“Nonsense,” said Mr Trotman; “it’s the corn laws. The town of Mowbray ought to clothe the world with our resources. Why Shuffle and Screw can turn out forty mile of calico per day; but where’s the returns? That’s the point. As the American gentleman said who left his bill unpaid, ‘Take my breadstuffs and I’ll give you a cheque at sight on the Pennsylvanian Bank.’”
“It’s very true,” said Mrs Trotman. “Who’s there?”
“Nothing in my way?” said a woman with a basket of black cherries with a pair of tin scales thrown upon their top.
“Ah! Mrs Carey,” said Chaffing Jack, “is that you?”
“My mortal self, Mr Trotman, tho’ I be sure I feel more like a ghost than flesh and blood.”
“You may well say that Mrs Carey; you and I have known Mowbray as long I should think as any in this quarter—”
“And never see such times as these Mr Trotman, nor the like of such. But I always thought it would come to this; everything turned topsy-turvy as it were, the children getting all the wages, and decent folk turned adrift to pick up a living as they could. It’s something of a judgment in my mind, Mr Trotman.”
“It’s the trade leaving the county, widow, and no mistake.”
“And how shall we bring it back again?” said the widow; “the police ought to interfere.”
“We must have cheap bread,” said Mr Trotman.