nhesitating
reply.

"For that matter they threaten him more than they do me."

"They warn the master first; but the workman's turn is sure to come,
and he gets it hottest, because they have so many ways of doing him.
Cheetham, he lives miles from here, and rides in across country, and
out again, in daylight. But the days are drawing in, and you have got
to pass through these dark streets, where the Trades have a thousand
friends, and you not one. Don't you make any mistake: you are in their
power; so pray don't copy any hot-headed, wrong-headed gentleman like
Cheetham, but speak them fair. Come to terms--if you can--and let us be
at peace; sweet, balmy peace."

"Peace is a good thing, no doubt," said Henry, "but" (rather bitterly)
"I don't thank Cheetham for letting me run blindfold into trouble, and
me a stranger."

"Oh," said Bayne, "he is no worse than the rest, believe me. What does
any master care for a man's life? Profit and loss go down in figures;
but life--that's a cipher in all their ledgers."

"Oh, come," said Harry, "it is unphilosophical and narrow-minded to
fasten on a class the faults of a few individuals, that form a very
moderate portion of that class."

Bayne seemed staggered by a blow so polysyllabic; and Henry, to finish
him, added, "Where there's a multitude, there's a mixture." Now the
first sentence he had culled from the Edinburgh Review, and the second
he had caught from a fellow-workman's lips in a public-house; and
probably this was the first time the pair of phrases had ever walked out
of any man's mouth arm in arm. He went on to say, "And as for Cheetham,
he is not a bad fellow, take him altogether. But you are a better for
telling me the truth. Forewarned, forearmed."

He went home thoughtful, and not so triumphant and airy as yesterday;
but still not dejected, for his young and manly mind summoned its energy
and spirit to combat this new obstacle, and his wits went to work.

Being unable to sleep for thinking of what he should do he was the first
to reach the works in the morning. He lighted his furnace, and then went
and unlocked the room where he worked as a handle maker, and also as a
cutler. He entered briskly and opened the window. The gray light of the
morning came in, and showed him something on the inside of the door that
was not there when he locked it overnight. It was a very long knife,
broad toward the handle, but keenly pointed, and double-edged. It was
fast in the d