|Title||The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists|
`I'm afraid it's a frost, mate,' Harlow whispered, and Philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little while he
came out again and once more accosted Harlow.
`I knowed a case once,' he said in a melancholy tone, `where a chap died - of thirst - on a job just like this; and at the inquest the doctor said as 'arf a pint would 'a saved 'im!'
`It must 'ave been a norrible death,' remarked Harlow.
`'Orrible ain't the work for it, mate,' replied Philpot, mournfully. `It was something chronic!'
After this final heartrending appeal to Sweater's humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their
efforts, they had done their best. They had placed the matter fully and fairly before him: nothing more could be said: the issue now rested entirely with him.
But it was all in vain. Sweater either did not or would not understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the cap which Philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floor.