“Look at the number of the sands on the seaside. Will any leader make a rope out of them? Numbers are nothing, my lad. Take care of yourself, Marsten, and never mind the workers; that’s the rule of the world. You may pull yourself up, but you can’t lift them with you. They’ve broken the hearts--aye, and the heads too, of many a one that tried to better them. You think you have only the masters and capital to fight. The masters won’t hurt you; it’s the men you’re fighting for that will down you. Wait till your head is an inch above the crowd, then you’ll catch it from the sticks of every rotten one of them that thinks he’s got as much right as you have to be in command. It isn’t money that helps the masters, it’s because they’ve the sense to know a good man when they see him, and to stand by him when they’ve got him. Don’t be deluded by numbers. What’s the good of them? One determined man who doesn’t need to bother about his backing--who knows his principals will back him through thick and thin--will beat any mob. Why can a small company of soldiers put down a riot? It’s because they’re commanded by one man. When he says ‘jump,’ they jump; when he says ‘shoot,’ they shoot. That’s the whole secret of it.” Braunt resumed his pipe, and smoked vigorously to get back to his usual state of taciturnity. Marsten had never heard him talk so long before, and he stood pondering what had been said. Braunt was the first to speak. “Play the _Dead March_, Jessie,” he said, gruffly. The girl hesitated a moment, evidently loath to begin when Marsten was in the room, a slight hectic colour mounting to her cheek: but obedience was strong in her; her father was not a man to be disobeyed. She drew up her chair, and began Chopin’s _Funeral March_, playing it very badly, but still recognizably. Peace seemed to come over Braunt as he listened to the dirge. He sat back in the chair, his eyes on the ceiling, smoking steadily. Marsten sat down, meditating on what Braunt had said. He was not old enough to have his opinions fixed, and to be impervious to argument, so Braunt’s remarks troubled him. He hoped they were not true, but feared they might be. The mournful cadence of the music, which seemed to soothe the soul of the elder man, wound itself among the younger’s thoughts, and dragged them towards despair; the indifference of the men in front of the public-house flashed across his memory and depressed him. He wished Jessie would stop playing. “Ah,” said Braunt, with a deep sigh when she did stop. “That’s the grandest piece of music ever made. It runs in my head all day. The throb of the machinery at the works seems to be tuned to it. It’s in the roar of the streets. Come, my lad, I’ll go with you, because you want me to, not that it will do any good. I’ll speak if you like, not that they’ll care much for what I say--not hearken, very like. But come along, my lad.” CHAPTER VIII.