“All on you, o’ course,” said Sim. “You keep a good heart, lad, and all will be as raight as raight.”
“But that would be coming it strange and strong, man,” said the first speaker.
“Strong diseases want strong doses, lad,” said Sim, winking. “But don’t you wherrit yoursen. There’s them in the Brotherhood as is looking after your interests, and we shall all come off wi’ flying colours.”
“I dessay we shall,” said the man, in a discontented tone; “but I want to hear them theer furnaces a-roaring agen, and the firemen’s shovels rattling in the coals, and the brass a-chinking in the box o’ pay nights. Dal the strike, I say.”
“But it aint a strike now,” said Sim, didactically. “Don’t you see, it’s a lock-out.”
“It’s all the same,” said another, sulkily. “Theer aint no brass to tak’, and the missus and the bairns is pined to dead wi’ hunger, and starved to dead for want of a bit o’ fire.”
“But you get the society money,” said Sim, indignantly.
“Yah! what’s that to a man in full fettle! Just pays for bread, and you can’t buy a decent weigh o’ meat for fear o’ waring it all at once.”
“Yes,” said another; “it’s like club money when a man’s sick and can’t wuck.”
“Raight enew, then,” said another; “bud a man wants wuck as well as something to yeat. It’s strange, coarse weather for us as far as yeating and drinking goes. Why, my bairns heven’t hed a bit of bootther sin’ the strike begun.”