“They work us hard and they feed us on tripe,” someone would growl in the kitchen.

“If you don’t like it, order a blancmange,” another would reply.

“I like soup made of tripe, lads,” a third would put in, “it’s nice.”

“But if you never get anything else but tripe, is it nice?”

“Now to be sure it’s time for meat,” said a fourth; “we toil and toil at the brickyard; when one’s work’s done, one wants something to eat. And what is tripe?”

“And if it is not tripe, it’s heart.”

“Yes, there’s that heart too. Tripe and heart, that’s all they give us. Fine fare that is! Is that justice or is it not?”

“Yes, the food’s bad.”