Mr. G. What does this grinder—Cheetham—think?
Mr. L. You might as well ask what the grindstone thinks.
Mr. G. Well, what does the grinder say, then?
Mr. L. Says he’d rather run the old stone out than lose a forenoon.
Mr. G. Well, sir, it is his business.
Mr. L. It may be a man’s business to hang himself; but it is the bystanders’ to hinder him.
Mr. G. You mistake me. I mean that the grinder is the only man who knows whether a stone is safe.
Mr. L. But this grinder does not pretend his stone is safe; all he says is, safe or not, he’ll run it. So now the question is, will you pay four shillings yourself for this blockhead’s loss of time in hanging and racing a new stone? Your Union can find money. Why grudge it when there’s life to be saved, perhaps, and ten times cheaper than you pay for blood?
Mr. G. Young man, did you come here to insult us with these worn-out slanders?
Mr. L. No; but I came to see whether you secretaries, who can find pounds to assassinate men and blow up women and children with gunpowder, can find shillings to secure the life of one of your own members.