“If they see me standing there with you, they’ll throw brickbats at me, and some of them will hit you. You’ve a lot to learn, Sir Rupert. Old-fashioned Labor men like me, that want to hurry slowly, are between the devil and the deep sea. If I show myself standing by the devil, the sea will come up and drown me.” “By George,” said Rupert, feeling half clean of mud and insincerity, “by George, this is going to be interesting. I’ve... I’ve a lot to learn, haven’t I?” “Thank God, you know it,” said Tom Bradshaw reverently. And in another minute, Rupert knew it better still, when he moved to the window with William. The factory yard below them was packed with a cheering mass of workpeople, and every inlet to it showed a sea of heads stretching as far as the eye could reach. Not one tenth the employees of the great mills could stand within sight of the window; those who were there had gained priority of place because they worked in the departments nearest the yard, but not by any means all whose work was nearby had come and it struck William, if not Rupert, that the people here assembled were chiefly elderly or very young. The elders, like the gate-keeper who had passed the word of Rupert’s coming into the mills, had genuinely an impulse of loyalty to a Hepplestall; the very young were ready to make a noise in a crowd gathered upon any occasion; and the merely young had for the most part made no effort to struggle into the yard. To Rupert, this was Hepplestall’s making spontaneous levy in mass to welcome him; a little absurd of them, even if their prince had been princely, but undeniably affecting. He must play up to these acclamations, he must say something gracious, and he must not condescend. He was an ass whom they lionized, but he wouldn’t bray. He offered to speak, and the hearty roar below him diminished. It has been observed before to-day that the contemptuous noise known as “booing” is unable to assert itself against cheers, whereas a few sharp hisses cut like a whip across any but the greatest uproar. As the cheers diminished in anticipation of his speech, the appearance of unanimity was shattered by derisive hissing, drowned at once by renewed volume of cheers, but more than sufficient to indicate an opposition. Behind him in the room he heard Mary’s quick “What’s that?” he heard Tom say “Poor lad! Poor lad!” Who was a poor lad? He? He never did like honey; he didn’t want the leadership of sheep and he began to speak without preamble.