"He was," said the vicar; "he has been in hiding there from your violence for days. I knew some plot was hatching, and, to save both him and you, I advised his staying in the works, so that you might think he had left the town." "Which we did," muttered two or three. "I shudder when I think of the consequences of my advice. But listen-- there would have been two more horribly mutilated and shattered corpses at this moment--the remains of your foreman and his poor child, Daisy Banks." "Oh, coom, parson!" said Stockton. "I tell you, man, as I rushed in, they were all three there. How they came there together I do not know. I do not want to know. All I know is that it has pleased God to spare us from a sin for which we should never have forgiven ourselves." "I don't see as yow had much to do wi' it, parson," said a voice, sneeringly. "My men, my men," cried the vicar, in a deeply moved voice, "do you think I live here among you without feeling that your joys and sorrows are mine? and your sins are mine as well, for I ought to have taught you better. For God's sake let us have no more of these wretched meetings; break up your society, and act as man to man. Suffer and be strong. Have forbearance, and try to end these dreadful strikes, which fall not on you, but on your wives and children." "But what call hev you got to interfere?" cried a surly voice. "Howd hard theer," cried Stockton; "parson's i' the raight. He's spent three hundred pound, if he's spent a penny, over them as was 'most pined to dead." "That's raight," cried several voices. "Never mind that, my men; it was my duty, even as it is to be the friend and brother of all who are here. But listen--" "I didn't come to hear parson preach," cried a voice, "One word--listen to me for your own sakes," cried the vicar, in impassioned tones. "Suppose you had succeeded without the horrible loss of life that must have occurred through your ignorance of the force of powder--suppose the works had been, with all the costly machinery, turned into a heap of ruins?" "It would hev sarved Richard Glaire well raight," said some one. "Grant that it would, but what then, my lads? For Heaven's sake look a little further than the satisfaction of a paltry, unmanly desire for revenge." "It would hev ruined Dicky Glaire," cried Stockton. "Yes, my men; but it would have ruined you as well. Those works could not have been restored for years: perhaps never; the trade would have gone elsewhere, and, as I take it, over two hundred men and their wives and children must have gone elsewhere for bread." "That's raight enew, parson," cried Stockton; "but all the same if some cursed, cowardly spy hadn't betrayed us the wucks would hev been down." "That betrayal of your evil plans came about more strangely than you can imagine," said the vicar. "I have suspected something, and been constantly on the watch." "Strange and kind of you, too, parson," said Stockton, with a laugh.