“Move number one,” said Richard, lifting the heavy cross-piece into its place and fastening it with a wooden pin.  “Now I must go and prop up Mr. Slocum.”

XVI

There is no solitude which comes so near being tangible as that of a vast empty workshop, crowded a moment since.  The busy, intense life that has gone from it mysteriously leaves behind enough of itself to make the stillness poignant.  One might imagine the invisible ghost of doomed Toil wandering from bench to bench, and noiselessly fingering the dropped tools, still warm from the workman’s palm.  Perhaps this impalpable presence is the artisan’s anxious thought, stolen back to brood over the uncompleted task.

Though Mr. Slocum had spoken lightly of Slocum’s Yard with only one workman in it, when he came to contemplate the actual fact he was struck by the pathos of it, and the resolution with which he awoke that morning began to desert him.

“The worst is over,” exclaimed Richard, joining his two friends on the veranda, “and everything went smoother than I expected.”

“Everything went, sure enough,” said Mr. Slocum, gloomily; “they all went,—­old Giles, and Lumley, and everybody.”

“We somewhat expected that, you know.”

“Yes, I expected it, and wasn’t prepared for it.”

“It was very bad,” said Richard, shaking his head.

The desertion of Giles and his superannuated mates especially touched Mr. Slocum.

“Bad is no word; it was damnable.”

“Oh, papa!”

“Pardon me, dear; I couldn’t help it.  When a man’s pensioners throw him over, he must be pretty far gone!”

“The undertow was too strong for them, sir, and they were swept away with the rest.  And they all but promised to stay.  They will be the very first to come back.”

“Of course we shall have to take the old fellows on again,” said Mr. Slocum, relenting characteristically.

“Never!” cried Richard.

“I wish I had some of your grit.”

“I have none to spare.  To tell the truth, when I stood up there to speak, with every eye working on me, like a half-inch drill, I would have sold myself at a low figure.”

“But you were a perfect what’s-his-name,—­Demosthenes,” said Mr. Slocum, with a faint smile.  “We could hear you.”

“I don’t believe Demosthenes ever moved an audience as I did mine!” cried Richard gaily.  “If his orations produced a like effect, I am certain that the Grecian lecture-bureau never sent him twice to the same place.”

“I don’t think, Richard, I would engage you over again.”

“I am sure Richard spoke very well,” interrupted Margaret.  “His speech was short”—­

“Say shortened, Margaret, for I hadn’t got through when they left.”

“No, I will not jest about it.  It is too serious for jesting.  What is to become of the families of all these men suddenly thrown out of employment?”