They were ready to complain, but not to move a finger in self-defense.

Their fathers had been ground out young, and why not they?
Indifferent to life, health, and happiness, they could nevertheless be inflamed about sixpence a week.

In other words, the money-price of their labor was every thing to them, the blood-price nothing.
Henry found this out, and it gave him a glimpse into the mind of Amboyne.
He felt quite confused, and began to waver between hate, contempt, and pity.

Was it really these poor doomed wretches who had robbed him of his livelihood?
Could men so miscalculate the size of things, as to strike because an inoffensive individual was making complete caring-tools all by himself, and yet not strike, nor even stipulate for fans, to carry disease and death away from their own vitals?
Why it seemed wasting hate, to bestow it on these blind idiots.
He went on to the wet-grinders, and he found their trade much healthier than dry-grinding: yet there were drawbacks.

They suffered from the grit whenever a new stone was hung and raced.