They fell in behind the cart. All at once a stormy muttering rose and a low confused roar. About the cobbled space where they unloaded the pack-horses there was a sudden movement of men, not after the cart, but towards the “Fullers’ Arms.” Mish Murgatroyd’s tall figure headed it. James Eastwood saw whither they were bound, and he began to run by back ways and short cuts up the Fullergate to Monjoy’s house.
He burst into the room where Monjoy sat gazing spiritlessly at his empty hearth.
“Be quick, without ye want Ellah done for,” he said.
“What’s that?” Monjoy asked, turning a haggard face.
“Rouse ye; they’re for Ellah now, Mish and a dozen rough ’uns.”
He threw him his cap and began to bundle him about, and Monjoy roused a little from his profound depression. In the Fullergate they broke into a run, and in three minutes they were at the inn. Half-way up the back stairs they found the landlord huddled against the handrail, white-faced, fear-ridden, and listening. They sprang past him, and reached the door of the loom-loft; a low hum of voices sounded inside it. It was locked, and Monjoy struck the heavy door with his fist. “Open!” he cried; and the sound of voices ceased.
The bolt was shot back, and the two men entered.
The heavy loom-frame filled the greater part of the room, and about it stood a dozen--a score--it was not easy to tell how many men. Immediately Murgatroyd cried in a high voice, “Ye’ve come, but ye’ll mind that that were sattled at th’ Slack!” In his hand he held a clasp-knife.
Swiftly Monjoy’s eyes sought Ellah. He lay, a motionless heap, in one corner. He was dressed in his shirt only, and he was blackened from head to foot. Monjoy strode past the loom-seat and turned Ellah’s face up; it was of the colour of a bruised and rotten plum, and Monjoy drew in a long sibilant breath between his teeth.
Murgatroyd had given a quick glance about him; a nod or two backed him up, and he stood before Monjoy.
“Keep ye to your business, Arthur,” he said, truculently. “All were sattled. Ye needn’t look at th’ knife--nobody’s been cutten yet; ’tis us tak’s ho’d now. We foun’ him all black like that; we’ve naughbut gotten out o’ him how mich he got for th’ job, and it were a hunderd pound. Now _we_’ve a bit o’ business.... Where were we, lads?”
