|Title||The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists|
|Chapter||The Exterminating Machines|
'Come on, Saturday!' shouted Philpot, just after seven o'clock one Monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work.
It was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by the flickering light of two candles which Crass had lighted and stuck on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve
out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men.
`Yes, it do seem a 'ell of a long week, don't it?' remarked Harlow as he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and blouse. `I've 'ad bloody near enough of it already.'
`Wish to Christ it was breakfast-time,' growled the more easily satisfied Easton.
Extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their work: they did not `love' it. They had no conception of that lofty ideal of `work for work's sake', which is so popular with the people who do nothing.