CHAPTER VI.

SEED-CAKE.

WINTER was setting in, and the strike continued in full force.

Nobody showed any inclination to give way. There was no talk, as yet, of compromise. Masters and men alike stood firm, holding resolutely each to his own view of the matter, refusing resolutely each to take a kind and unselfish view of the difficulties on the other side.

For of course there were two sides to the question, as there always are, each side having its own share of wrong and of right. The masters had their heavy expenses; their wearing anxieties; their fluctuations in profits. The men had their large families, more or less; their many needs; their comparatively low wages. A little measure of true sympathy and understanding on either side for the other, might have shortened the struggle; but the masters did not fully understand the men's position, and the men were far from sympathizing with the masters' position.

It was a dull cold sky; the sky overhead being black, the mud underfoot blacker still. Sleety rain fell off and on upon the scores of idle loungers in Pleasant Lane and other streets. Many of the loungers took refuge in public-houses—for however badly off the strikers might be, they almost always seemed to have something to spend there.

The usual stir of the busy town was hushed. All sound of engine and hammer had ceased. Work was at an end. Wages were at an end. Food in too many houses threatened to be soon at an end also.

Peter Pope was not just now at hand; and the recollection of a stirring speech the evening before was not enough to prevent down-heartedness this morning. Many of those poor fellows, lolling idly about, were simply ready to do whatever they were told. Peter Pope desired them to hold out; and so they did hold out. But if each one had been questioned separately as to his real feeling in the matter, the answer in nine cases out of ten would have been—

"Give me work, and let me earn bread for my little ones—" irrespective of those "rights" about which Peter Pope eloquently declaimed.

John Holdfast had come out of his house for a breath of air, and he stood at the gate looking about. A fortnight of suffering had rendered him pale and gaunt. The cut on his forehead was nearly healed, but his right arm was still in a sling, and very helpless.

There had been a great stir about John's injuries; but all attempts to identify John's injurers had failed. John had recognized no faces; and everybody else professed entire ignorance. Men of the better class were utterly ashamed of the miserable affair; but few had courage to speak out what they thought, or to give open sympathy to John.

"Good morning, Holdfast. How's the arm to-day, eh?" asked Mr. Hughes, coming at a brisk pace through Pleasant Lane.

Many a visit had Mr. Hughes paid to John lately; and many a supply of food had Stuckey brought from the Rectory. Much kindness had also been shown, and much practical help given, by the heads of the firm for which John worked. So, in point of fact, he and his family had suffered far less from the strike, thus far, than others.

"Getting on, sir, thank you," John answered cheerfully. "The doctor hopes it'll be up to work in a few weeks."

"Fortunate, if it is. Those strained muscles are troublesome things. I hope the strike will not last till your arm is really up to work."

John shook his head dubiously.

"I wish it may not, sir."

"Mr. Bertie has been to see you."

"Twice, sir. He says he don't mean me to be a loser by this."

"No; so I hear. Quite right too. No hope now, I'm afraid, of finding out the fellows who maltreated you."

"No," John said slowly. "I don't know as I can say I'm sorry. But if they was found, it wouldn't be right to let 'em off."

"Certainly not; for the sake of others more than yourself. But—" Mr. Hughes paused and sighed. "How I wish one could breathe a breath of Christ-like loving-kindness into all this—all these business relations between masters and men, between workmen and workmen. The wheels would move then without creaking, and adjustment would not be a matter of fighting."

"That's so, sir," John answered emphatically. "It's Christian consideration for others that's wanted, not just each side trying to grab the biggest profits."

John had left his house, and was walking slowly by Mr. Hughes' side. A gesture had invited him to do so.

"I'm afraid the poor wives and children are the worst sufferers."

"Likely to be," said John. "Sarah and I, we've nothing to complain of—thanks to you and to Mr. Bertie. But them poor Stevenses next door—"

"Stevens joined the strike?"

"Yes, sir; and he don't belong to the Union. I don't know how ever he gets along. His wife is getting as thin—"

"I dare say I can give you a basket of cake and odds and ends for her, poor thing! Can you come with me for it?"

"Now, sir?"

"Yes, now. No time like the present. Poor fellows!" murmured Mr. Hughes, as they passed another group of idlers. "They look very deplorable this morning. Rather different from their state of excitement under one of Pope's orations."

"That sort of excitement don't last," said John. "But I suppose it's the only way to get hold of them."

"Speechifying is, you mean?"

"Yes, sir. Pope has a hold upon 'em, somehow. I'd give a deal to see somebody able to stand up and give the other side of the matter. They do want showing a common-sense view of things."

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

John looked up in astonishment.

"You have read and thought on these subjects and you have a large share of common-sense. Why not impart it to others?"

Holdfast laughed slightly.

"I've not got the gift of the gab," he said.

"Never mind about gifts. If you have a matter clearly in your mind, I imagine that you are capable of putting it into plain words."

"I'm afraid that's not much in my line, sir. I haven't got Pope's smooth tongue, you see."

"Working-men don't want only smoothness. They get enough and too much of that from certain quarters. What they really want is truth. Give them facts. Think things out for yourself, and make up your own mind as to what is right; then throw your influence into the right scale. You have shown already that you are no coward; that you can stand alone; and that you are not afraid to act independently. Don't be afraid to speak as well as to act; and don't conclude that, because you have not Pope's tongue, you have therefore no tongue at all. It may be your positive duty to speak out sometimes, for the sake of others."

"I'll think it over, sir, any way. I wouldn't wish to neglect my duty, if it is a duty," said John. "But I'm afraid the men would only say I was taking the masters' side."

"Don't give them a chance of saying so. Don't take the masters' side. You have not to do that. Let the masters look to themselves, and take the men's side—which Pope does not do, for all his boasting. Try to show them—as many as will listen to you—the wise and common-sense view of things. Show them the folly of trying to control forces which will not be controlled. Show them the doubtful wisdom of half-starving themselves for the chance of a slight rise in wages, which, when gained, cannot repay them for what they have lost in gaining it. At the same time, don't deny that masters, like men, are sometimes unfair; and that pressure has sometimes to be wisely and justly used."

"Maybe I might say something," John observed thoughtfully.

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