hat can it be?" said Julia. "Come, Mick; Dusty is always so long
telling us anything."

"Why we are going to have the devil's own strike," said Mick unable any
longer to contain himself and dancing with glee.

"A strike!" said Julia.

"I hope they will destroy the machines," said Harriet.

"And open the Temple," said Caroline, "or else it will be very dull."

"I have seen a many strikes," said the widow, "but as Chaffing Jack was
saying to me the other day--"

"Chaffing Jack be hanged," said Mick. "Such a slow coach won't do in
these high-pressure times. We are going to do the trick and no mistake.
There shan't be a capitalist in England who can get a day's work out of
us, even if he makes the operatives his junior partners."

"I never heard of such things," said Mrs Carey in amazement.

"It's all booked, though," said Devilsdust. "We'll clean out the
Savings' Banks; the Benefits and Burials will shell out. I am treasurer
of the Ancient Shepherds, and we passed a resolution yesterday
unanimously, that we would devote all our funds to the sustenance of
Labour in this its last and triumphant struggle against Capital."

"Lor!" said Caroline, "I think it will be very jolly."

"As long as you can give us money, I don't care, for my part, how long
we stick out," said Julia.

"Well," said Mrs Carey, "I didn't think there was so much spirit in the
place. As Chaffing Jack was saying the other day--"

"There is no spirit in the place," said Devilsdust, "but we mean
to infuse some. Some of our friends are going to pay you a visit
to-morrow."

"And who may they be?" said Caroline.

"To-morrow is Sunday," said Devilsdust, "and the miners mean to say
their prayers in Mowbray Church."

"Well, that will be a shindy!" said Caroline.

"It's a true bill, though," said Mick. "This time to-morrow you will
have ten thousand of them in this town, and if every mill and work in it
and ten mile round is not stopped, my name is not MICK RADLEY!"

Book 6 Chapter 9

It was Monday morning. Hatton, enveloped in his chamber robe and
wearing his velvet cap, was lounging in the best room of the principal
commercial inn of Mowbray, over a breakfast table covered with all the
delicacies of which a northern matin meal may justly boast. There
were pies of spiced meat and trout fresh from the stream, hams that
Westphalia never equalled, pyramids of bread of every form and flavour
adapted to the surrounding fruits, some conserv