He put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a few jingling silver coins, tossed them to him.
"Take these," he said, "an' go an' spend 'em on th' 'nessycerries,' as you call 'em. You'll do it, I know well enow. You'll be in a worse box than you are now, before long. We'll have done with you chaps when Murdoch's finished the job he's got on hand."
"What's that?" faltered Briarley. "I ha' na heerd on it."
Haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins.
"Ask him," he answered. "He can tell you better than I can. He's at work on a thing that'll set the masters a good bit freer than they are now. That's all I know. There won't be any need o' so many o' you lads. You'll have to make your brass out of a new trade."
He bent a little to settle a strap.
"Go and tell the rest on 'em," he said. "You'll do it when you're drunk enow, I dare say."
Briarley fumbled with his coins. His air became speculative.
"What are you thinkin' on?" demanded Haworth. "It's a bad lookout, isn't it?"
Mr. Briarley drew a step nearer the gig's side. He appeared somewhat pale, and spoke in a whisper. Muddled as he was, he had an idea or so left.
"It'll be a bad lookout for him," he said. "Bless yo'! They'd tear him to pieces. They're in th' humor for it. They've been carryin' a grudge so long they're ready fur owt. They've nivver thowt mich o' him, though, but start 'em on that an' they wouldn't leave a shred o' it together—nor a shred o' him, eyther, if they got the chance."
Haworth laughed again.
