A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court - Mark Twain (speld decodable readers TXT) 📗

“Now, then, that is what is going to happen as regards wages. In that remote day, that man will earn, with one week’s work, that bill of goods which it takes you upwards of fifty weeks to earn now. Some other pretty surprising things are going to happen, too. Brother Dowley, who is it that determines, every spring, what the particular wage of each kind of mechanic, laborer, and servant shall be for that year?”

“Sometimes the courts, sometimes the town council; but most of all, the magistrate. Ye may say, in general terms, it is the magistrate that fixes the wages.”

“Doesn’t ask any of those poor devils to help him fix their wages for them, does he?”

“Hm! That were an idea! The master that’s to pay him the money is the one that’s rightly concerned in that matter, ye will notice.”

“Yes⁠—but I thought the other man might have some little trifle at stake in it, too; and even his wife and children, poor creatures. The masters are these: nobles, rich men, the prosperous generally. These few, who do no work, determine what pay the vast hive shall have who do work. You see? They’re a ‘combine’⁠—a trade union, to coin a new phrase⁠—who band themselves together to force their lowly brother to take what they choose to give. Thirteen hundred years hence⁠—so says the unwritten law⁠—the ‘combine’ will be the other way, and then how these fine people’s posterity will fume and fret and grit their teeth over the insolent tyranny of trade unions! Yes, indeed! the magistrate will tranquilly arrange the wages from now clear away down into the nineteenth century; and then all of a sudden the wage-earner will consider that a couple of thousand years or so is enough of this one-sided sort of thing; and he will rise up and take a hand in fixing his wages himself. Ah, he will have a long and bitter account of wrong and humiliation to settle.”

“Do ye believe⁠—”

“That he actually will help to fix his own wages? Yes, indeed. And he will be strong and able, then.”

“Brave times, brave times, of a truth!” sneered the prosperous smith.

“Oh⁠—and there’s another detail. In that day, a master may hire a man for only just one day, or one week, or one month at a time, if he wants to.”

“What?”

“It’s true. Moreover, a magistrate won’t be able to force a man to work for a master a whole year on a stretch whether the man wants to or not.”

“Will there be no law or sense in that day?”

“Both of them, Dowley. In that day a man will be his own property, not the property of magistrate and master. And he can leave town whenever he wants to, if the wages don’t suit him!⁠—and they can’t put him in the pillory for it.”

“Perdition catch such an age!” shouted Dowley, in strong indignation. “An age of dogs, an age barren of reverence for superiors and respect for authority! The pillory⁠—”

“Oh, wait, brother; say no good word for that institution. I think the pillory ought to be abolished.”

“A most strange idea. Why?”

“Well, I’ll tell you why. Is a man ever put in the pillory for a capital crime?”

“No.”

“Is it right to condemn a man to a slight punishment for a small offense and then kill him?”

There was no answer. I had scored my first point! For the first time, the smith wasn’t up and ready. The company noticed it. Good effect.

“You don’t answer, brother. You were about to glorify the pillory a while ago, and shed some pity on a future age that isn’t going to use it. I think the pillory ought to be abolished. What usually happens when a poor fellow is put in the pillory for some little offense that didn’t amount to anything in the world? The mob try to have some fun with him, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“They begin by clodding him; and they laugh themselves to pieces to see him try to dodge one clod and get hit with another?”

“Yes.”

“Then they throw dead cats at him, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, suppose he has a few personal enemies in that mob and here and there a man or a woman with a secret grudge against him⁠—and suppose especially that he is unpopular in the community, for his pride, or his prosperity, or one thing or another⁠—stones and bricks take the place of clods and cats presently, don’t they?”

“There is no doubt of it.”

“As a rule he is crippled for life, isn’t he?⁠—jaws broken, teeth smashed out?⁠—or legs mutilated, gangrened, presently cut off?⁠—or an eye knocked out, maybe both eyes?”

“It is true, God knoweth it.”

“And if he is unpopular he can depend on dying, right there in the stocks, can’t he?”

“He surely can! One may not deny it.”

“I take it none of you are unpopular⁠—by reason of pride or insolence, or conspicuous prosperity, or any of those things that excite envy and malice among the base scum of a village? You wouldn’t think it much of a risk to take a chance in the stocks?”

Dowley winced, visibly. I judged he was hit. But he didn’t betray it by any spoken word. As for the others, they spoke out plainly, and with strong feeling. They said they had seen enough of the stocks to know what a man’s chance in them was, and they would never consent to enter them if they could compromise on a quick death by hanging.

“Well, to change the subject⁠—for I think I’ve established my point that the stocks ought to be abolished. I think some of our laws are pretty unfair. For instance, if I do a thing which ought to deliver me to the stocks, and you know I did it and yet keep still and don’t report me, you will get the stocks if anybody informs on you.”

“Ah, but that would serve you but right,” said Dowley, “for you must inform. So saith the law.”

The others coincided.

“Well, all right, let it go, since you