But for one reason or another the house was quiet enough for the first six months of Murdoch's acquaintance with its master. Haworth gave himself up to the management of the Works. He perfected plans he had laid at a time when the power had not been in his own hands. He kept his eye on his own interests sharply. The most confirmed shirkers on the place found themselves obliged to fall to work, however reluctantly. His bold strokes of business enterprise began to give him wide reputation. In the lapse of its first half year, "Haworth's" gained for itself a name.
At the end of this time, Murdoch arrived at the Works one morning to find a general tone of conviviality reigning. A devil-may-care air showed itself among all the graceless. There was a hint of demoralization in the very atmosphere.
"Where's Haworth?" he asked Floxham, who did not seem to share the general hilarity. "I've not seen him."
"No," was the engineer's answer, "nor tha will na see him yet a bit. A lot o' foo's coom fro' Lunnon last neet. He's on one o' his sprees, an' a nice doment they'll ha' on it afore they're done."
The next morning Haworth dashed down to the Works early in his gig, and spent a short time in his room. Before he left he went to the engine-room, and spoke to Murdoch.
"Is there aught you want from the house—aught in the way o' books, I mean?" he said, with a touch of rough bravado in his manner.
"No," Murdoch answered.
"All right," he returned. "Then keep away, lad, for a day or two."
During the "day or two," Broxton existed in a state of
