“It’s a great venture,” said Dorothy gravely. “A very great venture. I don’t mean so much for you, you have all life before you, but for Ben, and what hurts Ben will hurt Lucy. You see other people besides you can think of Lucy.” Now there was a piece of malice here, but Dorothy thought she could now cry quits.
“Yes, it’s a venture, Miss Dorothy, a great venture. It is one that perhaps would never have been made if you had never called me ‘Mr. Pinder,’ so don’t throw cold water on our scheme. But it isn’t just that I wanted to talk about. There’s something more.”
“’Pon my word, Tom, you’re worse than the brook. The teachers have come and the teachers have gone, but you go on for ever. But in for a penny, in for a pound. What more is there?”
“Well, Ben and I have talked it over and over. Don’t think me a Pharisee, Miss Dorothy, but we’re going to try to run the mill on new lines.”
“H’m; that sounds like adding venture to venture, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps: you see, Ben and I both belong to the working class.”
Dorothy bent her head in a somewhat hesitating assent. “I suppose so,” she said.
“And we know something of what working folk have to put up with, how hard they have to work, and how little they often get in return.”
“Come to that,” said Dorothy, “I dare say a masters’ lot isn’t quite a bed of roses. You’ll find that out soon enough for yourselves I’m afraid.”
“Granted,” said Tom, ”but fat sorrow’s better than lean; but I don’t mean to be a master.”