Henri. You are free to starve. To be slaves of the cotton masters, who treat you worse than any grand seigneur would have treated his peasants under the Bourbons. Mary (_dryly_). Well, Matthew's busy. Joe. He's not too busy to attend to us. We want him out. Mary. And you'll not get him. Joe. I think we shall. (_Calling._) Matthew! Matthew Butterworth! Mary. Yes, you may call. You'll burst your lungs before he'll hear in there. He's working. You're idling. Don't try to interrupt a better man. (_Henri makes as if to force her from door, Joe checks him._) Joe. That's why we want him with us. Because we know him for the best weaver in these parts. Because he's treated by the master different from us and works at home instead of being driven into the factory. We want the best man on the people's side and none of us but gives old Matthew best. That's what we think of your husband, Mrs. Butterworth. Mary. And it's what I think, so you needn't fancy that it's news to me. He's better sense than to go wasting time on a pack of crazy Radicals. (_The loom stops, the door is thrown open and Matthew speaks off_) Matthew. Mary, fetch that candle back. I cannot see to weave properly with only one. Joe. Let your loom be, Matthew, and come here. We've need of you. (_Matthew enters in his shirt sleeves, stout waistcoat and breeches. He is a man of sixty, solidly built with square face and grey hair, bowed with bending to his loom._) Matthew. What's the to-do about? Mary (_holding his arm_). They've come to trap you, Matthew. Matthew. Trap me? They'll be wide awake. Mary. Don't listen to them, Matt. They're Radicals. Joe We're Reformers. You know us, Matthew. Matthew. Aye, I know you. You, Martin! You become a Radical? Martin. Empty bellies make Radicals, Mr. Butterworth. Empty bellies and the Corn Tax and bread at thirteenpence the quartern loaf. Matthew. Empty bellies make fools then. I can hear you've picked up the Radical cant. What do you want with me? Joe. We've come to reason with you, Matthew. Mary. Oh, if you're going to listen to them, I'll sit in yonder. Matthew (_sharply_). Don't touch the loom, now. (_Exit Mary._) Well, what is it? I haven't time to spend on argument. Henri. Then give us your advice, Mr. Butterworth, your help. Matthew. I'm not a politician. (_Martin sits wearily on settle._) Joe. Maybe you're not. But you're a man. And you know how things are with us. They're different with you. Matthew. And why? Henri. Because you're the favourite of Mr. Barlow.