Put Yourself in His Place. Charles Reade

went off, and soon returned with Redcar. The man had his coat on, but had not removed his leathern apron.

      Cheetham received him as the representative of the Unions. “Sit down, Redcar, and let us put an end to this little bother. What do you require?”

      “Mr. Little's discharge, sir.”

      “Are you aware he is with me on a month's notice?”

      “They make a point of his leaving the works at once, sir; and I was to beg you to put other hands into his room.”

      “It is taking a great liberty to propose that.”

      “Nay. They only want to be satisfied. He has given a vast o' trouble.”

      “I'll give him a month's warning. If I discharge him on the spot, he can sue me.”

      “That has been thought on. If he sues you, you can talk to the Unions, and they will act with you. But the grinders are not to come in till Little is out.”

      “Well, so be it, then.”

      “And his rooms occupied by Union men?”

      “If I swallow the bolus, I may as well swallow the pills. Anything more?”

      “The grinders are not to lose their time; a day and a half.”

      “What! am I to pay them for not working?”

      “Well, sir, if we had come to you, of course the forgers and handlers would have paid the grinders for lost time; but, as you have come to us, you will have to pay them.”

      Cheetham made a wry face; but acquiesced.

      “And then, sir,” said Redcar, “there's another little matter. The incidental expenses of the strike.”

      “I don't know what you mean.”

      “The expenses incurred by the secretaries, and a little present to another gentleman, who advised us. It comes to thirty pounds altogether.”

      “What!” cried Cheetham, struggling with his rising choler. “You want me to pay men thirty pounds for organizing a strike, that will cost me so dear, and rob me of a whole trade that was worth £300 a year? Why not charge me for the gunpowder you blew up Little with, and spoiled my forge? No, Bayne, no; this is too unjust and too tyrannical. Flesh and blood won't bear it. I'll shut up the works, and go back to my grindstone. Better live on bread and water than live like a slave.”

      Redcar took a written paper out of his pocket. “There are the terms written down,” said he, “if you sign them, the strike ends; if you don't, it continues—till you do.”

      Cheetham writhed under the pressure. Orders were pouring in; trade brisk; hands scarce. Each day would add a further loss of many pounds for wages, and doubtless raise fresh exactions. He gulped down something very like a sob, and both his hand and his voice shook with strong passion as he took the pen. “I'll sign it; but if ever my turn comes, I'll remember this against you. This shows what they really are, Bayne. Oh, if ever you workmen get power, GOD HELP THE WORLD!”

      These words seemed to come in a great prophetic agony out of a bursting heart.

      But the representative of the Unions was neither moved by them nor irritated.

      “All right,” said he, phlegmatically; “the winner takes his bite: the loser gets his bark: that's reason.”

      Henry Little was in his handling-room, working away, with a bright perspective before him, when Bayne knocked at the door, and entered with Redcar. Bayne's face wore an expression so piteous, that Henry divined mischief at once.

      “Little, my poor fellow, it is all over. We are obliged to part with you.”

      “Cheetham has thrown me over?”

      “What could he do? I am to ask you to vacate these rooms, that we may get our half-day out of the grinders.”

      Henry turned pale, but there was no help for it.

      He got up in a very leisurely way; and, while he was putting on his coat, he told Bayne, doggedly, he should expect his month's salary.

      As he was leaving, Redcar spoke to him in rather a sheepish way. “Shake hands, old lad,” said he; “thou knows one or t'other must win; and there's not a grain of spite against thee. It's just a trade matter.”

      Henry stood with his arms akimbo, and looked at Redcar. “I was in hopes,” said he, grinding his teeth, “you were going to ask me to take a turn with you in the yard, man to man. But I can't refuse my hand to one of my own sort that asks it. There 'tis. After all, you deserve to win, for you are true to each other; but a master can't be true to a man, nor to anything on earth, but his pocket.”

      He then strolled out into the yard, with his hands in his pockets, and whistled “The Harmonious Blacksmith” very sick at heart.