Page:Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.djvu/191

The Reign of Terror day,' replied Harlow, 'and I heard Misery tell 'im it was impossible to make a perfect job of such old doors.'

'I believe that man's the biggest liar Gord ever made,' said Easton; an opinion in which Harlow entirely concurred.

'I wonder what the time is?' said the latter after a pause.

'I don't know exactly,' replied Easton, 'but it can't be far off twelve.'

E don't seem to be comin' does 'e?' Harlow continued.

'No: and I shouldn't be surprised if 'e didn't turn up at all, now. P'rap's 'e don't mean to stop nobody to-day after all.'

They spoke in hushed tones and glanced cautiously about them, fearful of being heard or observed.

'This is a bloody life, ain't it?' Harlow said, bitterly. 'We works our guts out like a lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and then as soon as they've done with you, you're chucked aside like a dirty rag.'

'Yes: and I begin to think that a great deal of what Owen says is true. But for my part I can't see 'ow it's ever goin' to be altered, can you?'

'Blowed if I know, mate. But whether it can be altered or not, there's one thing very certain; it won't be done in our time.'

Neither of them seemed to think that if the 'alteration' they spoke of were to be accomplished at all they themselves would have to help to bring it about.

'I wonder what they're doin' about the venetian blinds?' said Easton, 'is there anyone doin' 'em yet?'

'I don't know; ain't 'eard nothing about 'em since the boy took 'em to the shop.'

There was quite a mystery about these blinds. About a month ago they were taken to the paint shop down at the 'yard' to be re-painted and re-harnessed, and since then nothing had been heard of them by the men working at the 'Cave.'

'P'raps a couple of us will be sent there to do 'em next week,' remarked Harlow.

'P'rap's so. Most likely they'll 'ave to be done in a bloody 'urry at the last minute.'

Presently Harlow—who was very anxious to know what time it was—went downstairs to ask Slyme. It was twenty minutes to twelve.

From the window of the room where Slyme was papering, 179