When we went back to the works the gate-keeper left in charge said that several of the men had been back, but had gone again, it having been settled that no more work was to be done till the wheel-bands were restored; so the fires were going out, and the smiths, who could have gone on, had to leave their forges.
“Well,” said Uncle Dick, laughing bitterly, as he gave his beard a sharp tug, “I thought that we were masters here.”
“Quite a mistake,” said Uncle Jack; “the men are the masters; and if we do anything that they in their blind ignorance consider opposed to their interests they punish us.”
“Well, you see, sir,” said the gate-keeper, “it’s like this here, sir—work’s quite scarce enough, and the men are afraid, that new steel or new machinery will make it worse.”
“Tell them to take the scales off their eyes, then,” said Uncle Dick. “Oppose machinery, do they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then if someone invented a new kind of grindstone to grind tools and blades in a quarter of the time, what would they do?”
“Smash it, sir, or burn the place it was in,” said the man with a grin.
“Then why don’t they smash up the grindstones they use now? They are machinery.”
“What! Grindstones, sir? Oh, no!”