After the burial of his daughter, Braunt sat in his lonely room and pondered bitterly upon the failure his life had been, ever since he could remember. Hard and incessant toil he did not complain of: that was his lot, and it had been the lot of his fathers. He was able to work and willing; the work was there waiting to be done: yet, through the action of men over whom he had not the slightest control, he was doomed to idleness and starvation until the capricious minds of others changed, and the signal was given to pick up the tools that had been so heedlessly dropped.

“Ah’ll not stand it!” he cried aloud, bringing his fist down on the empty table.

But after these momentary flashes of determination, the depression habitual to him settled down with increased density upon his mind, and, realizing how helpless he was, he buried his face in his hands and groaned in hopeless despair. It is difficult for a starving man to be brave for long. What could he do? Absolutely nothing. He might drop dead from exhaustion before he got a chance to earn a meal, though he tramped the huge city searching for work. The trade he knew was already overcrowded with thousands of men, eager for the place he had been compelled to abandon. Even the street crossings were owned by impoverished wretches who earned what living they got by sweeping them. If he were presented with a crossing, he had not the money to buy a broom. Gibbons, fool though he might be, spoke the truth when he said a workingman was but a cog in a large wheel: the wheel might get a new cog, or a new set of cogs, but the cog separated from the wheel was as useless as a bit of old iron.

Langly stole softly in upon his stricken friend, closing the door stealthily after him, with the bearing of a man about to commit a crime and certain of being caught. Braunt gave him no greeting, but glowered upon him from under his frowning, shaggy eyebrows.

“There is some money here that you are to take,” said the organist timidly, placing a heap of coins on the table.

Braunt, with an angry gesture, swept away the pile, and the silver jingled on the floor.

“Ah’ll have none o’ thy money, as Ah’ve told ’ee before!” he roared. “Ah can earn ma money, if Ah boot get th chance.”

Langly, with no word of remonstrance, stooped and patiently collected every scattered piece.

“It is not my money,” he said, on rising. “It was sent to you, and is for you and for no one else. It belongs to you: I have no right to it, and this very money you yourself have earned. I don’t know who has a better claim to it.”

Again placing the silver and gold on the table, Langly tiptoed out of the room in some haste, before Braunt could collect his wits and make reply.

The Yorkshireman, with curious inconsistency, had accepted without question the money which had saved his child from a pauper funeral, although he must have known, had he reflected, that the expenses were paid by some one; yet charity which did not come direct awakened no resentment in his turbulent nature, while the bald offer of money or food sent him instantly into a tempest of anger.

He thought over the organist’s words. How could the money be his? How had he earned the coins? His slow brain gradually solved the problem the money evidently had come from Hope or Monkton, or perhaps from Sartwell. He cursed the three of them, together and separate, and in his rage once more scattered the heap to the floor. The coins whirled hither and thither, at last spinning to rest on the bare boards. Braunt watched them as they lay there glittering in the dim light, his mind ceasing to cogitate on the respective culpability of employers or employed for the state of things under which he suffered. He had formerly thought of Monkton and Hope as purse-proud, haughty capitalists, until he saw their cringing, frightened demeanour when escorted out of the works by the policemen, and since that time he had been endeavouring to reconstruct his ideas concerning them. So, after all, why should he refuse to take money from them if one or other had sent it? He gazed at the coins on the floor, white splotches and yellow points of light, hitching round his chair the better to see them. He had heard that a man might be hypnotized by gazing steadily on a silver piece held in the palm. As Braunt watched the coins intently, he passed his hand swiftly across his brow, concentrating his gaze by half closing his eyes. He leaned forward and downward. Surely they were moving, edging closer to each other, the larger heaps attracting the various atoms of metal, as he remembered, with bewildered brain, was the case with money all the world over, which gave a plausible cause, such as one has in dreams, for the coins creeping together, although what was left of his reason told him that it was all an illusion. The sane and insane sections of his mind struggled for mastery, while Braunt leaned closer and closer over the money, sitting forward now on the very edge of his chair, breathing hard, almost wholly absorbed in the strange movement on the floor, and gradually losing interest in the mental conflict regarding the reality of what his strained, unwinking eyes told him was going on at his feet. At last he noticed that the heap was slowly but perceptibly sliding away from him. All doubts about the geniuneness of what he saw vanished The money was trying to escape.

He sprang to his feet and jumped to the door, placing his back against it.

“Oh, no,” he shouted, “you’re mine, you’re mine!”

