| Title | The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists |
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| Page | 15 |
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| Chapter | -- |
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| Text |
As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their laps or placed on the floor beside them. At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire. `I don't think much of this bloody tea,' suddenly remarked Sawkins, one of the labourers. `Well it oughter be all right,' retorted Bert; `it's been bilin' ever since 'arf past eleven.' Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather lightly and scarcely reaching the top of his |
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