“My friends,” Stephen began, in the midst of a dead calm; “I ha’ hed what’s been spok’n o’ me, and ’tis lickly that I shan’t mend it. But I’d liefer you’d hearn the truth concernin myseln, fro my lips than fro onny other man’s, though I never cud’n speak afore so monny, wi’out bein moydert and muddled.”

Slackbridge shook his head as if he would shake it off, in his bitterness.

“I’m th’ one single hand in Bounderby’s mill, o’ a’ the men theer, as don’t coom in wi’ th’ proposed reg’lations. I canna coom in wi’ ’em. My friends, I doubt their doin’ yo onny good. Licker they’ll do yo hurt.”

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and frowned sarcastically.

“But ’t an’t sommuch for that as I stands out. If that were aw, I’d coom in wi’ th’ rest. But I ha’ my reasons⁠—mine, yo see⁠—for being hindered; not on’y now, but awlus⁠—awlus⁠—life long!”