It seemed to me that what the nine hundred and ninety-four dupes needed was a new deal.

The thing that would have best suited the circus side of my nature would have been to resign the Boss-ship and get up an insurrection and turn it into a revolution; but I knew that the Jack Cade or the Wat Tyler who tries such a thing without first educating his materials up to revolution grade is almost absolutely certain to get left.

I had never been accustomed to getting left, even if I do say it myself.

Wherefore, the "deal" which had been for some time working into shape in my mind was of a quite different pattern from the Cade-Tyler sort.
So I did not talk blood and insurrection to that man there who sat munching black bread with that abused and mistaught herd of human sheep, but took him aside and talked matter of another sort to him.
After I had finished, I got him to lend me a little ink from his veins; and with this and a sliver I wrote on a piece of bark-- Put him in the Man-factory-- and gave it to him, and said: "Take it to the palace at Camelot and give it into the hands of Amyas le Poulet, whom I call Clarence, and he will understand." "He is a priest, then," said the man, and some of the enthusiasm went out of his face.
"How--a priest?
Didn't I tell you that no chattel of the Church, no bond-slave of pope or bishop can enter my Man-Factory?
Didn't I tell you that _you_ couldn't enter unless your religion, whatever it might be, was your own free property ?" "Marry, it is so, and for that I was glad; wherefore it liked me not, and bred in me a cold doubt, to hear of this priest being there." "But he isn't a priest, I tell you." The man looked far from satisfied.

He said: "He is not a priest, and yet can read ?" "He is not a priest and yet can read--yes, and write, too, for that matter.