"Iss th' 'Merican," he said. "Iss Murdoch." And then, with sudden bibulous delight: "Gi' us a speech 'bout 'Merica." In a moment there was a clamor all over the room. The last words had been spoken loudly enough to be heard, and the idea presented itself to the members of the assembly as a happy one. "Aye," they cried. "Le's ha' a speech fro' th' 'Merican. Le's hear summat fro' 'Merica. Theer's wheer th's laborin' mon has his dues." Murdoch turned about and faced the company. "You all know enough of me to know whether I am a speech-making man or not," he said. "I have nothing to say about America, and if I had I should not say it here. You are not doing yourselves any good. The least fellow among you has brains enough to tell him that." There was at once a new clamor, this time one of dissatisfaction. The speech-maker with the long clay, who was plainly the leader, expressed himself with heat and scorn. "He's a noice chap--he is," he cried. "He'll ha' nowt to do wi' us. He's th' soart o' workin' mon to ha' abowt, to play th' pianny an' do paintin' i' velvet. 'Merica be danged! He's more o' th' gentry koind to-day than Haworth. Haworth _does_ tak' a decent spree now an' then; but this heer un---- Ax him to tak' a glass o' beer an' see what he'll say." Disgust was written upon every countenance, but no one proffered the hospitality mentioned. Mr. Briarley had fallen asleep again, murmuring suggestively, "Aye, le's hear summat fro' 'Merica. Le's _go_ to 'Merica. Pu-r on thy bonnet, lass, pur--it on." With her companion's assistance, Janey got him out of the place and led him home. "Haaf th' rent's gone," she said, when she turned out his pockets, as he sat by the fire. "An' wheer's th' buryin' money to coom fro'?" Mr. Briarley shook his head mournfully. "Th' buryin' money," he said. "Aye, i'deed. A noice thing it is fur a poor chap to ha' to cut off his beer to pay fur his coffin by th' week,--wastin' good brass on summat he may nivver need as long as he lives. I dunnot loike th' thowt on it, eyther. It's bad enow to ha' to get into th' thing at th' eend, wi'out ha'in' it lugged up to th' door ivvery Saturday, an' payin' fur th' ornymentin' on it by inches." CHAPTER VIII. MR. FFRENCH. It was a week before affairs assumed their accustomed aspect. Not that the Works had been neglected, however. Each morning Haworth had driven down early and spent an hour in his office and about the place, reading letters, issuing orders and keeping a keen look-out generally. "I'll have no spreeing here among _you_ chaps," he announced. "Spree as much as you like when th' work's done, but you don't spree in _my_ time. Look sharp after 'em, Kendal." The day after his guests left him he appeared at his usual time, and sent at once for Murdoch. On his arriving he greeted him, leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his pockets. "Well, lad," he said, "it's over."