|Title||The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists|
patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
`Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've bin usin' up wot was left yesterday,' continued Sawkins.
`Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone?' said Harlow, another painter. `If you don't like the tea you needn't drink it. For my part, I'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.'
`It's all very well for you to say I needn't drink it,' answered Sawkins,