JOE. Think of it! Wasn't I one of them? One of the thousands who met on Ardwick Green, and the hundreds that met the Yeomanry at Stockport, and the tens that struggled through to Macclesfield?
MATTHEW (scornfully). Yes. You got as far as Macclesfield. Do you think they'll let you get to London to tell them? Do you think they want to know? And if they do get there, and tell them, the manufacturers will be there first telling them another tale, and whose tale do you think they'll believe? Yours or theirs? Going to London's a fool's errand. They do know and they don't care. They're South, we're North, and what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve at. You made your beds, when you let Arkwright set up his machinery, and you've to lie on them.
MARTIN (rising dejectedly). God help the poor!
HENRI (turning fiercely on him). God helps those that help themselves. I'll hear you weavers sing the Marseillaise before I die.
JOE (to Matthew). You're against violence and you're against politics. What do you favour?
MATTHEW (grimly). I favour work and I favour my loom, and if you've said your say I'll be getting back to it.
JOE. Aye, that's the old story. Work, and every man for himself and his hand against his neighbour, while the masters join to keep us down.
MATTHEW. I've something else to do than falling out with my bread and cheese. I'm not a politician, I'm a weaver, and I've not got time for two jobs. I'm not a Republican neither. I throw the shuttle and I don't throw stones.
HENRI. Coward. It is because you do not dare.
MATTHEW (contemptuously). It's well for you you're French and it's known you'd break if an Englishman touched you with his hand.