“Aw couldn’t reetly say for sure. But aw yer it’s let off, or part on it is, shoose ha’, i’ room an’ power. Aw nivver bothered my yed abaat it, as long as th’ interest cam’ to hand. But it’s a week o’er due, an’ aw’ve been expectin’ it by ivery post, so aw thowt aw’d better call in an’ see abaat it. Yo’ won’t charge me owt for that, will yo’?” he asked, as a sudden fear seized him. “No, no, by no means—mortgagor’s costs. Make your mind easy. I’ve no doubt it will be all right when Mr. Beaumont returns. Still...,” and Mr. Storth fingered the seal on his watch-chain, and puckered his brow and pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “Still, what?” asked Mr. Schofield, sharply. “There’s nowt wrong, is there?” “Wrong? No, no, of course not, at least…. well, well. No writing, you say, only Mr. Beaumont’s word; and, of course, Mr. Beaumont’s the soul of honour. You know what the poet says: “So are we all, all honourable men.” Still, three thousand pounds is a tidy bit.” “Yo’d ’ave thowt so if yo’d had to addle it an’ nip an’ scrat for it same as I had.” “A very tidy bit. You have the deeds, of course?” “They’re at the bank.” “You’ve overdrawn on them, I suppose.” “Then you suppose wrang, young man, aw dunnot lend money at five per cent. to borrow brass fra’ the bank at six. That’s noan th’ way we mak’ money i’ Golcar. Th’ writin’s are nobbut theer for safety. Aw can fot ’em aat ony day aw like. What are yo’ axin’ for, if aw may mak’ so bowd?” “I’m not only asking, Mr. Schofield, I’m thinking. You read the local papers, of course?” “Aw see th’ Weekly Examiner ivery week. Me an’ a neighbour join at it. What for?” “Well, of course, you’ve read any time this last few weeks that there’s great unrest in the industrial world. There was the strike at Martin’s, of Lindley, not so long ago; there’s just been trouble at Taylor and Littlewood’s, at Newsome, and I know for a fact that the textile workers have formed a very strong and formidable union that embraces not only Huddersfield, but the valleys of the Colne and the Holme. In fact, Mr. Beaumont was fool enough to draw up the rules of the union and make no charge.” “That’s more nor he’d do for me, aw rekon. What sud he do that for?” “Oh, you know, he’s all for the rights of labour.” “Rights o’ fiddlesticks. What’s a man want more nor plenty o’ wark an’ overtime? But what’s all this to do wi’ my brass?” “Not much, perhaps. Only, you see, I don’t think, from what I saw of that exceedingly amiable gentleman, Albert Clough, the weavers’ secretary, when he came to consult Beaumont about the draft of the new rules—a cut-throat lace, if I ever saw one—that this new union’s going to be idle very long.” “Well, what’s that to me?” “Nothing—perhaps; perhaps a great deal; perhaps a matter of that tidy little bit of a three thousand pounds of yours.” Mr. Schofield’s face sicklied over with the pale cast of a mortal fear. His hands became cold and clammy, his heart sank within him.