|Title||The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists|
`Where's Harlow go to, then?' he demanded of Philpot. `'E wasn't 'ere just now, when I came up.'
`'E's gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,' replied Joe, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. `'E'll be back in 'arf a mo.' And indeed at that moment Harlow was just coming upstairs again.
`'Ere, we can't allow this kind of thing in workin' hours, you know.' Hunter bellowed. `There's plenty of time for that in the dinner hour!'
Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which Easton and Owen had been painting. He stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with that done by Sawkins in the attics. Misery was not a painter himself: he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the quality of the work: to him it was