Those of his hands who had deserted him came out of their respective "sprees" in a week's time, with chop-fallen countenances. They had not gained anything, and were somehow not in great favor among the outside strikers. In their most pronounced moods, they had been neither useful nor ornamental to their party. They were not eloquent, nor even violent; they were simply idle vagabonds, who were no great loss to Haworth and no great gain to his enemies. In their own families they were in deep and dire disgrace, and loud were the ratings they received from their feminine relatives. The lot of Mr. Briarley was melancholy indeed. Among the malcontents his portion was derision and contumely; at home he was received with bewailings and scathing severity. "An' that theer was what tha wur up to, was it?" cried Mrs. Briarley, the day he found himself compelled by circumstances to reveal the true state of affairs. "Tha'st j'ined th' strikers, has tha?" "Aye, Sararann, I've j'ined 'em--an'--an' we're go'n' to set things straight, bless yo'--that's what we're goin' to do. We--we're goin' to bring the mesters down a bit, an'--an' get our dues. That's what we're goin' to do, Sararann." It was dinner-time, and in the yard and about the street at the front the young members of the family disported themselves with vigor. Without Janey and the baby, who were in the house, there were ten of them. Mrs. Briarley went to the door and called them. Housed to frantic demonstrations of joy by the immediate prospect of dinner, they appeared in a body, tumbling over one another, shrieking, filling the room to overflowing. Generally they were disposed of in relays, for convenience' sake. It was some time since Mr. Briarley had beheld the whole array. He sat upright and stared at them. Mrs. Briarley sat down confronting him. "What art tha goin' to do wi' _them_ while tha bring th' mesters down?" she inquired. Mr. Briarley regarded the assembly with _naive_ bewilderment. A natural depression of spirit set in. "Theer--theer seems a good many on 'em, Sararann," he said, with an air of meek protestation. "They seem to ha'--to ha' cumylated!" "Theer's twelve on 'em," answered Mrs. Briarley, dryly, "an' they've aw getten mouths, as tha sees. An' their feyther's goin' to bring th' mesters down a bit!" Twelve pairs of eyes stolidly regarded their immediate progenitor, as if desirous of discovering his intentions. Mr. Briarley was embarrassed. "Sararann," he faltered, "send 'em out to play 'em. Send 'em out into th' open air. It's good fur 'em, th' open air is, an' they set a mon back." Mrs. Briarley burst into lamentations, covering her face with her apron and rocking to and fro. "Aye," cried she, "send 'em out in th' air--happen they'll fatten on it. It's aw they'll get, poor childer. Let 'em mak' th' most on it."