It was Saturday night, and the streets were crowded. The hands were pouring out of the different manufactories; clean-looking, respectable workmen, as a whole: for the branches of glove-making are for the most part of a cleanly nature. Some wore their white aprons; some had rolled them up round their waists. A few--very few, it must be owned--were going to their homes, but the greater portion were bound for the public-house. One of the most extensively patronised of the public-houses was The Cutters' Arms. On a Saturday night, when the men's pockets were lined, this would be crowded. The men flocked into it now and filled it, although its room for entertainment was very large. The order from most of them was a pint of mild ale and some tobacco. "Any news, Joe Fisher?" asked a man, when the pipes were set going. Joe Fisher tossed his head and growled. He was a tall, dark man; clothes and condition both dilapidated. The questioner took a few whiffs, and repeated his question. Joe growled again, but did not speak. "Well, you might give a chap a civil answer, Fisher." "What's the matter, you two?" cried a third. "Ben Wilks asks me is there any news!" called out Fisher, indignantly. "I thought he might ha' heered on't without asking. Our pay was docked again to-night; that's the news." "No!" uttered Wilks. "It were," said Fisher savagely. "A shilling a week less, good. Who's a-going to stand it?" "There ain't no help for standing it," interposed a quiet-looking man named Wheeler. "I suppose the masters is forced to lower. They say so." "Have your master forced hisself to it?" angrily retorted Fisher. "Well, Fisher, you know I'm fortunate. As all is that gets in to work at Ashley's." "And precious good care they take to stop in!" cried Fisher, much aggravated. "No danger that Ashley's hands'll give way and afford outsiders a chance." "Why should they give way?" sensibly asked Wheeler. "_You_ need never think to get in at Ashley's, Fisher, so there's no cause for you to grumble." A titter went round at Fisher's expense. He did not like it. "I might stand my chance with others, if there was room. Who says I couldn't? Come, now!" A man laughed. "You had better ask Samuel Lynn that question, Fisher. Why, he wouldn't look at you! You are not steady enough for him." "Samuel Lynn may go along for a ill-natured broadbrim!" was Fisher's retort. "There'd not be half the difficulty in getting in with Mr. Ashley hisself." "Yes, there would," said Wheeler, quietly. "Mr. Ashley pays first wages, and he'll have first hands. Quaker Lynn knows what he's about." "Don't dispute about nothing, Fisher," interrupted a voice, borne through the clouds of smoke from the far end of the room. "To lose a shilling a week is bad, but not so bad as losing all. I have heard ill news this evening." Fisher stretched up his long neck. "Who's that a-talking? Is it Mr. Crouch?"