“We put up a bottle somewhere, and then we dub at it.”
“Is that all you do?”
“On Thursdays our club meets. Then we have singing.”
“And do you read at all?”
“No, sir, I can’t say as I ever do, sir. I don’t want much reading after the shutters are up.”
“I should have thought that you’d have been a great reader. Don’t you find your work very interesting?”
“Oh. It’s all right, sir. Like any other work.”
“Yes. But. Take these woollen things, for instance. Don’t you think of all the hands it has passed through? Don’t you think of the sheep up on the hills, and the shepherds piping to them, and the great lonely downs, eh, with nothing but sheep-bells and the wind?”
“No, sir. Not in that light exactly.”
“And then, don’t you think of the brooks where they wash and shear? And then the great combs and looms, with so many people combing and weaving and spinning, all helping to make this?” He picked up the warm woollen shirt, and handled it. “And don’t you think of the people who will wear these things?”