The Parson O' Dumford. Fenn George Manville

it?”

      “The hardest I ever hit,” said the vicar, smiling.

      “Is it, parson – is it now?” said Harry, with his massive face lighting up with pride. “Hear that, Tom? Hear that, Joe Banks?”

      He stood nodding his head and chuckling, as if he had received the greatest satisfaction from this announcement; and then, paying no heed to the great bruise on his forehead, which was plainly puffing up, he sat down on a pile of old metal, lit his pipe, and looked on.

      “I hope you are not hurt, Mr Glaire?” said the vicar. “This is a strange second meeting to-day.”

      “No,” exclaimed Richard, grinding his teeth, “I’m not hurt – not much. Banks, go into the counting-house, and get me some brandy. Curse them, they’ve dragged me to pieces.”

      “Well, you would be so arbitrary with them, and I told you not,” said Banks. “I know’d there’d be a row if you did.”

      “What!” cried Richard, “are you going to side with them?”

      “No,” said Banks, quietly. “I never sides with the men again the master, and never did; but you would have your own way about taking off that ten per cent.”

      “I’ll take off twenty now,” shrieked Richard, stamping about like an angry child. “I’ll have them punished for this outrage. I’m a magistrate, and I’ll punish them. I’ll have the dragoons over from Churley. It’s disgraceful, it’s a regular riot, and not one of those three wretched policemen to be seen.”

      “I see one on ’em comin’,” growled Harry, grinning; “and he went back again.”

      “Had you not better try a little persuasion with your workpeople?” said the vicar. “I am quite new here, but it seems to me better than force.”

      “That’s what I tells him, sir,” exclaimed Banks, “only he will be so arbitrary.”

      “Persuasion!” shrieked Richard, who, now that he was safe, was infuriated. “I’ll persuade them. I’ll starve some of them into submission. What’s that? What’s that? Is the gate barred?”

      He ran towards the building, for at that moment there was a roar outside as if of menace, but immediately after some one shouted —

      “Three cheers for Missus Glaire!”

      They were given heartily, and then the gate bell was rung lustily.

      “It’s the Missus,” said Banks, going towards the gates.

      “Don’t open those gates. Stop!” shrieked Richard.

      “But it’s the Missus come,” said Banks, and he peeped through a crack.

      “Open the gates, open the gates,” cried a dozen voices.

      “I don’t think you need fear now,” said the vicar; “the disturbance is over for the present.”

      “Fear! I’m not afraid,” snarled Richard; “but I won’t have those scoundrels in here.”

      “I’ll see as no one else comes in,” said Harry, getting up like a small edition of Goliath; and he stood on one side of the wicket gate, while Banks opened it and admitted Mrs Glaire, with Eve Pelly, who looked ghastly pale.

      Several men tried to follow, but the gate was forced to by the united efforts of Harry and the foreman, when there arose a savage yell; but this was drowned by some one proposing once more “Three cheers for the Missus!” and they were given with the greatest gusto, while the next minute twenty heads appeared above the wall and gates, to which some of the rioters had climbed.

      “Oh, Richard, my son, what have you been doing?” cried Mrs Glaire, taking his hand, while Eve Pelly went up and clung to his arm, gazing tremblingly in his bleeding face and at his disordered apparel.

      “There, get away,” cried Richard, impatiently, shaking himself free. “What have I been doing? What have those scoundrels been doing, you mean?”

      He applied his handkerchief to his bleeding mouth, looking at the white cambric again and again, as he saw that it was stained, and turning very pale and sick, so that he seated himself on a rough mould.

      “Dick, dear Dick, are you much hurt?” whispered Eve, going to him again in spite of his repulse, and laying her pretty little hand on his shoulder.

      “Hurt? Yes, horribly,” he cried, in a pettish way. “You see I am. Don’t touch me. Go for the doctor somebody.”

      He looked round with a ghastly face, and it was evident that he was going to faint.

      “Run, pray run for Mr Purley,” cried Mrs Glaire.

      “I’ll go,” cried Eve, eagerly.

      “I don’t think there is any necessity,” said the vicar, quietly. “Can you get some brandy, my man?” he continued, to Banks. “No, stay, I have my flask.”

      He poured out some spirit into the cup, and Richard Glaire drank it at a draught, getting up directly after, and shaking his fist at the men on the wall.

      “You cowards!” he cried. “I’ll be even with you for this.”

      A yell from the wall, followed by another from the crowd, was the response, when Mr Selwood turned to Mrs Glaire.

      “If you have any influence with him get him inside somewhere, or we shall have a fresh disturbance.”

      “Yes, yes,” cried the anxious mother, catching her son’s arm. “Come into the counting-house, Dick. Go with him, Eve. Take him in, and I’ll speak to the men.”

      “I’m not afraid of the brutal ruffians,” cried Richard, shrilly. “I’ll not go, I’ll – ”

      Here there was a menacing shout from the wall, and a disposition shown by some of the men to leap down; a movement which had such an effect on Richard Glaire that he allowed his cousin to lead him into a building some twenty yards away, the vicar’s eyes following them as they went.

      “I’ll speak to the men now,” said the little lady. “Banks, you may open the gates; they won’t hurt me.”

      “Not they, ma’am,” said the sturdy foreman, looking with admiration at the self-contained little body, as, hastily wiping a tear or two from her eyes, she prepared to encounter the workmen.

      Before the gates could be opened, however, an ambassador in the person of Eve Pelly arrived from Richard.

      “Not open the gates, child?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

      “No, aunt, dear, Richard says it would not be safe for you and me, now the men are so excited.”

      For a few minutes Mrs Glaire forgot the deference she always rendered to “my son!” and, reading the message in its true light, she exclaimed angrily —

      “Eve, child, go and tell my son that there are the strong lock and bolts on the door that his father had placed there after we were besieged by the workmen ten years ago, and he can lock himself in if he is afraid.”

      The Reverend Murray Selwood, who heard all this, drew in his breath with a low hissing noise, as if he were in pain, on seeing the action taken by the fair bearer of Richard Glaire’s message.

      “Aunt, dear,” she whispered, clinging to Mrs Glaire, “don’t send me back like that – it will hurt poor Dick’s feelings.”

      “Go and say what you like, then, child,” cried Mrs Glaire, pettishly. “Yes, you are right, Eve: don’t say it.”

      “And you will not open the gates, aunt, dear?”

      “Are you afraid of the men, Eve?”

      “I, aunt? Oh, no,” said the young girl, smiling. “They would not hurt me.”

      “I should just like to see any one among ’em as would,” put in Harry, the big hammerman, giving his shirt sleeve a tighter roll, as if preparing to crush an opponent bent on injuring the little maiden. “We should make him