Joe. Think of it! Wasn't I one of them? One of the thousands who met on Ardwick Green, and the hundreds that met the Yeomanry at Stockport, and the tens that struggled through to Macclesfield? Matthew (_scornfully_). Yes. You got as far as Macclesfield. Do you think they'll let you get to London to tell them? Do you think they _want_ to know? And if they do get there, and tell them, the manufacturers will be there first telling them another tale, and whose tale do you think they'll believe? Yours or theirs? Going to London's a fool's errand. They _do_ know and they don't care. They're South, we're North, and what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve at. You made your beds, when you let Arkwright set up his machinery, and you've to lie on them. Martin (_rising dejectedly_). God help the poor! Henri (_turning fiercely on him_). God helps those that help themselves. I'll hear you weavers sing the Marseillaise before I die. Joe (_to Matthew_). You're against violence and you're against politics. What _do_ you favour? Matthew (_grimly_). I favour work and I favour my loom, and if you've said your say I'll be getting back to it. Joe. Aye, that's the old story. Work, and every man for himself and his hand against his neighbour, while the masters join to keep us down. Matthew. I've something else to do than falling out with my bread and cheese. I'm not a politician, I'm a weaver, and I've not got time for two jobs. I'm not a Republican neither. I throw the shuttle and I don't throw stones. Henri. Coward. It is because you do not dare. Matthew (_contemptuously_). It's well for you you're French and it's known you'd break if an Englishman touched you with his hand. Joe. It's well for you you're prosperous with your loom at home and your women at home and your daughter dressed like---- (_Enter Ruth Butterworth by the front door. She is twenty-one, dark, passionate, tall, in a plain, narrow-skirted, short-sleeved gown of woolsey, with a bright-coloured cotton handkerchief crossed over the bust and tied at the back of the short waist, dress low at the neck, straw bonnet and boots._)--like she is. (_Preparing to go._) I'm grieved we've failed to move you, but you're better off than us, and it's the skill of your hands you have to thank for it. Machinery has played the very hangment with the rest of us. Good-night, Matt. Matthew. Good-night, Joe Healey. (_They shake. Matthew looks contemptuously at Henri._) Take your Republican with you. I've a word in season to say to young Martin Kelsall. (_Exeunt Joe and Henri. Ruth stands by settle._) Now, my lad, you came here to see me a week ago. Martin (_looking guiltily at Ruth, who shows surprise_). Yes, Mr. Butterworth. Matthew. You said nowt about being a Radical then. Martin. I came on other business. Matthew. And you said nowt about starving bellies. If you can't make brass enough to fill one belly, you'll be hard put to it to fill two. Ruth. That's all over, father.