Martin. It won't make us happy. There's been no happy weavers since machines came in.
John. Is that what you want? Wages back at the old level?
Martin. No. We want more. The old level isn't good enough. Eight shillings a week won't keep a man, let alone a man's family.
Ephraim. We give your families work. You men aren't the only wage-earners. Even your children can come to us and be paid. We not only keep them away from mischief at home, but we pay them for it. (_Rising._) You can take that answer back. We want willing workers and if you'll go away and be satisfied with the old wages, we'll try to pay them, though it's little less than ruin for the manufacturers.
Martin (_scornfully_). This looks a ruined house, and you look badly fed and all with your wine, and your servants, and your money to build another factory. To hell with your eight shillings! We want ten.
John. And we want cent, per cent, profits, my man, only we don't get them.
Ephraim (_sternly_). This is no time for jesting, Kelsall.
Martin. I wasn't jesting. Ten shillings a week is what we want.
Matthew. I've made double ten with my old hand-loom. Where's the good of factories to us if that's what they bring us to?
(_Guy rises with his drawings comes round to John and gives it him._)
John (_laughing_). Ha! Very good. I didn't know you drew.
Guy. I've had practice lately. Drawing plans for my new factory.
Ephraim (_glancing at it_). Pssh! (_To men._) Well, that's what you're here for, is it? Ten shillings.
Martin. Then I warn you there'll be consequences.
Ephraim. Guy, I've told you to hold your tongue. (_Reasonably._) We've made a big concession, Kelsall. Martin. You'll make a bigger if you want us satisfied. John. We do want you satisfied. We want this valley peaceful and contented.
Ephraim. Suppose we talk it over and give you an answer to-morrow?
Joe. We've come here for an answer to-night, Mr. Barlow.
Ephraim. Very well. Stay here and we'll come back with an answer. Come into the other room, Mr. Heppenstall. (_The men give way sullenly._) Come, Guy.
(_Heppenstall passes out, as Ephraim holds door open. Guy catches Ephraim at door._)
Ephraim. Guy, I'd trust Matt Butterworth with everything I own.
(_Exeunt Guy and Ephraim. Neither thinks of Ruth, who now rises from her chair by fire, crosses, and speaks with Matthew, while the rest appreciate the fire and examine curiously the fire-irons, etc._)