Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles. Ellen Wood
The men were rather given to comparing present wages with those they had earned before the dark crisis (dark as far as Helstonleigh's trade was concerned) when the British ports were opened to foreign gloves. But few, comparatively speaking, of the manufacturers had weathered that storm. Years have elapsed since then: but the employment remained scarce, and the wages (I have quoted them to you) low. Altogether, the men were, many of them, dissatisfied. They even went so far as to talk of a "strike"; strikes being less common in those days than they are in these.
It was Saturday night, and the streets were crowded. The hands were pouring out of the different manufactories; clean-looking, respectable workmen, as a whole: for the branches of glove-making are for the most part of a cleanly nature. Some wore their white aprons; some had rolled them up round their waists. A few—very few, it must be owned—were going to their homes, but the greater portion were bound for the public-house.
One of the most extensively patronised of the public-houses was The Cutters' Arms. On a Saturday night, when the men's pockets were lined, this would be crowded. The men flocked into it now and filled it, although its room for entertainment was very large. The order from most of them was a pint of mild ale and some tobacco.
"Any news, Joe Fisher?" asked a man, when the pipes were set going.
Joe Fisher tossed his head and growled. He was a tall, dark man; clothes and condition both dilapidated. The questioner took a few whiffs, and repeated his question. Joe growled again, but did not speak.
"Well, you might give a chap a civil answer, Fisher."
"What's the matter, you two?" cried a third.
"Ben Wilks asks me is there any news!" called out Fisher, indignantly. "I thought he might ha' heered on't without asking. Our pay was docked again to-night; that's the news."
"No!" uttered Wilks.
"It were," said Fisher savagely. "A shilling a week less, good. Who's a-going to stand it?"
"There ain't no help for standing it," interposed a quiet-looking man named Wheeler. "I suppose the masters is forced to lower. They say so."
"Have your master forced hisself to it?" angrily retorted Fisher.
"Well, Fisher, you know I'm fortunate. As all is that gets in to work at Ashley's."
"And precious good care they take to stop in!" cried Fisher, much aggravated. "No danger that Ashley's hands'll give way and afford outsiders a chance."
"Why should they give way?" sensibly asked Wheeler. "You need never think to get in at Ashley's, Fisher, so there's no cause for you to grumble."
A titter went round at Fisher's expense. He did not like it. "I might stand my chance with others, if there was room. Who says I couldn't? Come, now!"
A man laughed. "You had better ask Samuel Lynn that question, Fisher. Why, he wouldn't look at you! You are not steady enough for him."
"Samuel Lynn may go along for a ill-natured broadbrim!" was Fisher's retort. "There'd not be half the difficulty in getting in with Mr. Ashley hisself."
"Yes, there would," said Wheeler, quietly. "Mr. Ashley pays first wages, and he'll have first hands. Quaker Lynn knows what he's about."
"Don't dispute about nothing, Fisher," interrupted a voice, borne through the clouds of smoke from the far end of the room. "To lose a shilling a week is bad, but not so bad as losing all. I have heard ill news this evening."
Fisher stretched up his long neck. "Who's that a-talking? Is it Mr. Crouch?"
It was Stephen Crouch; the foreman in a large firm, and a respectable, intelligent man. "Do you remember, any of you, that a report arose some time ago about Wilson and King? A report that died away again?"
"That they were on their last legs," replied several voices. "Well?"
"Well, they are off them now," continued Stephen Crouch.
Up rose a man, his voice shaking with emotion. "It's not true, Mr. Crouch, sure—ly!"
"It is, Vincent. Wilson and King are going to wind up. It will be announced next week."
"Mercy help us! There'll be forty more hands throwed out! What's to become of us all?"
A dead silence fell on the room. Vincent broke it. Hope is strong in the human heart. "Mr. Crouch, I don't think it can be true. Our wages was all paid up to-night. And we have not heard a breath on't."
"I know all that," said Stephen Crouch. "I know where the money came from to pay them. It came from Mr. Ashley."
The assertion astonished the room. "From Mr. Ashley! Did he tell it abroad?"
"He tell it!" indignantly returned Stephen Crouch. "Mr. Ashley is an honourable man. No. Wilson and King have a tattler too near to them; that's how it came out. Not but what it would have been known all over Helstonleigh on Monday, all particulars. Every sixpence, pretty near, that Wilson and King have, is locked up in their stock. They expected remittances by the London mail this morning, and they did not come. They went to the bank. The bank was shy, and would not make advances; and they had nothing in hand for wages. They went to Mr. Ashley and told him their perplexity, and he drew a cheque. The bank cashed that, with a bow. And if it had not been for Mr. Ashley, Ned Vincent, you and the rest of their hands would have gone home to-night with empty pockets."
"Will Mr. Ashley lose the money?"
"Not he. He knew there was no danger of that, when he lent it. Nobody will lose by Wilson and King. They have more than enough to pay everybody in full; only their money's locked up."
"Why are they giving up?"
"Because they can't keep on. They have been losing a long while. What do you ask—what will they do? They must do as others have done before them, who have been unable to keep on. If Wilson and King had given up ten years ago, they had then each a nice little bit of property to retire upon. But it has been sunk since. There are too many others in this city in the same ease."
"And what's to become of us hands that's throwed out?" asked Vincent, returning to his own personal grievance.
"You must try and get taken on somewhere else, Vincent," observed Stephen Crouch.
"There ain't a better cutter than Ned Vincent going," cried another voice. "He won't wait long."
"I don't know about that," returned Vincent gloomily. "The masters is overdone with hands."
"Of all the bad luck as ever fell upon a town, the opening of the ports to them foreign French was the worst for Helstonleigh," broke in the intemperate voice of Fisher.
"Hold th' tongue, Fisher!" exclaimed a sensible voice. "We won't get into them discussions again. Didn't we go over 'em, night after night, and year after year, till we were heart-sick?—and what did they ever bring us but ill-feeling? It's done, and it can't be undone. The ports be open, and they'll never be closed again."
"Did the opening of 'em ruin the trade of Helstonleigh, or didn't it? Answer me that," said Fisher.
"It did. We know it to our cost," was the sad answer. "But there's no help for it."
"Oh," returned Fisher ironically. "I thought you were going to hold out that the opening of 'em was a boon to the place, and the keeping 'em open a blessing. That 'ud be a new dodge. Why do they keep 'em open?"
"Just hark at Fisher!" said Mr. Buffle in a mincing tone. "He wants to know why Government keeps open the British ports. Don't every dozen of gloves that comes into the country pay a heavy duty? Is it likely Government would give up that, Fisher?"
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