"How can I refuse you that?" said Henry, hanging his head. "You have been a good friend to me. But, sir, mark my words, this place will be my destruction. Well, when am I to begin work?"
"To-morrow, at ten."
"So be it," said Henry, wearily, then left the works and went home; but, as he went, he said to himself. "It is not my doing." And his double-faced heart glowed and exulted secretly.
He told his mother how the Trades had beaten him, and he was out of work.
Mrs. Little consoled him hypocritically. She was delighted. Then he told her his departure had been delayed by Dr. Amboyne: that made her look a little anxious.
"One question, dear: now the Union has beaten you, they will not be so spiteful, will they?"
"Oh, no. That is all over. The conquerors can afford to be good-natured. Confound them!"
"Then that is all I care about. Then do not leave Hillsborough.
Why should you? Wait here patiently. You do not know what may turn up."
"What, mother, do YOU want to stay here now?" said Henry, opening his eyes with astonishment.
"Wherever my son is happy and safe from harm, there I wish to stay--of course."
Next morning Henry called on Dr. Amboyne, and found him in his study, teaching what looked a boy of sixteen, but was twenty-two, to read monosyllables. On Little's entrance the pupil retired front his uphill work, and glowered with vacillating eyes. The lad had a fair feminine face, with three ill things in it: a want, a wildness, and a weakness. To be sure Henry saw it at a disadvantage: for vivid intelligence would come now and then across this mild, wild, vacant face, like the breeze that sweeps a farm-yard pond.
"Good-morning, Little. This is your fellow-workman."
"He does not look up to much," said Henry, with all a workman's bluntness.
"What, you have found him out! Never mind; he can beat the town at one or two things, and it is for these we will use him. Some call him an idiot. The expression is neat and vigorous, but not precise; so I have christened him the Anomaly. Anomaly, this is Mr. Little; go and shake hands with him, and admire him."
The Anomaly went directly, and gazed into Little's face for some time.
He then made his report. "He is beautiful and black."
"I've seen him blacker. Now leave off admiring him, and look at these pictures while I prose. Two thousand philosophers are writing us dead with 'Labor and Capital.' But I vary the bore. 'Life, Labor, and Capital,' is my chant: and, whereas Life has hitherto been banished from the discussion, I put Life in its true place, at the head of the trio. (And Life I divide into long Life, and happy Life.) The subject is too vast to be dealt with all at once; but I'll give you a peep of it. The rustic laborer in the South sells his labor for too little money to support life comfortably. That is a foul wrong. The rustic laborer in the North has small wages, compared with a pitman, or a cutler; but he has enough for health, and he lives longer and more happily than either the pitman or the cutler; so that account is square, in my view of things. But now dive into the Hillsborough trades, and you will find this just balance of Life, Labor, and Capital regarded in some, but defied in others: a forger is paid as much or more than a dry-grinder, though forging is a hard but tolerably healthy trade, and dry-grinding means an early death after fifteen years of disease and misery. The file-cutters are even more killed and less paid. What is to be done then? Raise the wages of the more homicidal trades! But this could only be done by all the Unions acting in concert. Now the rival philosophers, who direct the Unions, are all against Democritus--that's myself; they set no value on life. And indeed the most intelligent one, Grotait, smiles blandly on Death, and would grind his scythe for him--AT THE STATEMENT PRICE--because that scythe thins the labor market, and so helps keep up prices."
"Then what can we do? I'm a proof one can't fight the Unions."
"Do? Why, lay hold of the stick at the other end. Let Pseudo-
Philosophy set the means above the end, and fix its shortsighted eyes on Labor and Capital, omitting Life. (What does it profit a file-cutter if he gains his master's whole capital and loses his own life?) But you and I, Mr. Little, are true philosophers and the work we are about to enter on is--saving cutlers' lives."
"I'd rather help take them."
"Of course; and that is why I made the pounds guineas."
"All right, sir," said Henry, coloring. "I don't expect to get six guineas a week for whistling my own tune. How are we to do the job?"
"By putting our heads together. You have, on the side of your temple, a protuberance, which I have noticed in the crania of inventors. So I want you to go round the works, and observe for yourself how Life is thrown gayly away, in a moment, by needless accident, and painfully gnawed away by steel-dust, stone grit, sulphuret of lead, etc.; and then cudgel your brain for remedies."
"Sir," said Henry, "I am afraid I shall not earn my money. My heart is not in the job."
"Revenge is what you would like to be at, not Philanthropy--eh?"
"Ay, doctor." And his black eye flashed fire.
"Well, well, that is natural. Humor my crotchet just now, and perhaps I may humor yours a month or two hence. I think I could lay my hand on the fellow who blew you up."
"What, sir! Ah! tell me that, and I'll do as much philanthropy as you like--after--"
"After you have punched your fellow-creature's head."
"But it is impossible, sir. How can you know? These acts are kept as secret as the grave."
"And how often has the grave revealed its secrets to observant men?
Dr. Donne sauntered about among graves, and saw a sexton turn up a skull. He examined it, found a nail in it, identified the skull, and had the murderess hung. She was safe from the sexton and the rest of the parish, but not from a stray observer. Well, the day you were blown up, I observed something, and arrived at a conclusion, by my art."
"What, physic?"