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ay, divil, all's raight! We've smashed 'em.«
    And there was a run. The waggons stood still; they were now deserted.
    »Joe Scott!« No Joe Scott answered. »Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!« No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern, and looked into the vehicles; there was neither man nor machinery: they were empty and abandoned.
    Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery: he had risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears which to-night had been expected; speculations most important to his interests depended on the results to be wrought by them: where were they?
    The words »we've smashed 'em!« rung in his ears. How did the catastrophe affect him? By the light of the lantern he held, were his features visible, relaxing to a singular smile: the smile the man of determined spirit wears when he reaches a juncture in his life where this determined spirit is to feel a demand on its strength: when the strain is to be made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remained silent and even motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what to say nor what to do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, gazing down and reflecting.
    An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him presently look up; his eye, in the moment, caught the gleam of something white attached to a part of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern, this proved to be a folded paper – a billet. It bore no address without; within was the superscription: –
    »To the Divil of Hollow's-miln.«
    We will not copy the rest of the orthography, which was very peculiar, but translate it into legible English. It ran thus: –
    »Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and children to go home to when they have done this deed. If you get new machines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hear from us again. Beware!«
    »Hear from you again? Yes; I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear from me. I'll speak to you directly: on Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment.«
    Having led the waggons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarm of one by a brief palliative account of what had taken place; to the other he said, »Go into the mill, Sarah – there is the key – and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can: afterwards you will get another lantern and help me to light up the front.«
    Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged out presently with irregular but loud and alarming din: the hurried agitated peal seemed more urgent than if the summons had been steadily given by a practised hand. On that still night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round: the guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clangour; and, declaring that »there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow's-miln,« they called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely had they thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the back of a shaggy pony, ›rode lightly in,‹ followed by an aide-de-camp mounted on a larger steed.
    Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had saddled his hackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servant, lit up his mill; whose wide and long front now glared one great illumination, throwing a sufficient light on the yard to obviate all fear of confusion arising from obscurity. Already a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr. Malone had at length issued from the counting-house, previously taking