`Well, he must conquer hisself,' said Slyme, getting red.

`Conquer hisself is right!' said Harlow and the others laughed again.

`Of course if a man tried to conquer hisself by his own strength,'
replied Slyme, `'e would be sure to fail, but when you've got the
Grace of God in you it's different.'

`Chuck it, fer Christ's sake!' said Harlow in a tone of disgust.
`We've only just 'ad our dinner!'

`And wot about drink?' demanded old Joe Philpot, suddenly.

`'Ear, 'ear,' cried Harlow. `That's the bleedin' talk. I wouldn't
mind 'avin 'arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for it.'

Joe Philpot - or as he was usually called, `Old Joe' - was in the
habit of indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very
old, being only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. He had
lost his wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for
his three children had died in their infancy. Slyme's reference to
drink had roused Philpot's indignation; he felt that it was directed
against himself. The muddled condition of his brain did not permit
him to take up the cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that
although Owen was a tee-totaller himself, he disliked Slyme.

`There's no need for us to talk about drink or laziness,' returned
Owen, impatiently, `because they have nothing to do with the matter.
The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the
majority of those who are not drunkards and who DO work? Why, if all