Crouching down, never taking his eyes from the coins, he got upon his hands and knees, crawling towards them craftily; then pounced suddenly on the main heap, while the isolated pieces scuttled back to their former positions, pretending they had never shifted their places. He laughed sneeringly at their futile attempts to deceive him, poured the heap into his pocket, and captured each separate coin that remained, by springing upon it. He searched the whole room like some animal, nosing into’ the corners, crouching lower and proceeding more cautiously when he spied a silver or gold piece that had rolled far, chuckling when he seized it and placed it with the others. At last he rose to his feet, slapping his pocket joyously, and making the money jingle. Once erect, the blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. He staggered, and leaned against the wall, all his hilarity leaving him. The room seemed to swim around him, and he covered his eyes with his hands.

“Ah’m gooin’ mad,” he whispered. “Ah moost ha’ summat ta eat—or drink.”

Braunt staggered through the doorway to the passage and down the stair, out into the open air, which revived him and made him feel the nip of hunger again. Once on Light Street, he turned into the “Rose and Crown,” and asked for a mug of beer. The barman hesitated. The credit of the strikers had long since gone.

“I’d like to see the colour of your money,” he said, gruffly.

“Ah’ve no money. Ah’ll pay thee next week; ah’m goin’ to put a stop ta the strike to-day.”

He brought down his open palm against his trousers pocket to emphasize his poverty, and was startled by the clink of coins. He thrust his hand down into his pocket, and pulled out some silver, gazing at it stupidly.

“Ma word,” he gasped at last, “Ah thought Ah dreamt it!”

The barman laughed, and reached for an empty mug, grasping the beer-pump handle.

“That dream’s good enough for the ‘Crown,’” he said. “Better have some bread and cheese with it.”

“Yes. Be quick, man.”

Standing there, Braunt ate and drank ravenously.

“I can get you a plate of cold meat,” said the barman, seeing how hungry the man was. The other nodded, and the plate, with knife and fork, was placed before him.

“So the strike’s off, is it?” said the man, leaning his arms on the bar.

“It’ll be off when Ah get there.”

“Well, it’s not a minute too soon. Our trade’s suffered.”

“More than your trade has suffered, worse luck. Dom little you’ll do for a man, unless the money’s in ta pouch.”

“Oh, if it comes to that, neither will other people. We’re not giving out-door relief, any more than our neighbours.”

Braunt ate his food and drank his beer, but made no reply. The barman’s attitude was commercially correct; no one could justly find fault with it. Money was the master-key of the universe; it unlocked all doors. The barman did not care how Braunt came by it, so long as he paid for what was ordered; and the workman now found that courage was taking the place of despair, merely because he had money in his pocket. He felt that now he had energy enough to cope with the strikers, simply because he had fed while they were hungry. He would wait for no meeting, but would harangue the men on the street, those of them that were assembled in futile numbers around the closed gates, and most of them were sure to be there. If Gibbons opposed, he would settle the question by promptly and conclusively knocking him down—an argument easily comprehended by all onlookers.

Braunt drew the back of his hand across his lips when he had finished his meal, and departed for the works. He found, as he expected, the despondent men standing there, with hands hopelessly thrust deep in their empty pockets. Their pipes were as smokeless as the tall chimneys of the factory, and that of itself showed that their condition was at its lowest ebb. They were listening with listless indifference to a heated altercation going on between Gibbons and Marsten, as if the subject discussed did not concern them.

“You might have played that card last week,” Marsten cried, “but it is too late now. You can have no conference with the owners. I tell you they have left the country, and won’t return for a fortnight, and by that time the works will be filled with new men. The new men are coming in on Monday. I demand that the committee call a meeting now and that a vote be taken.”

“Don’t mind him, men!” cried Gibbons. “He’s in Sartwell’s pay.”

The men didn’t mind him, and paid no attention to Gibbons either. What they wanted was something to eat and drink, with tobacco to smoke afterwards. If Marsten was in Sartwell’s pay, they would gladly have changed places with him. Braunt made his way roughly through the crowd, elbowing the men rudely aside. None resented this; all the fight had gone out of them. Marsten seemed on the point of attacking Gibbons for the slanderous remark made, when he felt Braunt’s heavy hand on his shoulder.

“The time is past for meetings, lad,” said the big man, “and for talk too. The meeting’s here, and Ah’ll deal with it. Stop bothering with that fool, and stand among the crowd, ready to back me up if need be.”

Marsten at once did as requested, while Braunt strode across the open space, in spite of the warning of a policeman to stand back.

Few of the force were on the ground; the authorities saw there was little to fear from cowed and beaten men.

“You’ll have to stand back,” said the officer, “or I’ll take you in charge.”

