They (our old folks) worked for themselves. They twisted their fingers for themselves. But I’m twistin’ my fingers for my boss. Why, d’ye know, Saxon, his hands is soft as a woman’s that’s never done any work. Yet he owns the horses an’ the stables, an’ never does a tap of work, an’ I manage to scratch my meal-ticket an’ my clothes. It’s got my goat the way things is run. An’ who runs ‘em that way? That’s what I want to know. Times has changed. Who changed ‘em?
Jack London, ‘The Valley of the Moon’