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‘Much the more sensible option,’ Mr Ambrose pointed out, his dark gaze sweeping over the hesitant crowd. His fingers flexed around the cudgel. ‘You don’t want me to have to do more than talk.’
‘There! There, now ’e’s threatening you! Are you gonna put up with that?’
Mr Ambrose’s dark eyes returned to the man again, who had one trembling hand raised, pointing at him accusingly.
‘That,’ he said, his voice as cool as the winter night before a blizzard, ‘was no threat. Trust me, when I threaten you, you’ll know for certain.’
‘We ain’t gonna put up with your threats, you bloody bugger! We’re free men, and we ’ave rights.’
‘True. You have the right to work, and the right to get fired if you don’t.’
‘There!’ The pointing hand jabbed at Mr Ambrose, as if pointing out the devil. ‘There! That’s what we’re fighting against! Capitalism! Exploitation! We ’ave a right to fair wages! We have a right to shorter work hours! We have a right to protection from…’
It went on a while, like that. The list of rights workers had was long, apparently. Most of these rights I found very interesting, particularly because Mr Ambrose had shown no signs of extending these rights to me, or any of the other staff in his office. I wondered whether it might not be a good idea to join the strikers.
Then I looked at Mr Ambrose’s face.
Hm.
Probably not.
‘…we have a right to grngg-’
The man’s long list cut off in a garbled choke when Mr Ambrose’s hand shot forward and grabbed him by the collar. The other workers, instead of coming to their companion’s aid, retreated a step or two.
‘Listen to me very carefully,’ Mr Ambrose said. His voice was low, but perfectly audible in the entire hall. ‘I wish for you to go back to work. If you don’t, well…’
Bending forward, he whispered something into the man’s ear. The man’s face paled, and his knees nearly buckled under him.
Pulling the fellow a little closer towards him, Mr Ambrose pierced him with lances of ice shooting out of those dark eyes of his. ‘That was a threat.’
The man nodded jerkily. ‘Yes, Sir! I understand, Sir.’
‘I want you to consider my next question very carefully, man. Think about what I just told you before you answer, and take a good look at me.’ The lances of ice bored deeper. ‘Now, the question is this: do you really expect to get more money out of me by stopping your work than by going on?’
‘Err… no, Sir.’
‘Ah. You’re reasonably intelligent, after all.’
‘Um… thank you, Sir.’
Letting go of the man’s collar, Mr Ambrose wiped his hands on his trousers. He didn’t take his eyes off the man. ‘And since you are reasonably intelligent, can you tell me what you should do now?’
‘Um… get back to work, Sir?’
‘How perceptive. I’ll leave you to it, then.’ Swivelling around, he marched back towards the exit, parting the crowd of workers before him like Moses had parted the Red Sea - only that the fish in the Red Sea probably hadn’t been so terrified of Moses.
I was just as flattened as the workers. He was past me before I realized.
‘Come, Mr Linton!’ came his cool command from outside, and I hurried after him.
‘How…’ I paused, fighting to catch my breath. He was marching fast, blast him! Why did he have to have such long legs? ‘How the hell did you do that?’
He shrugged. ‘It was my warm and winning personality, Mr Linton. Couldn’t you tell?’
*~*~**~*~*
Over the following weeks, my dear employer, master and general tyrant took me with him on trips to a coal mine, a bank and several other business where he busied himself bullying and browbeating people. It didn’t take long for me to realize what his strategy was: apparently, he reasoned that if I saw him being nasty to enough people, I would get so disgusted with him that I’d leave my job of my own free will.
