work fro' th' gentry. Le's ha' fewer liberys an' athyneums, an' more wage—an' holidays—an'—an' beer. Le's pro-gress—tha's wha' I say—an' I'm a workin' mon."
"Ee-er! Ee-er!" cried the chorus. "Ee-er!"
In the midst of the pause following these acclamations, a voice broke in suddenly with startling loudness.
"Ee-er! Ee-er!" it said.
It was Mr. Briarley, who had unexpectedly awakened from a beery nap, and, though much surprised to find out where he was, felt called upon to express his approbation.
Janey hitched her shawl into a manageable length and approached him.
"Tha'rt here?" she said. "I knowed tha would be. Tha'lt worrit th' loife out on us afore tha'rt done. Coom on home wi' me afore tha'st spent ivvery ha'penny we've getten."
Mr. Briarley roused himself so far as to smile at her blandly.
"It's Zhaney," he said, "it's Zhaney. Don' intrup th' meetin', Zhaney. I'll be home dreckly. Mus' na intrup th' workin' mon. He's th' backbone 'n' sinoo o' th' country. Le's ha' a sup more beer."
Murdoch bent over and touched his shoulder.
"You had better come home," he said.
The man looked round at him blankly, but the next moment an exaggerated expression of enlightenment showed itself on his face.
"Iss th' 'Merican," he said. "Iss Murdoch." And then, with sudden bibulous delight: "Gi' us a speech 'bout 'Merica."
In a moment there was a clamor all over the room. The last words had been spoken loudly enough to be
