with all the cogent reasons there were for sticking to my place, and I got home that night irrevocably committed to a spirited—not to say a defiant—policy with my employer.
"I can't stand Rawdon's much longer," I said to Parload by way of a flourish.
"There 's hard times coming," said Parload.
"Next winter."
"Sooner. The Americans have been overproducing, and they mean to dump. The iron trade is going to have convulsions."
"I don't care. Pot-banks are steady."
"With a corner in borax? No. I 've heard—"
"What have you heard?"
"Office secrets. But it 's no secret there 's trouble coming to potters. There 's been borrowing and speculation. The masters don't stick to one business as they used to do. I can tell that much. Half the valley may be 'playing' before two months are out." Parload delivered himself of this unusually long speech in his most pithy and weighty manner.
"Playing" was our local euphemism for a time when there was no work and no money for a man, a time of stagnation and dreary hungry loafing day after day. Such interludes seemed in those days a necessary consequence of industrial organization.
"You 'd better stick to Rawdon's," said Parload.
"Ugh," said I, affecting a noble disgust.
