For the “United Kingdom” Cigarette-machine was not made in this England, where craftsmen starved while Free Traders preached to them!
Turkovitch spoke to the German; queried something.
“Dass ist mir verboten,” said the man. “Es muss genau so gemacht werden.”
“What does he say?” asked Peter.
“He says he cannot do what I ask him. It is forbidden. Never mind, when he goes back to Hamburg, we do it ourselves. They do not know everything, these Germans.”
They passed on; through the drying-rooms; and the cutting-rooms where girls picked-over the dried leaves and “blenders” fed them into presses that forced the thick mass forward to the dropping knife; through the label-printing room; into the main factory again; past the box-making tables where more girls laboured with paste-brush and zinc-board; and the packing tables, piled high with filled boxes waiting their seals; into the stock-room.
“Rather low, aren’t we?” queried Peter, looking at the half-empty shelves.
“Very low, Sir?” said the dispatch-forewoman, busy making up the day’s orders.
“You go on with your vork, Mary,” snapped Turkovitch. The woman went out of the room, leaving them alone.
“Look here, Turkovitch”—Peter’s gray eyes had grown just a shade darker—“you know I won’t stand that sort of thing. I spoke to the girl; and she answered me. You’ve no right to be rude to her.”