Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. A delicately suggestive recollection of "th' barrels" induced him to do so. He ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not been brought into immediate contact with Haworth since the strikes began. "Th' same," he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness,--"th' same to yo' an'--an' mony on 'em." Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of expression. Haworth leaned forward in his gig. "You're a nice chap," he said. "You're a nice chap." A general vague condition of mind betrayed Mr. Briarley into the momentary weakness of receiving this compliment literally. He brightened perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush of manly modesty. "My best days is ower," he replied. "I've been misforchnit, Mester--but theer wur a toime as th' opposite sect ha' said th' same--though that theer's a thing," reflecting deeply and shaking his head, "as I nivver remoind Sararann on." The next moment he fell back in some trepidation. Haworth looked down at him coolly. "You're a pretty chap," he said, "goin' on th' strike an' leaving your wife and children to starve at home while you lay in your beer and make an ass of yourself." "Eh!" exclaimed Mr. Briarley. "And make an ass of yourself," repeated Haworth, unmovedly. "You'd better be drawin' your wages, my lad." Mr. Briarley's expression changed. From bewilderment he passed into comparative gloom. "It is na drawin' 'em I've getten owt agen," he remarked. "It is na drawin' 'em. It's earnin' 'em,--an' ha'in' 'em took away an'--an' spent i' luxuries--berryin'-clubs an' th' loike. Brass as ud buy th' nessycerries." "If we'd left you alone," said Haworth, "where would your wife and children be now, you scoundrel? Who's fed 'em and clothed 'em while you've been on th' spree? Jem Haworth, blast you!--Jem Haworth." He put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a few jingling silver coins, tossed them to him. "Take these," he said, "an' go an' spend 'em on th' 'nessycerries,' as you call 'em. You'll do it, I know well enow. You'll be in a worse box than you are now, before long. We'll have done with you chaps when Murdoch's finished the job he's got on hand." "What's that?" faltered Briarley. "I ha' na heerd on it." Haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins. "Ask him," he answered. "He can tell you better than I can. He's at work on a thing that'll set the masters a good bit freer than they are now. That's all I know. There won't be any need o' so many o' you lads. You'll have to make your brass out of a new trade." He bent a little to settle a strap. "Go and tell the rest on 'em," he said. "You'll do it when you're drunk enow, I dare say." Briarley fumbled with his coins. His air became speculative.