John Huxford's Hiatus - Page 2

Several causes had led up to this disaster, though Don Diego's
debut as a corkcutter had brought matters to a head. When a
couple of generations back the original Fairbairn had founded the
business, Brisport was a little fishing town with no outlet or
occupation for her superfluous population. Men were glad to have
safe and continuous work upon any terms. All this was altered now,
for the town was expanding into the centre of a large district in
the west, and the demand for labour and its remuneration had
proportionately increased. Again, in the old days, when carriage
was ruinous and communication slow, the vintners of Exeter and of
Barnstaple were glad to buy their corks from their neighbour of
Brisport; but now the large London houses sent down their
travellers, who competed with each other to gain the local custom,
until profits were cut down to the vanishing point. For a long
time the firm had been in a precarious position, but this further
drop in prices settled the matter, and compelled Mr. Charles
Fairbairn, the acting manager, to close his establishment.

It was a murky, foggy Saturday afternoon in November when the hands
were paid for the last time, and the old building was to be finally
abandoned. Mr. Fairbairn, an anxious-faced, sorrow-worn man, stood
on a raised dais by the cashier while he handed the little pile of
hardly-earned shillings and coppers to each successive workman as
the long procession filed past his table. It was usual with the
employes to clatter away the instant that they had been paid, like
so many children let out of school; but to-day they waited,
forming little groups over the great dreary room, and discussing in
subdued voices the misfortune which had come upon their employers,
and the future which awaited themselves. When the last pile of
coins had been handed across the table, and the last name checked
by the cashier, the whole throng faced silently round to the man
who had been their master, and waited expectantly for any words
which he might have to say to them.

Mr. Charles Fairbairn had not expected this, and it embarrassed
him. He had waited as a matter of routine duty until the wages
were paid, but he was a taciturn, slow-witted man, and he had not
foreseen this sudden call upon his oratorical powers. He stroked
his thin cheek nervously with his long white fingers, and looked
down with weak watery eyes at the mosaic of upturned serious faces.

"I am sorry that we have to part, my men," he said at last in a
crackling voice. "It's a bad day for all of us, and for Brisport
too. For three years we have been losing money over the works. We
held on in the hope of a change coming, but matters are going from
bad to worse. There's nothing for it but to