Hours passed. I was barely sensible of anything that happened beyond the
narrow circle of my own lap, but at one moment I heard the squirling of
a brass band that was going up the street, with the shuffling of an
irregular procession.
"It's the strike," said Mrs. Oliver, running to the window. "There's
Ted, carrying a banner."
A little later I heard the confused noises of a strike meeting, which
was being held on the Green. It was like the croaking of a frog-pond,
with now and then a strident voice (the bricklayer's) crying "Buckle
your belts tighter, and starve rather than give in, boys." Still later I
heard the procession going away, singing with a slashing sound that was
like driving wind and pelting rain:
"_The land, the land, the blessed, blessed land,
Gawd gave the land to the people_."
But nothing awakened baby, and towards three in the afternoon (the idea
that she was really ill having taken complete possession of me) I asked
where I could find the nearest doctor, and being told, I went off in
search of him.
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