I will not weary you with too detailed an account of the talk of a foolish youth who was also distressed and unhappy, and whose voice was balm for the humiliations that smarted in his eyes. Indeed, now in many particulars I cannot disentangle this harangue of which I tell from many of the things I may have said in other talks to Parload. For example, I forget if it was then or before or afterwards that, as it were by accident, I let out what might be taken as an admission that I was addicted to drugs. “You shouldn’t do that,” said Parload, suddenly. “It won’t do to poison your brains with that.” My brains, my eloquence, were to be very important assets to our party in the coming revolution. . . . But one thing does clearly belong to this particular conversation I am recalling. When I started out it was quite settled in the back of my mind that I must not leave Rawdon’s. I simply wanted to abuse my employer to Parload. But I talked myself quite out of touch with all the cogent reasons there were for sticking to my place, and I got home that night irrevocably committed to a spirited—not to say a defiant—policy with my employer. “I can’t stand Rawdon’s much longer,” I said to Parload by way of a flourish. “There’s hard times coming,” said Parload. “Next winter.” “Sooner. The Americans have been overproducing, and they mean to dump. The iron trade is going to have convulsions.” “I don’t care. Pot-banks are steady.” “With a corner in borax? No. I’ve heard—” “What have you heard?” “Office secrets. But it’s no secret there’s trouble coming to potters. There’s been borrowing and speculation. The masters don’t stick to one business as they used to do. I can tell that much. Half the valley may be ‘playing’ before two months are out.” Parload delivered himself of this unusually long speech in his most pithy and weighty manner. “Playing” was our local euphemism for a time when there was no work and no money for a man, a time of stagnation and dreary hungry loafing day after day. Such interludes seemed in those days a necessary consequence of industrial organization. “You’d better stick to Rawdon’s,” said Parload. “Ugh,” said I, affecting a noble disgust. “There’ll be trouble,” said Parload. “Who cares?” said I. “Let there be trouble—the more the better. This system has got to end, sooner or later. These capitalists with their speculation and corners and trusts make things go from bad to worse. Why should I cower in Rawdon’s office, like a frightened dog, while hunger walks the streets? Hunger is the master revolutionary. When he comes we ought to turn out and salute him. Anyway, _I’m_ going to do so now.” “That’s all very well,” began Parload. “I’m tired of it,” I said. “I want to come to grips with all these Rawdons. I think perhaps if I was hungry and savage I could talk to hungry men—” “There’s your mother,” said Parload, in his slow judicial way. That _was_ a difficulty.