it isn't like he'll go to you for information," retorted Stevens.
"I've heard him!" said Stuckey, with a nod. "I've heard Pope! Heard him yesterday a-talking against that 'ere cruel bloodhound of a master, Mr. Bertie, who's just been setting up a soup-kitchen for them iron-workers that's got cut off from work by the action of the strikers. Werry bloodthirsty deed!"
"I've nothing to say against Mr. Bertie himself," said Stevens. "We're striking for our rights. 'Tain't because Pope tells us. It's because we want our rights."
"Never you mind, man," Stuckey responded, in consoling tones. "When Peter Pope's golden age is come, and capital is abolished, and masters is all wiped out of existence, and men don't need to work, and wages comes pouring in from nobody knows where, ye'll all share and share alike, I don't doubt. That's something to look forward to, ain't it? Never you mind a bit o' trouble beforehand. Some o' ye's pretty sure to struggle through the starwation-time previous; leastways I hopes so. And if so be ye don't—why it's only dying for your rights!"
[Illustration: Before he could enter, a hand came on his arm.]
With a friendly nod, Stuckey trudged away, leaving Stevens not greatly cheered by his remarks. Coming so soon after his wife's complaints, Roger found them depressing. Almost without thought, he turned his step towards the nearest public-house; but before he could enter, a hand came on his arm.
"Now, Stevens—Stevens, man, it's no time for that!"
"No time for what?" demanded Stevens, shaking himself free.
"You know! Think of the wife and children," urged John.
"And if I do?" asked Stevens surlily.
"Winter's at hand, and not much money like to come to you yet awhile, I wouldn't now—if I was you. Just think of the little ones! You haven't even Union funds to depend on."
"I know that well enough—more's the pity!" Stevens hesitated a moment, then turned short round and walked away—both from the public-house and from John Holdfast. So Holdfast's effort had not been quite a failure.
Sarah Holdfast had returned from her kind little visit to Martha, next door. When her husband reached home, she had prepared his tea, washed the children, and made everything spick and span. Holdfast's first move was, as always, to disappear up-stairs, that he might do away with the marks of toil before he enjoyed his evening meal. His next move, on reappearance, was to take the baby in his strong arms, and to let little Bessie climb upon his knee. But he seemed a degree absent to-day; not so playful with the young ones as Mrs. Holdfast was accustomed to see him.
"Anything wrong, John?" she asked, when tea was nearly over.
"Well, yes. It can't be helped," said John, trying to speak cheerfully.
"Work going to stop?"
"Not for a few days—three or four, I suppose. But if more men go out to-morrow and next day,—if the strike don't end by then—"
"It won't yet," she said.
"I'm afraid not."
"It won't—yet awhile. The masters and the men's both equal set on their own way; and neither's ready to give in one inch to the other. There 'll be a fight first."
John nodded.
"And the works 'll have to stop?"
"Yes. It ain't known certainly yet; but I've had a private word. Not the only one," muttered John.
A look of fear came into Mrs. Holdfast's eyes. "The men?" she breathed.
"If I don't go out like the rest, but just stick to work as long as I can get it, I'm to look to myself, and take the consequences."
Mrs. Holdfast breathed quickly.
"Don't seem I'm to have much choice soon," said John. "I'll have to go out then. Only it'll be because I must, not because I choose. That's all the difference."
"John, wouldn't it be best to go out now? If you'll have to be paid off in a day or two—"
John gave her a steady look.
"You wouldn't have me act as a craven?" he asked. "Give in, for fear of consequences!"
"But if they was to hurt you? There's some among 'em who might do that."
"Then I'd have to bear it."
"Only, wouldn't it be better, just this once—"
"Say the true word, Sarah. Wouldn't it be safer?"
"Well, wouldn't it be safer?" she faltered.
"Safer for my bones, I shouldn't wonder. There's a cowardly few among 'em, I know, who wouldn't scruple to knock me down, if they got a chance of doing it, unbeknown. But I don't mean 'em to have a chance if I can help it. Come, cheer up," said John. "Things 'll come right in the end."
Things seemed very wrong to Sarah at this moment.
"Pope says the men strike for their rights," continued John. "Well, and I'm standing out for my rights. I've my rights as well as they! Don't you see? If Pope's free to take his view of the question, I'm free to take my view of it. And my view don't coincide with Pope's. I've no notion of giving in to tyranny, whether it's tyranny of men or of masters. If the lot of them are free to strike, I'm free to not strike."
"That wouldn't be much help to me if you got hurt."
"Hope I shan't be, but any way I've got to do right," said John. "I've got to do what seems to me right; and a strike just now don't seem to me right. It don't seem to me called for. It don't seem to me likely to bring good. Pope and others says I'm wrong; and they says I'm bound to do what they think right. Now I don't nor can't see that. If Pope's a free and independent Englishman, I'm the same. If I've got to give in my judgment to Pope, and do what I count to be wrong, because he says it's right, I wonder where my freedom is. That's tyranny, and tyranny of the worst sort, because it tries to hold a man's conscience in bondage. I'll not give in to it, Sarah. I wasn't named 'Holdfast' for nothing. So long as I live, I'll 'hold fast' to what is right, so far as I can see what's right."
John spoke quietly, not with a noisy voice or manner; and his words were all the more impressive from their quietness. Sarah fully agreed with all he said, as a matter of principle,—only as his wife she was afraid for him. She would not argue against his convictions, but her eyes grew tearful.
"I think we needn't fear," John said more softly. "We haven't brought ourselves into the difficulty, Sarah, woman. If we had, it 'ud be different. I think we've got just to go straight ahead, and do what's right, and put our trust in God. If it's His will to let me suffer, why, there's some good reason for it. I'm sure of that."
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