"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 L300 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.