“My name is Mark,” said Johann; “I am a member of the Socialist League, and I thought you might like to come to one of our meetings.”
The other became faintly interested.
“I hold with you,” he said, speaking in the coarse dialect of his class. “I hold with you; but I don’t care about coming to meetings. They aren’t much in my line.”
“But why not? How can we succeed unless the working classes will rally round us?”
“Oh, that’s all right. We’ll rally right enough as soon as you make it worth our while. Show us something to go for, that’s all.”
“But we want to be organised first. Why should not you give your time to the work, instead of drinking about in places like that?”
He pointed to the tavern. The man looked slightly ashamed.
“Look here, it’s no good preaching,” he muttered. “It’s all very well for you fellows, but curse me if I see any good in making a fuss. I live a hard life, and it isn’t much good if I can’t go on the spree sometimes. All a poor man has got is the beer. I dare say if I was the King and lived in a palace, with nothing to do but enjoy myself, I should find it easy enough to keep sober.”
“What do you work at?” asked Johann.
“I’m a potter,” was the answer; “I get my eighteen marks a-week, and I get as much enjoyment out of it as I can. It isn’t as if I had any fear of growing old. The potters never live beyond fifty.”