“Thanks, Mr. Robson,” said the old man, overjoyed, as he took out his pipe, the stem of which was not more than half an inch long, while the whole was as black as everything else which belonged to Anders.

He pressed down the moist tobacco as hard as he could, in the hope of getting as much as would last for a day or two; he then picked up a burning ember from the turf fire, which he applied to the bowl.

It was no easy matter to get the tobacco to light, but the smoke, when it began to draw, seemed warm and comforting to the old man.  He sat there, crouching on the edge of the bench, eagerly watching Tom each time he passed him the mug, and not forgetting to say “Thank you, Mr. Robson,” before he took his drink.

Martin grew more and more violent.  “Isn’t it enough,” he yelled, “for us to work ourselves to death for these creatures?  Are they going to watch every bit we eat, and every drop we drink?  Just look at their houses! look how they live up there!  Who has got all that for them?  We, I tell you, grandfather; we who have been toiling here fishing, and going to sea year after year, son after father, in storm and tempest, watching night after night in wind and snow, so as to bring back wealth for these wretches!  Just look what we get for it all!  What a pig-stye we live in!  And even that does not belong to us.  Nothing does!  It all belongs to them—­clothes, food, and drink, body and soul, house and home, every bit!”

Begmand sat rocking himself to and fro, and drawing hard at his pipe.  Woodlouse saw that there was a pause, and so began again.

“Property is robbery—­”

But Martin would not let him continue.  “There is no one in the whole world,” he shouted, “who puts up with what we do!  Why don’t we go up and say, ‘Share with us, we who have done all the work’?  There has been enough of this blood-sucking!  But no; we are not a bit better than a lot of old women; not one of us!  They would never put up with that sort of thing in America.”

“Ha! ha! good again!” laughed Tom Robson.  “I dare say you think people are willing to share like brothers in America?  No, my boy; you would soon find out you were wrong.”

“Do you mean to tell me that workmen in America live like we do?” asked Martin, somewhat abashed.

“No; but they do what you can’t do,” answered Tom.

“What do they do?” asked Martin.

“They work; and that is what you and no one else does here!” shouted Tom, bringing his fist down heavily on the table.  He was beginning to feel the effects of the rum.

“What’s that about work?  Do you mean to say—?” began the Swede.

“Hold your jaw!” cried Tom.  “Let the old un have his say!”

“You are quite wrong, Martin,” said Begmand, and this time without stammering.  The watery look of his old eyes told that the beer was beginning to work.  “It’s shameful of you to talk like that about the firm.  They have given both your father and your grandfather certain employment; and you might have had the same if you had behaved yourself.  The old Consul was the first man in the whole world, and the young Consul is a glorious fellow too.  Here’s his health!”