een the people at play for weeks together, and so clammed
that I never tasted nothing but a potatoe and a little salt for more
than a fortnight. Talk of tommy, that was hard fare, but we were holding
out for our rights, and that's sauce for any gander. And I'll tell you
what, sir, that I never knew the people play yet, but if a word had
passed atween them and the main-masters aforehand, it might not have
been settled; but you can't get at them any way. Atween the poor man
and the gentleman there never was no connection, and that's the wital
mischief of this country.

"It's a very true word, Master Nixon, and by this token that when we
went to play in --28, and the masters said they would meet us; what did
they do but walk about the ground and speak to the butties. The butties
has their ear."

"We never want no soldiers here if the masters would speak with the men;
but the sight of a pitman is pison to a gentleman, and if we go up to
speak with 'em, they always run away."

"It's the butties," said Nixon; "they're wusser nor tommy."

"The people will never have their rights," said the stranger, "until
they learn their power. Suppose instead of sticking out and playing,
fifty of your families were to live under one roof. You would live
better than you live now; you would feed more fully, and he lodged and
clothed more comfortably, and you might save half the amount of your
wages; you would become capitalists; you might yourselves hire your
mines and pits from the owners, and pay them a better rent than they now
obtain, and yet yourselves gain more and work less."

"Sir," said Mr Nixon, taking his pipe from his mouth, and sending forth
a volume of smoke, "you speak like a book."

"It is the principle of association," said the stranger; "the want of
the age."

"Sir," said Mr Nixon, "this here age wants a great deal, but what it
principally wants is to have its wages paid in the current coin of the
realm."

Soon after this there were symptoms of empty mugs and exhausted pipes,
and the party began to stir. The stranger addressing Nixon, enquired of
him what was their present distance from Wodgate.

"Wodgate!" exclaimed Mr Nixon with an unconscious air.

"The gentleman means Hell-house Yard," said one of his companions.

"I'm at home," said Mr Nixon, "but 'tis the first time I ever heard
Hell-house Yard called Wodgate."

"It's called so in joggraphy," said Juggins.

"But you hay'nt going to Hell-house Yard this