"Ay," said he.  "That there strike was
badly managed.  Folk got into the management
of it who were either fools or not true
men.  Yo'll see it'll be different this time."

"But all this time you've not told me what
you're striking for," said Margaret, again.

"Why, yo see, there's five or six masters
who have set themselves again paying the
wages they've been paying these two years
past, and flourishing upon, and getting richer
upon.  And now they come to us, and say
we're to take less.  And we won't.  We'll
just clem to death first; and see who'll
work for 'em then.  They'll have killed
the goose that laid them the golden eggs,
I reckon."

"And so you plan dying, in order to be
revenged upon them!"

"No," said he, "I dunnot.  I just look
forward to the chance of dying at my post
sooner than yield.  That's what folk call
fine and honourable in a soldier, and why
not in a poor weaver-chap?"

"But," said Margaret, "a soldier dies in
the cause of the Nation—in the cause of
others."

He laughed grimly.  "My lass," said he,
"yo're but a young wench, but don't yo
think I can keep three people—that's Bessy,
and Mary, and me—on sixteen shilling a
week?  Dun yo think it's for mysel' I'm
striking work at this time?  It's just as
much in the cause of others as yon soldier,
only, m'appen, the cause he dies for is just
that of somebody he never clapt eyes on,
nor heerd on all his born days, while I
take up John Boucher's cause, as lives next
door but one, wi' a sickly wife, and eight
childer, none on 'em factory age; and I
don't take up his cause only, though he's
a poor good-for-nought, as can only manage
two looms at a time, but I take up th' cause
o' justice.  Why are we to have less wage
now, I ask, than two year ago?"

"Don't ask me," said Margaret; "I  am
very ignorant.  Ask some of your masters.
Surely they will give you a reason for it.  It
is not merely an arbitrary decision of theirs,
come to without reason."

"Yo're just a foreigner, and nothing
more," said he, contemptuously.  "Much
yo know about it.  Ask th' masters!  They'd
tell us to mind our own business, and they'd
mind theirs.  Our business being, yo understand,
to take the bated wage, and be thankful;
and their business to bate us down to
clemming point, to swell their profits.  That's
what it is."

"But," said Margaret, determined not to
give way, although she saw she was irritating
him, "the state of trade may be such as not
to enable them to give you the same
remuneration."

"State o' trade!  That's just a piece o'
masters' humbug.  It is rate o' wages I was
talking of.  Th' masters keep th' state o'
trade in their own hands; and just walk it
forward like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten
naughty children with into being good.  I'll
tell yo it's their part,—their cue, as some
folks call it,—to beat us down, to swell their
fortunes; and it's ours to stand up and
fight hard,—not for ourselves alone, but for
them round about us for justice and fair
play.  We help to make their profits, and
we ought to help spend 'em.  It's not that
we want their brass so much this time, as
we've done many a time afore.  We'n getten
money laid by; and we're resolved to stand
and fall together; not a man on us will go in
for less wage than th' Union says is our due.
So I say, 'hooray' for the strike, and let
Thornton, and Slickson, and Hamper, and
their set look to it!"

"Thornton!" said Margaret.  "Mr. Thornton
of Marlborough Street?"

"Aye!  Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as
we call him."

"He is one of the masters you are striving
with, is he not?  What sort of a master
is he?"

"Did yo ever see a bulldog?  Set a bulldog
on hind legs, and dress him up in coat
and breeches, and yo 'n just getten John
Thornton."

"Nay," said Margaret, laughing, "I deny
that.  Mr. Thornton is plain enough, but
he's not like a bulldog, with its short broad
nose, and snarling upper lip."

"No! not in look, I grant yo. But let
John Thornton get hold on a notion, and he'll
stick to it like a bulldog; yo might pull him
away wi' a pitchfork ere he 'd leave go.
He's worth fighting wi', is John Thornton.
As for Slickson, I take it, some o' these days
he'll wheedle his men back wi' fair promises;
that they'll just get cheated out of as soon as
they're in his power again.  He'll work his
fines well out on 'em, I'll warrant.  He's as
slippery as an eel, he is.  He's like a cat,—
as sleek, and cunning, and fierce.  It'll never
be an honest up and down fight wi' him, as
it will be wi' Thornton.  Thornton is as dour
as a door-nail; an obstinate chap, every
inch on him,—th' oud bulldog!"

"Poor Bessy!" said Margaret, turning
round to her.  "You sigh over it all.  You
don't like struggling and fighting as your
father does, do you?"

"No!" said she, heavily.  "I'm sick on
it.  I could have wished to have had other
talk about me in my latter days, than just
the clashing and clanging and clattering
that has wearied a' my life long, about work
and wages, and masters, and hands, and
knobsticks."

"Pooh, wench!  latter days be farred!
Thou 'rt looking a sight better already for a
little stir and change.  Beside, I shall be a
deal here to make it more lively for thee."

"Tobacco-smoke chokes me!" said she,
querulously.

"Then I'll never smoke no more i' th'
house!" he replied, tenderly.  "But why