endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of expression.
Haworth leaned forward in his gig.
"You're a nice chap," he said. "You're a nice chap."
A general vague condition of mind betrayed Mr. Briarley into the momentary weakness of receiving this compliment literally. He brightened perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush of manly modesty.
"My best days is ower," he replied. "I've been misforchnit, Mester—but theer wur a toime as th' opposite sect ha' said th' same though that theer's a thing," reflecting deeply and shaking his head, "as I nivver remoind Sararann on."
The next moment he fell back in some trepidation. Haworth looked down at him coolly.
"You're a pretty chap," he said, "goin' on th' strike an' leaving your wife and children to starve at home while you lay in your beer and make an ass of yourself."
"Eh!" exclaimed Mr. Briarley.
"And make an ass of yourself," repeated Haworth, unmovedly. "You'd better be drawin' your wages, my lad."
Mr. Briarley's expression changed. From bewilderment he passed into comparative gloom.
"It is na drawin' 'em I've getten owt agen," he remarked. "It is na drawin' 'em. It's earnin' 'em,—an' ha'in' 'em took away an'—an' spent i' luxuries—berryin'-clubs an' th' loike. Brass as ud buy th' nessycerries."
"If we'd left you alone," said Haworth, "where would your wife and children be now, you scoundrel? Who's fed 'em and clothed 'em while you've been on th' spree? Jem Haworth, blast you!—Jem Haworth."
