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Mr Ambrose met their gazes steadily. Somehow, he managed to twirl his exotic, demon-faced club as if it were nothing but a simple walking stick. Somehow, he managed to make that effortless twirl seem like the most dangerous movement anyone had ever seen. Not even blinking once, he bent his head a fraction of an inch.
‘If I might introduce myself - Rikkard Ambrose, not at your service. You were waiting for me?’ His eyes focused on the man up on the machine, whose mouth was hanging open. ‘I believe you had something to say to me.’
The man’s open mouth moved - but no sound came out. Mr Ambrose started forward, ignoring the mob. It parted for him, lowering torches and axes, some people trying to hide signs behind their backs. Mr Ambrose only stopped when he was standing directly in front of the man on the machine. Somehow, even though on his impromptu pedestal the worker stood far above his employer, it was Mr Ambrose who seemed taller.
‘Tell me what you have to say to me. I’m most interested to hear it.’
Giving a little squeak, the man turned, jumped off the machine and vanished into the maze of mechanics behind him. I could hear the patter of his feet receding into the distance.
Nodding to himself, Mr Ambrose turned to the rest of the crowd.
‘Now - does anybody else have something to say? What is the matter here?’
Some shouts rose again, particularly from the back of the crowd, out of sight of Mr Ambrose.
‘Oppression! Against oppression!’
‘Down with the capitalists!’
‘Justice for-’
Mr Ambrose let the flood build and wash over him. Then, when it had reached its highest point, he stepped forward and plucked a man out of the crowd, hauling him to the front, where everyone could see him.
‘Silence!’
It wasn’t a roar,
not even a shout, but Mr Ambrose’s command had immediate effect. The crowd fell into silence, all staring at their employer and the man he had singled out at his victim. The man himself seemed to wish for the ability to crawl out of his own skin.
‘You. Tell me what seems to be the trouble. Slowly and clearly.’
The man straightened. He didn’t want to be out here, but now that he was, it was clear he meant to die bravely in the face of the capitalist enemy.
‘We want more money!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir,’ he added as an afterthought. His demand was supported by shouts of ‘Yay!’ and ‘Hear, hear!’.
Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘If you want more money, why are you standing around idly? You should be working! You’ll have to work at least two hours longer than usual to get more money out of me, and if you laze about now, you’ll have to do overtime until one in the morning.’
The workers threw each other uncertain glances. Finally, the man facing Mr Ambrose gathered his courage. ‘Err… No, Mr Ambrose, Sir. You don’t understand. We want more money without doing overtime.’
Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Do I understand you correctly? You want more money without working for it?’
Colour was beginning to rise to the man’s cheeks. More people were beginning to lower their signs and hide them away. One man even tried to hide a burning torch behind his back, but stopped with a yelp when his trousers began to smoke.
‘Um… Aye, Sir.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, man, this is a factory, not a charity. In a factory, you work to earn money. That’s what a factory is for.’
‘I know, Sir.’
‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose clapped his hands. ‘Well, then that problem is solved. Back to work, everyone!’
Again, the workers threw each other uncertain glances. Several of them actually turned and started back towards the machines. The voice of the man opposite Mr Ambrose halted them.
‘Stop, everyone! Stop, you bloody buggers! You’re not supposed to be working!’
‘Yes, they are, actually,’ Mr Ambrose contradicted him coolly.
‘No, they aren’t!’ The poor man sounded almost desperate now. ‘This is a strike! A strike for our rights, people, and you’re just going to let him talk you out of it?’
