‘It were a saving of trouble as nobody objected to, instead of a wexing petikularity,’ said Ned, startling Oliver by speaking again, and that with such fluency as to render it suspicious whether the fluency, together with the bluster, could proceed originally from monosyllabic, stolid Ned. ‘It were always done afore my day, and I dunnot see why it shouldn’t be done no longer. I can tell you Maine, as owns the best stuff, wunnot thank you for turning it out bolted that white it might be furrin flour. Nobody will believe it native, though he take his Bible oath on it. Every customer will swear it’s ’Mericain and has come over in casks, and will sour afore you can say “Jack Robinson.” And Wade, he wunnot own his stuff, as you’d make it come out, in the course of nature and machinery. He’ll swear it’s been tampered with, and no wonder, since he’ll not find a buyer for it on this side of Lon’on. He’ll be forced to mix what might have been food for men in his horse and cattle’s mashes, or to fling it to his cocks and hens. Friarton Mill will have seen the last of his custom,’ ended Ned sardonically. ‘Never mind that, it is my business; do what I bid you.’ ‘And the trouble of stowing away the emptyings of the sacks separate, and of setting and keeping the mill a-going for two bouts, which need only have been one, will be your business too?’ said Ned, like all willing learners going considerably beyond the bounds of his lesson and converting bluster into insolence. ‘It is a fine gentleman scholard’s nonsense, which is downright oonreasonable as well. Dang it, I’ll have nowt to do with it,’ protested Ned, flinging down a spade which he had in his hand with a noisy clatter. ‘Leave it alone then, my man, and come to me at the office for your wages,’ said Oliver, walking away. Green did not resume his work that afternoon, neither did the other men and lads. The mill stood, without anything wrong about the gear which had in these modern times rendered a lack of water a deficiency to be coped with. Oliver missed its accustomed hum and splash, while ‘the merry millers,’ merry no longer, hung about and consulted together, sulky and stubborn-looking. But next day the premature shabby strike somehow collapsed. Its promoters, including Green, chopfallen and taciturn as of old, were at their duties again, to which Oliver suffered them to return without farther words. It was otherwise in the bake-shop. There the mutiny was systematised and ripe, and though it did not carry the whole establishment with it, it cost Oliver his manager, some of his best hands, and more than it seemed possible for him to recover from.