“I can aye get on with the gaffer,” replied Robertson, “an’ I dinna see what way ither folk canna do the same.”

“That’s a’ richt,” put in old Jamie Lauder, “but a’ men are no’ just prepared to do as ye do,” and there was a hint of something in his voice which the others seemed to understand.

“I ha’e no quarrel,” sulkily replied Robertson, “an’ I dinna see what way I should get into this one.  I can get plenty o’ work, an’ ither folk can get it too, if they like to behave themselves.”

“Ye’re a liar,” roared Tam Tate angrily, his usual hasty temper getting the mastery.  “It’s no’ you that gets the work, it’s Mag!”

The others laughed uproariously, for it was common knowledge that Sanny got his good jobs because of Walker’s intimacy with his wife.

“Ye leave the best man in the house every mornin’ when ye gang oot!” roared another amid coarse laughter, whilst Andrew turned to tackle the next comer.

A few refused to wait, but it was generally known that these were the men whose houses were always open to Walker by day or night.  When they were all gathered, Andrew Marshall stood up, and for the first time in his life spoke at a meeting.

“Weel, men,” he began, “ye a’ ken the position o’ things.  Ye ken as weel as me that I got the sack for gatherin’ for Geordie Sinclair.  Weel, I ha’e been oot o’ work three months; the Block is on against me, an’ it seems I ha’e to starve.  I canna get work onywhere, an’ I stopped ye a’ the day to ask ye to make my quarrel yours, an’ try and put an end to this business.”

That was the whole speech, but its simple sincerity appealed to all, and many expressed approval and determination to stand by Andrew in his fight.

“I think it’s a damn’d shame,” said old Lauder.

“I’ll tell ye what it is,” said Matthew Maitland, “it’s a downricht barefaced murder, an’ I would smash this damn’d cantrip o’ Black Jock’s.  I ken that he’ll get a’ that is said at this meetin’, an’ maybe I’ll get the same dose; but I think it’s aboot time somethin’ was done to put an end to his capers,” and so Matthew floundered on.

“Ay, an’ let us see what can be done for Geordie, too,” put in Peter Pegg, and his long neck seemed to get longer at every syllable, while his big eye made a great attempt to wink and to look backward, as if he expected to see someone coming from behind.  “We a’ ken,” continued Peter, “that Geordie is ready for work noo’, this fower week syne, but Black Jock says he has no places, an’ forby two strangers got jobs just yesterday.”

“I ken for yae thing that there’s fower places staunin’ in Millar’s Level,” said Jamie Lauder, “an’ I’m telt there’s five or six staunin’ in the Black Horse Dook.  It’s a’ a bit of humbug, an’ I think we should try an’ put an end to it.”

“Weel, I think we’re a’ agreed on that,” said Tam Tate.  “Has ony o’ you onything to suggest?”

For a few minutes there was silence, while they sat or stood deep in thought, trying to find a solution.  It was an eerie gathering, with the gray dawn just beginning to break, while on every head the indispensable lamp burned and flickered.  Men expectorated savagely upon the ground, staring hard at the stones at their feet, thinking and wondering how they might serve their comrades.