Sybil Benjamin Disraeli (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📖

thought that Mowbray would rally. That’s the killing feature of these times, Mrs. Trotman, there’s no rallying in the place.”

“I begin to think it’s the machines,” said Mrs. Trotman.

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Trotman; “it’s the corn laws. The town of Mowbray ought to clothe the world with our resources. Why Shuffle and Screw can turn out forty mile of calico per day; but where’s the returns? That’s the point. As the American gentleman said who left his bill unpaid, ‘Take my breadstuffs and I’ll give you a cheque at sight on the Pennsylvanian Bank.’ ”

“It’s very true,” said Mrs. Trotman. “Who’s there?”

“Nothing in my way?” said a woman with a basket of black cherries with a pair of tin scales thrown upon their top.

“Ah! Mrs. Carey,” said Chaffing Jack, “is that you?”

“My mortal self, Mr. Trotman, tho’ I be sure I feel more like a ghost than flesh and blood.”

“You may well say that Mrs. Carey; you and I have known Mowbray as long I should think as any in this quarter⁠—”

“And never see such times as these Mr. Trotman, nor the like of such. But I always thought it would come to this; everything turned topsy-turvy as it were, the children getting all the wages, and decent folk turned adrift to pick up a living as they could. It’s something of a judgment in my mind, Mr. Trotman.”

“It’s the trade leaving the county, widow, and no mistake.”

“And how shall we bring it back again?” said the widow; “the police ought to interfere.”

“We must have cheap bread,” said Mr. Trotman.

“So they tell me,” said the widow; “but whether bread be cheap or dear don’t much signify, if we have nothing to buy it with. You don’t want anything in my way, neighbour? It’s not very tempting I fear,” said the good widow, in a rather mournful tone: “but a little fresh fruit cools the mouth in this sultry time, and at any rate it takes me into the world. It seems like business, tho’ very hard to turn a penny by; but one’s neighbours are very kind, and a little chat about the dreadful times always puts me in spirits.”

“Well, we will take a pound for the sake of trade, widow,” said Mrs. Trotman.

“And here’s a glass of gin and water, widow,” said Mr. Trotman, “and when Mowbray rallies you shall come and pay for it.”

“Thank you both very kindly,” said the widow, “a good neighbour as our minister says, is the pool of Bethesda; and as you say, Mowbray will rally.”

“I never said so,” exclaimed Chaffing Jack interrupting her. “Don’t go about for to say that I said Mowbray would rally. My words have some weight in this quarter widow; Mowbray rally! Why should it rally? Where’s the elements?”

“Where indeed?” said Devilsdust as he entered the Cat and Fiddle with Dandy Mick, “there is not the spirit of a louse in Mowbray.”

“That’s a true bill,” said Mick.

“Is there another white-livered town in the whole realm where the operatives are all working halftime, and thanking the capitalists for keeping the mills going, and only starving them by inches?” said Devilsdust in a tone of scorn.

“That’s your time of day,” said Mick.

“Very glad to see you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Trotman, “pray be seated. There’s a little baccy left yet in Mowbray, and a glass of twist at your service.”

“Nothing exciseable for me,” said Devilsdust.

“Well it ayn’t exactly the right ticket, Mrs. Trotman, I believe,” said Mick, bowing gallantly to the lady; “but ’pon my soul I am so thirsty, that I’ll take Chaffing Jack at his word;” and so saying Mick and Devilsdust ensconced themselves in the bar, while good-hearted Mrs. Carey, sipped her glass of gin and water, which she frequently protested was a pool of Bethesda.

“Well Jack,” said Devilsdust, “I suppose you have heard the news?”

“If it be anything that has happened at Mowbray, especially in this quarter, I should think I had. Times must be very bad indeed that someone does not drop in to tell me anything that has happened and to ask my advice.”

“It’s nothing to do with Mowbray.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Trotman,” said Mick, “and here’s your very good health.”

“Then I am in the dark,” said Chaffing Jack, replying to the previous observation of Devilsdust, “for I never see a newspaper now except a week old, and that lent by a friend, I who used to take my Sun regular, to say nothing of the Dispatch, and Bell’s Life. Times is changed, Mr. Radley.”

“You speak like a book, Mr. Trotman,” said Mick, “and here’s your very good health. But as for newspapers, I’m all in the dark myself, for the Literary and Scientific is shut up, and no subscribers left, except the honorary ones, and not a journal to be had except the Moral World and that’s gratis.”

“As bad as the Temple,” said Chaffing Jack, “it’s all up with the institutions of the country. And what then is the news?”

“Labour is triumphant in Lancashire,” said Devilsdust with bitter solemnity.

“The deuce it is,” said Chaffing Jack. “What, have they raised wages?”

“No,” said Devilsdust, “but they have stopped the mills.”

“That won’t mend matters much,” said Jack with a puff.

“Won’t it?”

“The working classes will have less to spend than ever.”

“And what will the capitalists have to spend?” said Devilsdust.

“Worse and worse,” said Mr. Trotman, “you will never get institutions like the Temple reopened on this system.”

“Don’t you be afraid, Jack,” said Mick, tossing off his tumbler; “if we only get our rights, won’t we have a blowout!”

“We must have a struggle,” said Devilsdust, “and teach the capitalists on whom they depend, so that in future they are not to have the lion’s share, and then all will be right.”

“A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work,” said Mick; “that’s your time of day.”

“It began at Staleybridge,” said Devilsdust, “and they have stopped them all; and now they have marched into Manchester ten thousand strong. They pelted the police⁠—”

“And cheered the redcoats like blazes,” said Mick.

“The soldiers will fraternise,” said Devilsdust.

“Do what?” said Mrs. Trotman.

“Stick their bayonets into the capitalists who have hired them to