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 hand, through the erection of the factory, struck out of your reach your former greater earnings? You don’t seem to figure it out for yourself that from your honest labor you barely eke out a miserable living, while he from your toil makes big capital? And for that paltry wage you want to sell him your blood as well?” queried Vavřík excitedly

“Say what you please, but a master is a master and he whose bread you eat—well—you know,” Jachymek defended himself. “I don’t blame Nešněra. He will make money by the deal, will better himself and children, so where’s the harm?”

“Well, may it bring him a blessing,” old Halama ended the conversation, and started another topic in order to conclude a profitless quarrel during which the heart in his body could hardly keep from quivering to pieces.

It was Sunday and work on the fields and in the factory rested. The inhabitants of the village, in part factory hands and in part peasants or really householders who, in addition to their labors on the fields, worked part time in the factory or at home behind the loom, stood around on thresholds with their pipes in their mouths, waiting till the “gentlemen” rode by. It was generally known what would take place at the Nešněras’ to-day, and after the custom of people, some condemned, while others commended the young house-