the room and it might just as well be him as anyone else. We must make the best of it, that’s all.’
Easton stood with his back to the fire, staring gloomily at her.
‘Yes, I suppose that’s the right way to look at it,’ he replied at length, ‘If we can’t stand it, we’ll give up the house and take a couple of rooms, or a small flat – if we can get one.’
Ruth agreed, although neither alternative was very inviting. The unwelcome alteration in their circumstances was after all not altogether without its compensations, because from the moment of arriving at this decision their love for each other seemed to be renewed and intensified. They remembered with acute regret that hitherto they had not always fully appreciated the happiness of that exclusive companionship of which there now remained to them but one week more. For once the present was esteemed at its proper value, being invested with some of the glamour which almost always envelops the past.
On Tuesday – the day after his interview with Rushton – Owen remained at home working at the drawings. He did not get them finished, but they were so far advanced that he thought he would be able to complete them after tea on Wednesday evening. He did not go to work until after breakfast on Wednesday and his continued absence served to confirm the opinion of the other workmen that he had been discharged. This belief was further strengthened by the fact that a new hand had been sent to the house by Hunter, who came himself also at about a quarter past seven and very nearly caught Philpot in the act of smoking.
During breakfast, Philpot, addressing Crass and referring to Hunter, inquired anxiously:
“Ow’s ‘is temper this mornin’, Bob?’
‘As mild as milk,’ replied Crass. ‘You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in ‘is mouth.’
‘Seemed quite pleased with ‘isself, didn’t ‘e?’ said Harlow.
‘Yes,’ remarked Newman. “E said good morning to me!’
‘So ‘e did to me!’ said Easton. “E come inter the drorin’-room an’ ‘e ses, “Oh, you’re in ‘ere are yer, Easton,” ’e ses – just like that, quite affable like. So I ses, “Yes sir.” “Well,”’e ses, “get it slobbered over as quick as you can,” ’e ses, “’cos we ain’t got much for this job: don’t spend a lot of time puttying up. Just smear it over an’ let it go!”’
“E certinly seemed very pleased about something,’ said Harlow. ‘I thought prap’s there was a undertaking job in: one o’ them generally puts ‘im in a good humour.’
‘I believe that nothing would please ‘im so much as to see a epidemic break out,’ remarked Philpot. ‘Small-pox, Hinfluenza, Cholery morbus, or anything like that.’
‘Yes: don’t you remember ‘ow good-tempered ‘e was last summer when there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?’ observed Harlow.
‘Yes,’ said Crass with a chuckle. ‘I recollect we ‘ad six children’s funerals to do in one week. Ole Misery was as pleased as Punch, because of course as a rule there ain’t many boxin’-up jobs in the summer. It’s in winter as hundertakers reaps their ‘arvest.’
‘We ain’t ‘ad very many this winter, though, so far,’ said Harlow.
‘Not so many as usual,’ admitted Crass, ‘but still, we can’t grumble: we’ve ‘ad one nearly every week since the beginning of October. That’s not so bad, you know.’
Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of Rushton & Co.’s business. He always had the job of polishing or varnishing the coffin and assisting to take it home and to ‘lift in’ the corpse, besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. This work was more highly paid for than painting.
‘But I don’t think there’s no funeral job in,’ added Crass after a pause. ‘I think it’s because ‘e’s glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh ask me.’
‘Praps that ‘as got something to do with it,’ said Harlow. ‘But all the same I don’t call that a proper way to treat anyone – givin’ a man the push in that way just because ‘e ‘appened to ‘ave a spite against ‘im.’
‘It’s wot I call a bl—dy shame!’ cried Philpot. ‘Owen’s a chap wots always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and ‘e knows ‘is work, although ‘e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when ‘e gets on about Socialism.’
‘I suppose Misery didn’t say nothin’ about ‘im this mornin’?’ inquired Easton.
‘No,’ replied Crass, and added: ‘I only ‘ope Owen don’t think as I ever said anything against ‘im. ‘E looked at me very funny that night after Nimrod went away. Owen needn’t think nothing like that about me, because I’m a chap like this – if I couldn’t do nobody no good, I wouldn’t never do ‘em no ‘arm!’
At this some of the others furtively exchanged significant glances, and Harlow began to smile, but no one said anything.
Philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not helped himself to any tea, called Bert’s attention to the fact and the boy filled Owen’s cup and passed it over to the new hand.
Their conjectures regarding the cause of Hunter’s good humour were all wrong. As the reader knows, Owen had not been discharged at all, and there was nobody dead. The real reason was that, having decided to take on another man. Hunter had experienced no difficulty in getting one at the same reduced rate as that which Newman was working for, there being such numbers of men out of employment. Hitherto the usual rate of pay in Mugsborough had been sevenpence an hour for skilled painters. The reader will remember that Newman consented to accept a job at sixpence halfpenny. So far none of the other workmen knew that Newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure whether he was the only one or not. The man whom Hunter had taken on that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep his own counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out what the others were getting.
Just before half past eight Owen arrived and was immediately assailed with questions as to what had transpired at the office. Crass listened with ill-concealed chagrin to Owen’s account, but most of the others were genuinely pleased.
‘But what a way to speak to anybody!’ observed Harlow, referring to Hunter’s manner on the previous Monday night.
‘You know, I reckon if ole Misery ‘ad four legs, ‘e’d make a very good pig,’ said Philpot, solemnly, ‘and you can’t expect nothin’ from a pig but a grunt.’
During the morning, as Easton and Owen were working together in the drawing-room, the former remarked:
‘Did I tell you I had a room I wanted to let, Frank?’
‘Yes, I think you did.’
‘Well, I’ve let it to Slyme. I think he seems a very decent sort of chap, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose he is,’ replied Owen, hesitatingly. ‘I know nothing against him.’
‘Of
