“That’s so,” admitted Barefoot. “Life’s the only adventure we can hope for, and I grant you there ought to be more to it. ’Tis all this here speeding up, I mistrust. The masters see the result of ‘speeding up,’ and think it’s all to the good according; but it’s we feel the result, and I can tell you I’m never more cranky and bad-tempered and foul-mouthed than after one of them rushes. The strain is only pounds, shillings and pence to the masters; but it’s flesh and blood and nerves to us; because it’s us have got to fight the machines, not them.” “A very true word, Henry. Kellock’s out for security, and whether you’re a socialist or whether you’re not, you can’t deny security is the due of every human creature. Until the highest and lowest alike are born into security, there’s something wrong with the order of things.” “Yet the greater number of the nation have no more security than a bird in a bush. Let us but lose our health, and where are we?” asked Barefoot. “And if a machine is going to make us lose our health,” argued Spry, “then to hell with the machine.” “We want shorter hours and better money,” explained Ernest Trood, “and that can only be won if the masters also get better money. And for such a result we must look to machines.” Then Daisy Finch asked a question. “Who were those stern-looking men in black ties listening to the lecture?” she inquired. “From Plymouth, I believe,” answered her sweetheart. “They meant business, and they applauded Kellock at the finish.” “They see a likely tool to help their plots,” said Mr. Trood. “I hope he’ll get his stroke back and drop this Jack-o’-lantern job. There’s quite enough at it without him.” “He don’t think so,” answered Barefoot. “He wants to be in the movement, and may rise to be a leader some day. They socialists are as ambitious as anybody at heart.” Harold and Miss Finch, weary of the subject, slowed their gait, fell back, and presently turned to their own affairs. Then a trap passed, driven by Mr. Tom Dolbear, from Priory Farm. He had brought his sister and Medora to the lecture, and was now taking them home again. With them travelled Mr. Knox. The farmer alone found no good word for the things they had listened to. “Just the gift of the gab,” he said. “If you can talk easy, you’re tempted to do so, at the expense of work.”