He did not take this to heart. It had already become a game to him. He was certain that the employers would finally be forced to come to him, because they needed him and must have him. For “his fingers fly, as if by magic.” And he would simply smile in ironic fashion and pierce the bosses with a look that caused them to shiver in their boots.
“What? You don’t like my ditty?” he would ask. “You’re punishing me for telling the truth, ha? Exploiters! Vampires!”
“You ought to be put into prison, or into the madhouse,” they would reply. “You’re a dangerous character. You’re a mad dog!...”
“Ah, ahem, tra-la!” he would mock, in delight. “But how do you like my work? I’m a fast worker, ha?”
And how this truthful boast cut the bosses!
“May your hands be paralysed!” they would answer. “If your character were only as good as your workmanship, you’d be rolling in money.”
“Working for you people!” he would suddenly revert to his favourite theme. “With a fourteen-hour day at the wages you pay, grass will soon be growing over my head. Exploiters! Vampires! Cannibals!...”
“There he goes again!” they would break in. “March! Off with you. Go shout it from the house-tops!”
“Ah, ahem, tra-la!” he would grunt again. “You don’t like it? Wait! Just wait!...”
At the last words he would point a warning finger at them. Just what they were to wait for he himself did not know, but he had a feeling that something or other was bound to happen that would be not at all to the bosses’ taste.