With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. Well, after a time there came a fever in my blood. Now what I want you to feel is this. I will neither stir hand nor foot for you more. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. "You have both," replied Wood, fervently. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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