followed by the interjection, “Whisht!” designed, as it seemed, to still the hum of several voices. Moore opened his casement an inch or two to admit sound more freely.
“Joseph Scott,” began a snuffling voice—Scott was standing sentinel at the counting-house door—“might we inquire if your master be within, and is to be spoken to!”
“He’s within, ay!” said Joe, nonchalantly.
“Would you, then, if you please (emphasis on ‘you’), have the goodness to tell him that twelve gentlemen wants to see him.”
“He’d happen ax what for,” suggested Joe. “I mught as weel tell him that at t’ same time.”
“For a purpose,” was the answer. Joe entered.
“Please, sir, there’s twelve gentlemen wants to see ye ‘for a purpose.’ ”
“Good, Joe; I’m their man. Sugden, come when I whistle.”
Moore went out, chuckling drily. He advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his cap brim over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep dancing ray of scorn. Twelve men waited in the yard, some in their shirt-sleeves, some in blue aprons: two figured conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little dapper strutting man, with a turned-up nose; the other, a broad-shouldered fellow, distinguished no less by
