“Thank God, we’ve gotten our backs to it. We’re walking away from yond devilry, we’ve our faces to summat green.” How often had he not heard something like that from Annie! “It beats me to guess what folks are made of, both the folk that stand factories and t’other folks that drive ‘em into factories. I know I’ve gotten an answer to some of this under my bed where I lodge and I’ll mak’ the answer speak one of these days an’ all.” “An answer? What answer? I’ve looked and found no answer.” “No? They looked at Blackburn and found th’ wrong answer an’ all, th’ould answer that the Luddites found and failed wi’. Smashing machines! Burning factories! What’s, the good o’ that? They nobbut put up new factories bigger and more hellish than before and mak’ new machines that’ll do ten men’s work instead of two. Aye, they were on wrong tack in them days. They were afraid to get on right tack.” “Is there a tack that’s right?” he asked. “There’s shooting,” said Barraclough. “Shooting? Tha’ canna shoot an engine, nor a factory.” “No, and that’s the old mistake. Trying to hit back at senseless brick and iron. There’s men behind the factories, men that build and men that manage. Men that own and tak’ the profits of our blood and death. For instance, who killed thy wife?” “Why... why...” hesitated John, who was still intrigued obscurely with the idea that he, the father of her child, was author of her death. “She died o’ th’ conditions o’ Hepplestall’s factory and yo’ canna’ bring yer verdict o’ willful murder against conditions. Yo’ bring it against the fiend that made the conditions. Yo’ bring it against Reuben Hepplestall.” “Maister Hepplestall!” “Aye, Maister. Maister o’ us fra’ head to heel. Maister o’ our lives and deaths, and gotten hissel’ so high above us that I can see tha’s scared to hear me talk that road of him.” That was true, Barraclough seemed to John almost blasphemous. Hepplestall _was_ high above them, so that to make free with his name in this manner was something outrageous. “Aye, the spunk’s scared out of thee by the name of Hepplestall as if tha’ were a child and him a boggart. But I tell thee this, he isna a boggart. He’s a man and if my bullet gets him, he’ll bleed and if it gets him in the right place, he’ll die, and there’ll be one less in the world o’ the fiends that own factories and murder women to mak’ a profit for theirselves.” “You’d do that! You!” “Some one must do the job. Th’ gun’s to hoam under my bed, loaded an’ all. Execution of a murderer, that’s what it’ll be. Justice on the man that killed thy wife.” John halted abruptly. “What’s to do?” asked Barraclough. “Let’s mak’ th’ most of this day out o’ factory. Folks like thee and me mustna’ think too much of causes o’ things. The cause of this day off was thy wife’s death, but we’ve agreed tha’s not to brood. So come on into sunshine and mak’ the most of what we’ve gotten.” “We’ll mak’ the most of it by turning to hoam,” said John.