“All the more obliging of you,” said the visitor, coolly, and lighted them, with his own match, in a twinkling.  He then drew out of his waistcoat pocket a double eyeglass, gold-mounted, and examining the ceiling with it, soon directed Henry’s attention to two deep dents and a brown splash.  “Every one of those marks,” said he, “is a history, and was written by a flying grindstone.  Where you see the dents the stone struck the ceiling;” he added very gravely, “and, when it came down again, ask yourself, did it always fall right?  These histories are written only on the ceiling and the walls.  The floor could tell its tales too; but a crushed workman is soon swept off it, and the wheels go on again.”

“That is too true,” said Henry.  “And it does a chap’s heart good to hear a gentleman like you—­”

“I’m not a gentleman.  I’m an old Saw.”

“Excuse me, sir, you look like a gentleman, and talk like one.”

“And I try to conduct myself like one:  but I am an old Saw.”

“What! and carry a gold eyeglass?”

“The Trade gave it me.  I’m an old Saw.”

“Well, then, all the better, for you can tell me, and please do:  have you ever actually known fatal accidents from this cause?”

“I have known the light grinders very much shaken by a breaking stone, and away from work a month after it.  And, working among saw-grinders, who use heavy stones, and stand over them in working, I’ve seen—­Billy, go and look at thy shilling, in the yard, and see which is brightest, it or the moon.  Is he gone?  I’ve seen three men die within a few yards of me.  One, the stone flew in two pieces; a fragment, weighing about four hundredweight I should say, struck him on the breast, and killed him on place; he never spoke.  I’ve forgotten his very name.  Another; the stone went clean out of window, but it kicked the grinder backward among the machinery, and his head was crushed like an eggshell.  But the worst of all was poor Billy’s father.  He had been warned against his stone; but he said he would run it out.  Well, his little boy, that is Billy, had just brought him in his tea, and was standing beside him, when the stone went like a pistol-shot, and snapped the horsing chains like a thread; a piece struck the wall, and did no harm, only made a hole; but the bigger half went clean up to the ceiling, and then fell plump down again; the grinder he was knocked stupid like, and had fallen forward on his broken horsing; the grindstone fell right on him, and, ah—­I saw the son covered with the father’s blood.”

He shuddered visibly, at the recollection.  “Ay,” said he, “the man a corpse, and the lad an idiot.  One faulty stone did that, within four yards of me, in a moment of time.”

“Good heavens!”

“I was grinding at the next stone but one.  He was taken, and I was left.  It might just as well have been the other way.  No saw-grinder can make sure, when he gets on his horsing, that he will come off it alive.”