"I have done nothing and gained nothing," he would often say to himself as he sat at the work-table afterward, "but—I am madly happy."
And then he would lie forward with his head upon his folded arms, going over the incidents of the night again and again—living the seconds over, one by one.
Haworth watched him closely in these days. As he passed him on his way to his work-room, he would look up and follow him with a glance until he turned in at its door. He found ways of hearing of his life outside and of his doings in the Works.
One morning, as he was driving down the road toward the town, he saw in the distance the graceful figure of Mr. Briarley, who was slouching along in the somewhat muddled condition consequent upon the excitement of an agreeably convivial evening at the "Who'd ha' Thowt it."
He gave him a critical glance and the next moment whipped up his horse, uttering an exclamation,
"There's th' chap," he said, "by th' Lord Harry!"
In a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of him.
"Stop a bit, lad," he said.
Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. A delicately suggestive recollection of "th' barrels" induced him to do so. He ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not been brought into immediate contact with Haworth since the strikes began.
"Th' same," he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness,—"th' same to yo' an'—an' mony on 'em."
Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand,
