the card, stood spell-bound, fixing the visitors with a dull stare.
Amherst had reddened to the roots of his hair. He knew in a flash what the token signified, and the sight stirred his pity; but it also jarred on his strong sense of discipline, and he turned sternly to the operatives.
“What does this mean?”
There was a short silence; then one of the hands, a thin bent man with mystic eyes, raised his head and spoke.
“We done that for Dillon,” he said.
Amherst’s glance swept the crowded faces. “But Dillon was not killed,” he exclaimed, while the overseer, drawing out his pen-knife, ripped off the cloth and tossed it contemptuously into a heap of cotton—refuse at his feet.
“Might better ha’ been,” came from another hand; and a deep “That’s so” of corroboration ran through the knot of workers.
Amherst felt a touch on his arm, and met Mrs. Westmore’s eyes. “What has happened? What do they mean?” she asked in a startled voice.
“There was an accident here two days ago: a man got caught in the card behind him, and his right hand was badly crushed.”
Mr. Tredegar intervened with his dry note of command. “How serious is the accident? How did it happen?” he enquired.
[ 63 ]
