CHAPTER VII.

THE CHILDREN.

"MOTHER—"

"Yes, Bobbie."

"I'm so hungry."

"And I'm so hungry too," chimed in little Harry.

Martha Stevens was mending a child's frock by the dim light of a wintry afternoon. Snow outside fell thickly; and there were only a few decaying embers in the grate. Food and firing were hard to procure. Not once or twice only, since Holdfast spoke to Mr. Hughes of the Stevens' needs, kind supplies had been sent from the Rectory; but such supplies could only mean temporary relief.

One thing after another had gone to the pawnshop. The best Sunday clothes first; then all the little ornaments and treasures and knick-knacks; and at last even Martha's wedding-ring. The once cheery home was changed.

"I'm so hungry, mother, I don't know what to do."

Bobbie's nine-years-old manliness threatened to fail him; and there was the sound of a sob. Little Millie, curled up on the ground at her mother's feet, lifted her head slowly.

"It's no good crying, Bobbie," she said, in a grave unchildlike manner. "Mother hasn't got nothing?"

"Millie's hungry too, I know," said Mrs. Stevens. "And she don't go on as you do, Bobbie."

"Millie's a girl," sobbed Bobbie. "I don't think she feels it so dreadful bad as me."

"She's worse than any of us, I know that," said Martha, looking down on the tiny blue stick of an arm, which had once been so round and mottled. "And boys hadn't ought to give in more easy than girls."

Bobbie put his head down on a chair, and tried to smother the sobs; but it was hard work. Grown-up men found it no easy task to endure the gnawings of hunger which could not be satisfied; and it was no wonder that Bobbie, with his keen boyish appetite, should fail.

"I'm so hungry,—I'm so hungry," broke out from him anew.

"Father 'll have to take something else—" take it to the pawnbroker's, she meant. "The baker says he don't know how he's to go on giving credit, for there's no knowing where it'll end. And I don't know how we'll ever be able to pay what we owe him now!"

Hundreds of other families were more or less in the same condition; yet the men talked still of holding out.

"Just a little longer," Pope told them, "and they would have everything their own way."

"Father's coming!" Millie said, as a step was heard; and little Harry lifted his heavy head, only to lay it down again.

Stevens came in with a moody air, and took a seat. He looked thinner himself under the pressure of want.

"We've nothing left in the house," Martha said; "and the children's craving and crying till I don't know how to bear myself."

Stevens drew a small loaf—twopenny size—from his pocket, and tossed it on the table. "That's all I've got," he said; "and I didn't expect to have so much."

"Where did you get it from?" Martha asked, taking it in hand to respond to the little ones' eager eyes.

"Met Holdfast," 'said Roger gruffly.

"And he gave it you?"

A grunt of assent. "For the children."

"And where's the next to come from?"

This question had no answer.

"We can't starve," she said, looking at him. "There isn't another crumb nor another penny in the house. Where's the next loaf to come from?"

Stevens was silent.

"You'll have to get something, somehow! We can't go on like this," she continued, speaking quietly thus far. Then she burst out as if choked, "But if you'd been getting your wages all this time we'd never have got to such a pass! As if it mattered that you'd have had to work a bit longer than you liked! What business has a man got to marry, if he don't mean to work? Why, dear me, a lot more work wouldn't have pulled you down yourself, like the want of food! . . . And there's the children! . . . And if you do get what you're trying for, it won't pay for these weeks. It won't give us back half, nor a quarter, of what we've lost. I wish you men had some common-sense, I do, if it's only for the sake of your wives and children."

"You needn't scold," said Roger.

"I don't want to scold! It isn't scolding! I'm only telling you the plain truth. If you'd look the matter in the face for once, you'd maybe see how things are before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" asked Stevens.

Martha did not speak. Her eyes went first to his, then travelled round the room, passed over the older children; and rested on Harry. Roger followed her glance.

"I can't help it," he said desperately. "What am I to do? Pope says we'd be cowards now to give in."

"Pope says!" she repeated with scorn. "Can't you think for yourselves, and not be at Pope's beck and call?"

"Just see how Holdfast was treated—" Stevens began, and stopped.

"Ah, that's it! That's the real truth! You're afraid, all of you,—afraid of Pope, and afraid of each other, and afraid of being called 'blacklegs.' What's that but cowardice? . . . Roger, are you going to wait, and let your little ones starve afore your eyes? . . . There's work to be had now, for I know there is. It's offered to any who'll take. Mr. Holdfast 'ud be at work, if it wasn't for his arm. What's to keep you back?"

"I daren't be the first to give in," he faltered. "They'd hoot at me for a 'blackleg.'"

"Daren't! And you call yourself a man! You call yourself independent! You call yourself a freeborn Englishman! Daren't! And you call that liberty!" she uttered, with unconscious eloquence. "I call it being a slave."

Stevens seemed too dejected for anger. "You know well enough, there's lots of men willing to get to work," he said, "if others would let them. But there's too many for holding out still. What's a man to do? He can't stand alone—and there's nobody to take the lead."

"Except Pope! Take the lead yourself," said Martha.

Roger sat in gloomy silence.

"They do say there's signs that the masters 'll give in soon," he observed at length.

"I don't believe it. And if they did, we'll have lost a deal more than we'll gain."

Roger rose slowly.

"Where are you going?" she asked, in a sharp voice. It had grown sharp lately under the wearing strain of want.

"There's a meeting."

"Pope, I suppose," she said.

"Pope's away for to-night. It was Holdfast asked me to go."

"If he's to be there, you'll have a word on the right side."

"Holdfast said it wasn't to be a question of taking' sides, but just for to consider the state of affairs," said Roger.

Then he passed out into the falling snow, glad to escape from those pinched pitiful faces. Little Harry's wan look haunted him all the way. Harry had been such a beautiful child; plump and rosy, and full of fun. While now—!

"Something 'll have to be done soon," murmured Roger.

The Church schoolroom had been lent by Mr. Hughes to the men for this evening, that they might meet to talk things over among themselves; and Holdfast had undertaken to call them together. A moderate gathering was the response.

It did not promise to be an excited meeting. Pope was not there to supply bombast; and the men were generally more or less depressed. Many of them were hungry; some might almost have been called half-starved.

The main question was—Ought the strike to continue, or should it cease? Ought they to hold on, or were they willing to yield? Were the promised results worth the battle,—if such results might be gained by further delay? In other words, was the game worth the candle?

One and another stood up to speak. In Pope's absence, they were conscious of unusual freedom. They tried to look these questions fairly in the face, with such light as they possessed. It was not that these few men expected to decide for the whole community. The number present was a mere fraction of the whole number out on strike. But even to gain a few frankly-expressed opinions was worth much.

Presently John Holdfast was seen to rise and come forward. He spoke to the chairman, then turned to face the meeting. It was easy to see that he had something to say. There were many present who had baited John and jeered at him for his independent action of late; yet there was not one who did not really in his heart respect John; and no unwillingness to hear him was displayed.

John had at first something of the embarrassed and hesitating air usual with men who find themselves in an unwonted position. But that did not last. He knew his subject; and he had a good command of words. Indeed, as he went on, he showed a degree of fluency which perhaps astonished himself at least as much as his hearers.

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