“I shall not be told of; for nobody will know but you. I shall only forge at night; and the building is out of the world, and wedged in, out of sight, between two bleak hills. Sir, it is a deserted church.”
“What, forge blades in a church?”
“A deserted church; why not?”
“Little, you are A 1. Go on.”
“I can get the blades ground by a friend at Birmingham; and my mother and I can put them together at home. The complete articles will come to you in parcels of a certain colored paper, invoiced in cipher outside, so that they need not be opened; you can trust the invoice, and dispatch them to your London agent.”
“All right.”
“The steel you must supply me at the current price, and charge it against me.”
“Certainly. But your price per gross? For this work can't be done by time.”
“Of course not.” And Henry named a price per gross at which Cheetham lifted up his hands. “Why, you'll take nine pounds a week at that!”
“Ay, and more,” said Henry, coolly. “But I sha'n't make it. Why, this scheme entails no end of expenses. A house, and stables with back entrance. A swift horse, to gallop to the forge at sunset, and back by noon. A cart to take the things to the railway and back, and to the parcel delivery for you. And, besides that, I must risk my neck, riding over broken ground at night: and working night and day shortens life. You can't reduce these things to Labor and Capital. It's Life, Labor, and Capital.”