“Then what can we do?  I’m a proof one can’t fight the Unions.”

“Do?  Why, lay hold of the stick at the other end.  Let Pseudo-Philosophy set the means above the end, and fix its shortsighted eyes on Labor and Capital, omitting Life. (What does it profit a file-cutter if he gains his master’s whole capital and loses his own life?) But you and I, Mr. Little, are true philosophers and the work we are about to enter on is—­saving cutlers’ lives.”

“I’d rather help take them.”

“Of course; and that is why I made the pounds guineas.”

“All right, sir,” said Henry, coloring.  “I don’t expect to get six guineas a week for whistling my own tune.  How are we to do the job?”

“By putting our heads together.  You have, on the side of your temple, a protuberance, which I have noticed in the crania of inventors.  So I want you to go round the works, and observe for yourself how Life is thrown gayly away, in a moment, by needless accident, and painfully gnawed away by steel-dust, stone grit, sulphuret of lead, etc.; and then cudgel your brain for remedies.”

“Sir,” said Henry, “I am afraid I shall not earn my money.  My heart is not in the job.”

“Revenge is what you would like to be at, not Philanthropy—­eh?”

“Ay, doctor.”  And his black eye flashed fire.

“Well, well, that is natural.  Humor my crotchet just now, and perhaps I may humor yours a month or two hence.  I think I could lay my hand on the fellow who blew you up.”

“What, sir!  Ah! tell me that, and I’ll do as much philanthropy as you like—­after—­”

“After you have punched your fellow-creature’s head.”

“But it is impossible, sir.  How can you know?  These acts are kept as secret as the grave.”

“And how often has the grave revealed its secrets to observant men?  Dr. Donne sauntered about among graves, and saw a sexton turn up a skull.  He examined it, found a nail in it, identified the skull, and had the murderess hung.  She was safe from the sexton and the rest of the parish, but not from a stray observer.  Well, the day you were blown up, I observed something, and arrived at a conclusion, by my art.”

“What, physic?”

“Oh, dear, no; my other art, my art of arts, that I don’t get paid for; the art of putting myself in other people’s places.  I’ll tell you.  While you lay on the ground, in Mr. Cheetham’s yard, I scanned the workmen’s faces.  They were full of pity and regret, and were much alike in expression—­all but one.  That one looked a man awakened from a dream.  His face was wild, stupid, confused, astonished.  ‘Hallo!’ said I, ’why are your looks so unlike the looks of your fellows?’ Instantly I put myself in his place.  I ceased to be the Democritus, or laughing philosopher of Hillsborough, and became a low uneducated brute of a workman.  Then I asked this brute, viz, myself, why I was staring and glaring in that way, stupidly astonished, at the