Andrew Marshall had never been allowed to forget his action in defying
Walker; everywhere he went it was the same story--no work for him. The
"Block" system among the managers was in good working order, and could
easily starve a man into docility. Andrew became more desperate as time
passed, and he knew that he and his wife were nearing the end of their
small savings. He returned home one evening from his usual fruitless
search for employment, and threw himself into the arm-chair by the
fireside.
"No work yet, Andra?" asked Katie.
"Nane," was the gloomy response.
"We have no' very mony shillin's left noo, Andra. I dinna ken what we'll
do."
Savage, revengeful feelings surged through Andrew, and found vent in a
volley of oaths which terrified his wife.
"Dinna talk like that, Andra," she pleaded. "It's no' canny, an' forby,
the Lord disna like ye to do it."
"If the Lord cared He could take Black Jock by the scruff o' the neck
an' fling him into hell oot o' the road. It's Black Jock that's at the
bottom o' this, an' I could twist his dirty neck for him."
"Weel, Andra, it's the Lord's doin', an' maybe things'll soon men'."
"If it's the Lord's doin', I dinna think muckle o' His conduct then,"
and Andrew lapsed into sullen silence.
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