“They are not common—in the newspapers,” replied the other. “But” (to Bayne), “will you permit me to light these two gaslights for a moment?”
“Well, sir, it is contrary to our rules,—but—”
“All the more obliging of you,” said the visitor, coolly, and lighted them, with his own match, in a twinkling. He then drew out of his waistcoat pocket a double eyeglass, gold-mounted, and examining the ceiling with it, soon directed Henry's attention to two deep dents and a brown splash. “Every one of those marks,” said he, “is a history, and was written by a flying grindstone. Where you see the dents the stone struck the ceiling;” he added very gravely, “and, when it came down again, ask yourself, did it ALWAYS fall right? These histories are written only on the ceiling and the walls. The floor could tell its tales too; but a crushed workman is soon swept off it, and the wheels go on again.”
“That is too true,” said Henry. “And it does a chap's heart good to hear a gentleman like you—”
“I'm not a gentleman. I'm an old Saw.”
“Excuse me, sir, you look like a gentleman, and talk like one.”
“And I try to conduct myself like one: but I AM an old Saw.”
“What! and carry a gold eyeglass?”
“The Trade gave it me. I'm an old Saw.”
“Well, then, all the better, for you can tell me, and please do: have you ever actually known fatal accidents from this cause?”