“Shall you go to the police about this?” I said.
“No, and I’m sure the others will agree with me. We must be our own police, Cob, and take care of ourselves; but I’m afraid we have rough times coming.”
Chapter Nineteen.
Pannell says Nothing.
“Better and better!” cried Uncle Dick, waving a letter over his head one morning after the post had come in. “All we have to do is to work away. Our steel is winning its way more and more in London, and there is already a greater demand than we can supply.”
“It seems funny too,” I said. “I went through Norton’s works yesterday with Mr Tomplin, and saw them making steel, and it seemed almost exactly your way.”
“Yes, Cob,” said Uncle Dick, “almost. It’s that trifling little difference that does it. It is so small that it is almost imperceptible; but still it is enough to make our steel worth half as much again as theirs.”
“You didn’t show them the difference, did you, Cob?” said Uncle Jack, laughing.