“Good morning. You’ve begun painting up here, then.”
“Yes, sir, we’ve made a start on it,” replied Philpot, affably.
“Is this door wet?” asked Sweater, glancing apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat.
“Yes, sir,” answered Philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the great man, “the paint is wet, sir, but the PAINTERS is dry.”
“Confound it!” exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter part of Philpot’s reply. “I’ve got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, sir,” cried Philpot, secretly delighted. “I’ll get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just ’arf a mo!”
He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and there was a can of turps in the room. Moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint from Sweater’s sleeve.
“It’s all orf now, sir,” he remarked, as he rubbed the place with a dry part of the rag. “The smell of the turps will go away in about a hour’s time.”
“Thanks,” said Sweater.
Philpot looked at him wistfully, but Sweater evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room.