MR. BARLOW.  One panders to the system—­one panders to the system.  And so, you see, the problem is too much.  One man cannot alter or affect the system; he can only sacrifice himself to it.  Which is the worst thing probably that he can do.

OLIVER.  Quite.  But why feel guilty for the system?—­everybody supports it, the poor as much as the rich.  If every rich man withdrew from the system, the working class and socialists would keep it going, every man in the hope of getting rich himself at last.  It’s the people that are wrong.  They want the system much more than the rich do—­because they are much more anxious to be rich—­never having been rich, poor devils.

MR. BARLOW.  Just the system.  So I decided at last that the best way was to give every private help that lay in my power.  I would help my men individually and personally, wherever I could.  Not one of them came to me and went away unheard; and there was no distress which could be alleviated that I did not try to alleviate.  Yet I am afraid that the greatest distress I never heard of , the most distressed never came to me.  They hid their trouble.

ANABEL.  Yes, the decent ones.

MR. BARLOW.  But I wished to help—­it was my duty.  Still, I think that, on the whole, we were a comfortable and happy community.  Barlow & Walsall’s men were not unhappy in those days, I believe.  We were liberal; the men lived.

OLIVER.  Yes, that is true.  Even twenty years ago the place was still jolly.

MR. BARLOW.  And then, when Gerald was a lad of thirteen, came the great lock-out.  We belonged to the Masters’ Federation—­I was but one man on the Board.  We had to abide by the decision.  The mines were closed till the men would accept the reduction.—­Well, that cut my life across.  We were shutting the men out from work, starving their families, in order to force them to accept a reduction.  It may be the condition of trade made it imperative.  But, for myself, I would rather have lost everything.—­Of course, we did what we could.  Food was very cheap—­practically given away.  We had open kitchen here.  And it was mercifully warm summer-time.  Nevertheless, there was privation and suffering, and trouble and bitterness.  We had the redcoats down—­even to guard this house.  And from this window I saw Whatmore head-stocks ablaze, and before I could get to the spot the soldiers had shot two poor fellows.  They were not killed, thank God—–­

OLIVER.  Ah, but they enjoyed it—­they enjoyed it immensely.  I remember what grand old sporting weeks they were.  It was like a fox-hunt, so lively and gay—­bands and tea-parties and excitement everywhere, pit-ponies loose, men all over the country-side—–­