"Well, now, that's something like a king," said Mr Crowder, who was an eager listener.
"It was uncivil, though. How did they take it?" said Mr Timothy Rose, a "gentleman farmer" from Leek Malton, against whose independent position nature had provided the safeguard of a spontaneous servility. His large porcine cheeks, round twinkling eyes, and thumbs habitually twirling, expressed a concentrated effort not to get into trouble, and to speak everybody fair except when they were safely out of hearing.
"Take it! they'd be obliged to take it," said the impetuous young Joyce, a farmer of superior information. "Have you ever heard of the king's prerogative?"
"I don't say but what I have," said Rose, retreating. "I've nothing against it—nothing at all."
"No, but the Radicals have," said young Joyce, winking. "The prerogative is what they want to clip close. They want us to be governed by delegates from the trades-unions, who are to dictate to everybody, and make everything square to their mastery."
"They're a pretty set, now, those delegates," said Mr Wace, with disgust. "I once heard two of 'em spouting away. They're a sort of fellow I'd never
