"Oh, ay!" they all cried.

And one man added--"Thank the Lord!"

"That's right, Jacob Baines: and, another time, trust the Lord. You
wouldn't then have been abroad this summer morning"--and he pointed
to the dawn just reddening in the sky--"this quiet, blessed summer
morning, burning and rioting, bringing yourselves to the gallows, and
your children to starvation."

"They be nigh that a'ready," said Jacob, sullenly. "Us men ha'
gotten a meal, thankee for it; but what'll become o' the little 'uns
at home? I say, Mr. Halifax," and he seemed waxing desperate again,
"we must get some food somehow."

John turned away, his countenance very sad. Another of the men
plucked at him from behind.

"Sir, when thee was a poor lad I lent thee a rug to sleep on; I
doan't grudge'ee getting on; you was born for a gentleman, sure-ly.
But Master Fletcher be a hard man."

"And a just one," persisted John. "You that work for him, did he
ever stint you of a halfpenny? If you had come to him and said,
'Master, times are hard, we can't live upon our wages,' he might--I
don't say that he would--but he MIGHT even have given you the food
you tried to steal."

"D'ye think he'd give it us now?" And Jacob Baines, the big, gaunt,
savage fellow, who had been the ringleader--the same, too, who had