“But what has Horsfall to do with all this?” I asked, very naturally I think.
“He has this to do with it, Ben. Ever since th’ bad times began, Englishmen ha’ been told to stand together shoulder to shoulder agen a common enemy. Th’ poor ha’ borne their sufferings wi’out much murmuring as long as they saw th’ rich suffer wi’ themselves. Patriotism isn’t a rich man’s monopoly. Poor folk love th’ owd country, though aw wonder sometimes what they love it for. But now what do we see? These new machines offer th’ masters th’ chance o’ supplying their customers at a less cost to theirsen than they ha’ done up to now. Aw’ll give yo’ an illustration of what aw mean. A lace frame such as they’re putting up i’ Nottingham costs £120. They say it’ll save the work of four. Th’ master saves in a year more than th’ cost o’ th’ machine. He saves it, but who loses it? Why th’ wage earners to be sure. And that’s what they call standing shoulder to shoulder. Aw call it deserting your comrade and leaving him to shift for his–sen. Th’ ‘Leeds Mercury’ only last week said there were twenty thousand stocking–makers out of employment in Nottingham, and yo’ may judge for yersen what that means.”
“But what can yo’ do, George? Yo’ cannot fight agen th’ law o’ th’ land. Th’ masters ha’ th’ law at their backs—yo’ll nobbut get yersen into trouble. It’s waur nor kickin’ agen th’ pricks. Yo’ surely wi’not ha’ ought to do wi’ machine breaking. That’ll nobbut land thee i’ towzer, an’ happen waur nor towzer.”
“It isn’t towzer ’ll stop me, Ben. Aw’m groping i’ th’ dark just now. Frame breaking and rick burning seems but spiteful work, but it is action, and action of some sort seems called for. If we submit like dumb cattle, our rulers say we are content and have no grievances; if we assemble in great numbers and proclaim our wrongs they hang us for sedition. What can we do, where shall we turn? Aw cannot see daylight which ever way aw turn.”
“Cannot yo’ let things bide, George? Happen things ’ll shape theirsen. It’s little such as us can do to mend things. If tha’ were Lord Dartmouth na’, tha’ might do some good. But aw can see nowt but trouble for thee i’ me’lling i’ this wark, and what hurts thee tha’ knows well will hurt me, George.”
“Aw know that, Ben. And aw’ve more reason nor ever o’ late for keeping out o’ trouble. Is there ought between thee and Mary, Ben?”
“What, our Mary?” I asked, bewildered, somewhat by so sudden a change of subject, and not seeing the working of George’s mind.
“Aye, your Mary,” said George.
“What does ta’ want to know for, George?” I asked; and I tried to ask as though I cared little for the answer, and yet I knew, all of a flash like, what the answer would be, and that somehow, and why I could scarce even myself say to myself, the answer would make me wince.
“Because, George, if ever aw wed, your Mary will be the lass.”