‘It's decrees, thaa knows, lad, it's decrees,’ said Amos, unshaken by the argument of his friend.
‘Then there's summat wrang with th' decrees, that's all, Amos. There's been a mistak' somewhere.’
‘Hooist, lad! hooist! durnd talk like that. Woe to th' mon that strives wi' his Maker.’
‘If thi Maker's th' mon thaa maks Him aat to be, I'm noan partic'lar abaat oather His woes or His blessin's.’
‘No more am I,’ cried Dan, as he stood up and stretched himself with a yawn. ‘We mud as well mak' most o' life if we're booked for t'other shop, though mine's a warm un i' this world, as yo' all know.’
‘It is not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy,’ said Amos, in solemn tones.
And the whistle sounded for the renewal of work, and the men dispersed.
The clock in the factory yard pointed to the hour of ten, and four hundred toilers were sweating out their lives in one of Manufacture's minting-shops of wealth. Overhead the shafting ran in rapid revolutions, communicating its power and speed by lengths of swaying, sagging belts to the machinery that stood so closely packed on the vibrating floors, and between which passed, and behind which stood, the operatives, unconscious of danger, and with scarce a care than how to keep pace with the speed of steam and the flying hours. Every eye was strained, and every nerve as highly strung as the gearing of the revolving wheels, the keen glances of the overlookers seeing to it that none paused until the hour of release.