The work went on, until the noon-bell rang. More clattering upon the pavements. The looms, and wheels, and hands all out of gear for an hour.

Stephen came out of the hot mill into the damp wind and cold wet streets, haggard and worn. He turned from his own class and his own quarter, taking nothing but a little bread as he walked along, towards the hill on which his principal employer lived, in a red house with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street door, up two white steps, Bounderby (in letters very like himself) upon a brazen plate, and a round brazen door-handle underneath it, like a brazen full-stop.

Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Stephen had expected. Would his servant say that one of the hands begged leave to speak to him? Message in return, requiring name of such hand. Stephen Blackpool. There was nothing troublesome against Stephen Blackpool; yes, he might come in.