"Yes—unfortunately," with a troubled smile.
"John, what do you mean?"
"I mean, that to stand upright while one's neighbours are falling on all sides is a most trying position. Misfortune makes people unjust. The other day at the sessions I got cold looks enough from my brother magistrates—looks that would have set my blood boiling twenty years ago. And—you saw in the Norton Bury Mercury that article about 'grasping plebeian millionaires'—'wool-spinners, spinning out of their country's vitals.' That's meant for me, Phineas. Don't look incredulous. Yes—for me."
"How disgraceful!"
"Perhaps so—but to them more than to me. I feel sorry, because of the harm it may do me—especially among working people, who know nothing but what they hear, and believe everything that is told them. They see I thrive and others fail—that my mills are the only cloth mills in full work, and I have more hands than I can employ. Every week I am obliged to send new-comers away. Then they raise the old cry—that my machinery has ruined labour. So, you see, for all that Guy says about our prosperity, his father does not sleep exactly upon a bed of roses."
"It is wicked—atrocious!"
"Not at all. Only natural—the penalty one has to pay for success. It will die out most likely; meantime, we will mind it as little as we can."
"But are you safe?—your life—" For a sudden fear crossed me—a fear not unwarranted by more than one event of this year—this terrible 1825.
"Safe?—Yes—" and his eyes were lifted, "I believe my life is safe—if I have work to do. Still, for others' sake, I have carried this month past whenever I go to and from the Coltham bank, besides my cash-box—this."
He showed me, peering out of his breast-pocket, a small pistol.