Little waited till The Liberal had received its meed of approbation, and then asked respectfully if he might speak to Mr. Jobson on a trade matter. “Certainly,” said Mr. Jobson. “Who are you?” “My name is Little. I make the carving-tools at Cheetham's.” “I'll go home with you; my house is hard by.” When they got to the house, Jobson told him to sit down, and asked him, in a smooth and well-modulated voice, what was the nature of the business. This query, coming from him, who had set the stone rolling that bade fair to crush him, rather surprised Henry. He put his hand into his pocket, and produced the threatening note, but said nothing as to the time or manner of its arrival. Mr. Jobson perused it carefully, and then returned it to Henry. “What have we to do with this?” and he looked quite puzzled. “Why, sir, it is the act of your Union.” “You are sadly misinformed, Mr. Little. WE NEVER THREATEN. All we do is to remind the master that, if he does not do certain things, certain other things will probably be done by us; and this we wrap up in the kindest way.” “But, sir, you wrote to Cheetham against me.” “Did we? Then it will be in my letter-book.” He took down a book, examined it, and said, “You are quite right. Here's a copy of the letter. Now surely, sir, comparing the language, the manners, and the spelling, with that of the ruffian whose scrawl you received this morning--” “Then you disown the ruffian's threat?” “Most emphatically. And if you can trace it home, he shall smart for interfering in our business.” “Oh, if the trade disowns the blackguard, I can despise him. But you can't wonder at my thinking all these letters were steps of the same--yes, and Mr. Bayne thought so too; for he said this was the regular routine, and ends in DOING a poor fellow for gaining his bread.” Mr. Jobson begged to explain.