Henry took the chalk, and prepared to write Bayne’s mind underneath
Mary’s.  Bayne dictated: 

“I have offered the Handlers the same as the Forgers.”

“But that is not true,” objected Henry, turning round, with the chalk in his hand.

“It will be true, in half an hour.  We are going to Parkin, the Handlers’ Secretary.”

“What, another L15!  This is an infernal swindle.”

“What isn’t?” said Bayne, cynically.

Henry then wrote as desired; and they went together to Mr. Parkin.

Mr. Parkin was not at home.  But they hunted him from pillar to post, and caught him, at last, in the bar-parlor of “The Packsaddle.”  He knew Bayne well, and received him kindly, and, on his asking for a private interview, gave a wink to two persons who were with him:  they got up directly, and went out.

“What, is there any thing amiss between you and the trade?” inquired Mr. Parkin, with an air of friendly interest.

Bayne smiled, not graciously, but sourly.  “Come, come, sir, that is a farce you and I have worn out this ten years.  This is the London workman himself, come to excuse himself to Mary and Co., for not applying to them before:  and the long and the short is, he offers the Handlers the same as he has the Smiths, fifteen down, and to pay his natty money, but draw no scale, unless disabled.  What d’y say?  Yes, or no?”

“I’ll lay Mr. Little’s proposal before the committee.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Little.  “And, meantime, I suppose I may feel safe against violence, from the members of your union?”

“Violence!” said Mr. Parkin, turning his eye inward, as if he was interrogating the centuries.  Then to Mr. Bayne, “Pray, sir, do you remember any deed of darkness that our Union has ever committed, since we have been together; and that is twelve years?”

“Well, Mr. Parkin,” said Bayne, “if you mean deeds of blood, and deeds of gunpowder, et cetera—­why, no, not one:  and it is greatly to your honor.  But, mind you, if a master wants his tanks tapped and his hardening-liquor run into the shore or his bellows to be ripped, his axle-nuts to vanish, his wheel-bands to go and hide in a drain or a church belfry, and his scythe-blades to dive into a wheel-dam, he has only to be wrong with your Union, and he’ll be accommodated as above.  I speak from experience.”

“Oh, rattening!” said Mr Parkin.  “That’s is a mighty small matter.”

“It is small to you, that are not in the oven, where the bread is baked, or cooled, or burnt.  But whatever parts the grindstones from the power, and the bellows from the air, and the air from the fire, makes a hole in the master’s business to-day, and a hole in the workman’s pocket that day six months.  So, for heaven’s sake, let us be right with you.  Little’s is the most friendly and liberal offer that any workman ever made to any Union.  Do, pray, close with it, and let us be at peace; sweet—­balmy—­peace.”