|Title||The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists|
`they've got no bloody right to do it! We're entitled to an hour's notice.'
`Of course we are!' cried Philpot, his goggle eyes rolling wildly with wrath. `And I should 'ave it too, if it was me. You take my tip, Frank: CHARGE UP TO SIX O'CLOCK on yer time sheet and get some of your own back.'
Everyone joined in the outburst of indignant protest. Everyone, that is, except Crass and Slyme. But then they were not exactly in the kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, and so it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged significant looks.
Owen had by this time recovered his self-possession. He collected all his tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag with the purpose of taking them with him that night, but on reflection he resolved not to do so. After all, it was not absolutely certain that he was going to be `stood off': possibly they were going to send him on some other job.