A bell rang and the people streamed away—men and women—in a little thin trickle, like beads irregularly scattered on a thread. Here and there the line was brightened by a flash of colour from a bright sun bonnet, or gown. The watcher descended now, gained the road below, then climbed the other side to the Mill.
He was a middle-aged, good-looking man, with a round face, hair turning grey, and black, rather shifty eyes. Humour homed on his countenance and merriment and cunning shared his expression. He carried a large, brown paper bundle and wore a new, homespun suit, a paper collar, a sky-blue tie and a cloth cap.
As he passed Mr. Trood’s house at the entrance of the works and proceeded towards them, looking round about him, there emerged the master, and the new-comer guessed that he was so.
It was not strange to see a wandering paper maker. The body of these men is small; they know their own value and, being always precious, can count upon making a change with safety. They are sought and a first rate workman need be in no fear of not winning a welcome where hand paper continues to be manufactured.
“A vatman, if so be you’re wanting a good one.”
“I’m always wanting a good vatman. We’ve got three of the best in England here.”
“Take me and you’ll have four,” said the man.
“Tired of a town. I come from the midlands; but I want to be in the country, and knowing about Dene Works, I thought I’d come down and offer.”
They were standing opposite Mr. Trood’s house at the main gate and the master turned and knocked at the door. Trood himself appeared.
“By name, Philander Knox,” explained the stranger. “I must tell you,” he added, “that I’ve got rather a queer stroke at the vat. People laugh to see me with a mould; but they don’t laugh when they see the paper.”
“We shan’t quarrel with your stroke if we don’t with your sheet,” said Trood. “I’m for a nice, easy stroke myself, because it goes farther and faster; but we all know no two men have the same stroke. We’ve got a man now with a stroke like a cow with a musket; but his paper’s all right.”
“You can come for a week on trial,” declared Trenchard. “Begin to-morrow if you’re agreeable to terms. We’re very busy. This is Mr. Trood, our foreman.”