We haven't room to
turn round in.
BECKER
[_To those standing near, without lowering his voice._] It's a beggarly
pittance, nothing else. A man works his treadle from early morning till
late at night, an' when he's bent over his loom for days an' days, tired
to death every evening, sick with the dust and the heat, he finds he's
made a beggarly one and threepence!
PFEIFER
No impudence allowed here.
BECKER
If you think I'll hold my tongue for your tellin', you're much mistaken.
PFEIFER
[_Exclaims._] We'll see about that! [_Rushes to the glass door and calls
into the office._] Mr. Dreissiger, Mr. Dreissiger, will you be good
enough to come here?
_Enter DREISSIGER. About forty, full-bodied, asthmatic. Looks
severe._
DREISSIGER
What is it, Pfeifer?
PFEIFER
[_Spitefully._] Becker says he won't be told to hold his tongue.
DREISSIGER
[_Draws himself up, throws back his head, stares at BECKER; his nostrils
tremble._] Oh, indeed!--Becker. [_To PFEIFER.] Is he the man?...
[_The clerks nod._
BECKER
[_Insolently._] Yes, Mr. Dreissiger, yes! [_Pointing to himself._] This
is the man. [_Pointing to DREISSIGER._] And that's a man too!
DREISSIGER
[_Angrily.
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