“But they are, man, I tell you,” cried Uncle Dick angrily. “The first men who ground knives or shears rubbed, them on a rough piece of stone; then I dare say a cleverer man found it was handier to rub the blade with the stone instead of the stone with the blade; and then someone invented the round grindstone which turned and ground whatever was held against it.”
“Come along,” said Uncle Jack sharply. “You are wasting breath. They will not believe till they find all this out for themselves.”
We went in and had a good look round the place, but there was not a band to be found. There had been no cutting—every one had been carried away, leaving no trace behind; and I wanted a good deal of comforting to make me satisfied that it was not my fault.
But my uncles were very kind to me, and told me at once that I was to say no more, only to be thankful that I had not drunk more heartily of the water, and been made ill as the dog, who, in spite of seeming better, kept having what I may call relapses, and lying down anywhere to have a fresh sleep.
The look round produced no result, and the day was spent in the silent works writing letters, book-keeping, and talking rather despondently about the future.
It seemed so strange to me as I went about. No roaring fires and puffing bellows; no clink of hammer or anvil, and no churr and screech of steel being held against the revolving stones. There was no buzz of voices or shouting from end to end of the workshop, and instead of great volumes of smoke rolling out of the top of the tall chimney-shaft, a little faint grey cloud slowly curled away into the air.
Then there was the great wheel. The dam was full and overflowing, but the wheel was still; and when I looked in, the water trickled and plashed down into the gloomy chamber with its mossy, slimy stone sides, while the light shone in at the opening, and seemed to make bright bands across the darkness before it played upon the slightly agitated waters.
Then a long discussion took place, in which it was asked whether it would be wise to buy new bands, and to ask the men to come back and work; but opinion was against this.
“No,” said Uncle Jack. “I’m for being as obstinate as they are. We’ve had our bands injured once; now let’s show them that if they can afford to wait so can we. We can’t, neither can they, but there must be a little obstinacy practised, and perhaps it will bring them to their senses.”
“And make them bring back our bands?” I ventured to say.