“Will you so?” cried Braunt truculently, rolling up his sleeves as he turned upon his opponent. “Then I warn you, send for help. You haven’t men enough here to take me in charge. Ah’ve had a meal to-day.”

After glaring for a moment, Braunt turned and strode unmolested to the closed gate.

The officer paid heed to the advice given him and sent for more men. He saw there was to be trouble of some sort.

Braunt smote his huge fist against the panels and roared at the top of his voice:

“Open the gates!”

A slight flutter of listless interest seemed to pass over the crowd. The men elbowed closer together, shuffling their feet and craning their necks forward. Those to the rear pressed towards the front, wondering what was about to happen. The few policemen looked on without interfering, waiting for reinforcements. Braunt beat with his fist against the sounding timbers, the rhythmic thuds being the only break in the stillness except when he repeated his stentorian cry, “Open the gates!”

The porter at the small wicket, fearing an attack, ran for Sartwell, and met the manager coming down the stairs.

“I’m afraid there’s going to be another riot, sir,” said the porter, breathlessly.

Sartwell did not answer, but walked quickly to the small gate, unbolted it, and stepped out.

“What do you want?” he said.

“We want our work!” cried Braunt. “Open the gates!”

Sartwell’s glance swept swiftly over the men, who stood with jaws dropped, their gaunt faces and wolfish eyes turned towards the closed barriers. The manager quickly comprehended that it was no time for discussion or arranging of terms. What was needed was action, sharp and prompt. He turned towards the trembling porter, and said peremptorily:

“Throw down the bar!”

Whatever doubts the man may have had about the wisdom of such an order in the face of the hostile mob, he preferred to brave probable danger from the crowd rather than the certain wrath of the manager, and obeyed the command with haste. The heavy gates were slowly pushed open.

“Now, men, in with you!” cried Braunt, with a scythe-like swing of his long arm. “The man that holds back now—ah, God!—Ah’ll break his back!” Some one stumbled forward, as if pushed from behind; then it was as if an invisible rope, holding the crowd back, had suddenly broken. The men poured through the open gateway in a steady stream. Gibbons, waving his hands like a maniac, cried:

“Stop! Stop! Listen to me for a moment!”

But no one stopped, and no one listened. Braunt, his face white with anger, struggled against the incoming tide, shouting:

“Let me get at him! Ah’ll strangle the whelp!”

“Braunt!” said Sartwell sharply, his voice cutting through the din of shuffling boots. “Leave him alone, and get inside yourself. Gather the men together in the yard. I want a word with them.”

Braunt’s truculence at once disappeared. He turned with the men, and came to where Sartwell stood looking grimly at the moving throng. No one glanced towards his master, but each went doggedly forward, with head down as though doing something he was ashamed of. Braunt stopped at Sartwell’s side and whispered:

“For God’s sake, Manager, set them at work, and don’t talk to them. They’re beaten, and there’s no more to be said. Be easy with them; there’s been talk enough.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Sartwell, in kindly manner. “Don’t be afraid, but gather them together. You have the voice for it. I heard your first shout at the gates in my office.”

As the last man passed through, Sartwell heard Braunt calling them to halt. A few still remained outside,—Scimmins and his fellow-members of the strike committee, listening gloomily to Gibbons’s frantic denunciation of the wholesale defection. The manager stepped inside, and ordered the wondering porter to close the gates.

As Sartwell walked briskly towards the works he saw the men huddled together like sheep, very crestfallen, and evidently ready to endure any censure the manager saw fit to launch at their defenceless heads. Braunt, towering over them, looked anxiously about him, with the air of a huge dog not quite certain how his flock would behave.

Sartwell mounted the steps leading to the door of the former office, and spoke.

“I take it, men,” he said, “that this strike is off. I want to begin fair and square; so, if there is any among you unwilling to go back to work on my terms, let him stand out now and say so.”

There was a short pause, during which the silence was unbroken. No one stepped out.

“Very well,” continued the manager. “That’s settled and done with. Now each man knows his place in these buildings; let him get there, and remain for further instructions. No work will be done to-day, as some preparation is required before we begin. You will come to-morrow at the usual hour, and, after arrangements for work have been made, you may each draw half a week’s wages in advance from the cashier: I shall give orders to that effect. A number of telegrams were to have been sent out on Saturday which it is now unnecessary to send: I will spend the money thus saved in tobacco, of which each man shall get a share as he passes out through the small gate. The large gates will not be opened until to-morrow morning.”

There was a faint wavering cheer as Sartwell stopped speaking and stepped down. The men then slowly filtered into the works.