HORNIG
No fear of you for that. You know before the doctor when death's on the way to knock at a weaver's door.
WIEGAND
[Attempting to laugh, suddenly furious.] And you know better'n the police where the thieves are among the weavers, that keep back two or three bobbins full every week. It's rags you ask for but you don't say No, if there's a little yarn among them.
HORNIG
An' your corn grows in the churchyard. The more that are bedded on the sawdust, the better for you. When you see the rows o' little children's graves, you pats yourself on the belly and says you: This has been a good year; the little brats have fallen like cockchafers off the trees. I can allow myself a quart extra in the week again.
WIEGAND
And supposin' this is all true, it still don't make me a receiver of stolen goods.
HORNIG
No; perhaps the worst you do is to send in an account twice to the rich fustian manufacturers, or to help yourself to a plank or two at Dreissiger's when there's building goin' on and the moon happens not to be shinin'.