"It soon takes hold of boys," said he.

"I've got what I shall never get shut on." Another, who looked ill, but not dying, received Henry's sympathy with a terrible apathy.

"I'm twenty-eight," said he; "and a fork-grinder is an old cock at thirty.

I must look to drop off my perch in a year or two, like the rest." Only one, of all these victims, seemed to trouble his head about whether death and disease could be averted.

This one complained that some employers provided fans to drive the dust from the grinder, but Cheetham would not go to the expense.
The rest that Henry spoke to accepted their fate doggedly.