s
a corkcutter had brought matters to a head. When a couple of generations
back the original Fairbairn had founded the business, Brisport was a
little fishing town with no outlet or occupation for her superfluous
population. Men were glad to have safe and continuous work upon any
terms. All this was altered now, for the town was expanding into the
centre of a large district in the west, and the demand for labour and
its remuneration had proportionately increased. Again, in the old days,
when carriage was ruinous and communication slow, the vintners of Exeter
and of Barnstaple were glad to buy their corks from their neighbour of
Brisport; but now the large London houses sent down their travellers,
who competed with each other to gain the local custom, until profits
were cut down to the vanishing point. For a long time the firm had been
in a precarious position, but this further drop in prices settled the
matter, and compelled Mr. Charles Fairbairn, the acting manager, to
close his establishment.

It was a murky, foggy Saturday afternoon in November when the hands
were paid for the last time, and the old building was to be finally
abandoned. Mr. Fairbairn, an anxious-faced, sorrow-worn man, stood on
a raised dais by the cashier while he handed the little pile of
hardly-earned shillings and coppers to each successive workman as the
long procession filed past his table. It was usual with the employees to
clatter away the instant that they had been paid, like so many children
let out of school; but to-day they waited, forming little groups over
the great dreary room, and discussing in subdued voices the misfortune
which had come upon their employers, and the future which awaited
themselves. When the last pile of coins had been handed across the
table, and the last name checked by the cashier, the whole throng
faced silently round to the man who had been their master, and waited
expectantly for any words which he might have to say to them.

Mr. Charles Fairbairn had not expected this, and it embarrassed him. He
had waited as a matter of routine duty until the wages were paid, but
he was a taciturn, slow-witted man, and he had not foreseen this sudden
call upon his oratorical powers. He stroked his thin cheek nervously
with his long white fingers, and looked down with weak watery eyes at
the mosaic of upturned serious faces.

"I am sorry that we have to part, my men," he said at last in a
crackling voice. "It's a bad day fo