"Order!" cried Mrs. Gorman, thumping the arm of her chair with a large, hard-working fist. "Take your seats, ladies."
A strange thrill passed through the bodies of her companions and communicated itself to the men in the chairs. There was a moment's tense pause, and then the end man, muttering something about "going to see what had happened to poor old Ben Todd," rose slowly and went out. His companions, with heads erect and a look of cold disdain upon their faces, followed him.
It was Mr. Porter's last meeting, but his wife had several more. They lasted, in fact, until the day, a fortnight later, when he came in with flushed face and sparkling eyes to announce that the strike was over and the men victorious.
"Six bob a week more!" he said, with enthusiasm. "You see, I was right to strike, after all."
Mrs. Porter eyed him. "I am out for four bob a week more," she said, calmly.
Her husband swallowed. "You—you don't understand 'ow these things are done," he said, at last. "It takes time. We ought to ne—negotiate."
"All right," said Mrs. Porter, readily. "Seven shillings a week, then."
"Let's say four and have done with it," exclaimed the other, hastily.
And Mrs. Porter said it.