The moods of a mob are proverb-jolly fickle, and take the most unexpected forms. The other day a non-union labourer at Glasgow Docks was confronted by a number of strikers who had been waiting their chance to "get at him." ""See here, lads," cried the man, "I'm a blackleg. But this is the first week in nine that I've had a full pay. You want me, I know, but first let me go home and give my money to the wife and kids, and you can do whatever you like with me after that." The mob not only let him pass, but he got encouraging claps on the shoulder and assurances that it was al] right.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.