"It was but last Saturday forenoon," resumed the man who had mentioned Jimps, the glove-master, "that he docked us two-pence a dozen, again: and when I asked him if his conscience wouldn't reproach him when he went to chapel, he looked like a fiend, and said, 'Bob! I knew what it was to be ground once; but it's my turn to grind now!'" "And they call that religion, do they?" said the smoker, with an imprecation. "It won't mend it to swear, my lad," said the intellectual-looking man; "we know one thing,—that whatever such a fellow as this may do that professes religion, he doesn't imitate the conduct of his Master." "I believe religion's all a bag of moonshine," said the smoker, "or else they that profess it would not act as they do." "Don't talk so rashly, Tim," rejoined the other; "we always repent when we speak in ill-temper. Religion can't cure hypocrites, man, though it can turn drunkards and thieves into sober and honest men: it does not prove that religion is all a bag of moonshine, because some scoundrels make a handle of it. Truth's truth, in spite of all the scandal that falsehood and deceit brings upon it." "Isn't it time we got to business?" said one of the group. "I don't think it will be of any use to wait longer," said another; "there will not be more with us, if we wait another hour; the truth is, that men dare not attend a meeting like this, for fear of being turned off, and so being starved outright;—there's scarcely any spirit left in Hinckley." "I propose that Seth Thompson takes the chair," said another, taking off his ragged hat, and speaking aloud. A faint clapping of hands followed, and Seth took a seat upon a raised part of one of the frames at the end of the shop, and opened the meeting according to the simple but business-like form, which working-men are wont to observe in similar meetings, in the manufacturing districts.