"Na! Na! It's no' your fault. It's just the times. And there 's childer comin'—"
"Is that my fault?"
"Ah, Mister Aleck, be reasonable! We got to live. Down at Richardson's mill they 're gi'en the third raise. And at the United—"
"Now, listen to me, men," he roared like a maddened bull. "You 've got to make a choice. Either get on with what you have, or I 'll close the mill. I swear to my God I 'll close the mill."
"We 've got to live," the men said sullenly. An old workman stepped out.
"Mister Aleck," he pleaded, "I 've worked for your da all my life, and I was a wee nipper when your grandfa'er was here. I mind him well. You 've got neither chick nor child, and if you have n't, the mill goes wi' you—"
Good God! So it did. He had never thought of that.
"—so it is n't as though you wanted the money—"
"I will not!" One part of his brain formulated the reply and his lips uttered it. The other part was busy on this new discovery, that with him the mills died. Of course they did.
"Well, then, be damned to you! Close your mill!"