“Look ’ere, Crass!” he said. “I’m not at all satisfied with the way you’re gettin’ on with the work. You must push the chaps a bit more than you’re doin’. There’s not enough being done, by a long way. We shall lose money over this job before we’re finished!”
Crass—whose fat face had turned a ghastly green with fright—mumbled something about getting on with it as fast as he could.
“Well, you’ll ’ave to make ’em move a bit quicker than this!” Misery howled, “or there’ll ’ave to be a ALTERATION!”
By an “alteration” Crass understood that he might get the sack, or that someone else might be put in charge of the job, and that would of course reduce him to the ranks and do away with his chance of being kept on longer than the others. He determined to try to ingratiate himself with Hunter and appease his wrath by sacrificing someone else. He glanced cautiously into the kitchen and up the passage and then, lowering his voice, he said:
“They all shapes pretty well, except Newman. I would ’ave told you about ’im before, but I thought I’d give ’im a fair chance. I’ve spoke to ’im several times myself about not doin’ enough, but it don’t seem to make no difference.”
“I’ve ’ad me eye on ’im meself for some time,” replied Nimrod in the same tone. “Anybody would think the work was goin’ to be sent to a Exhibition, the way ’e messes about with it, rubbing it with glasspaper and stopping up every little crack! I can’t understand where ’e gets all the glasspaper FROM.”
“’E brings it ’isself!” said Crass hoarsely. “I know for a fact that ’e bought two ’a’penny sheets of it, last week out of ’is own money!”
“Oh, ’e did, did ’e?” snarled Misery. “I’ll give ’im glasspaper! I’ll ’ave a Alteration!”
He went into the hall, where he remained alone for a considerable time, brooding. At last, with the manner of one who has resolved on a certain course of action, he turned and entered the room where Philpot and Harlow were working.
“You both get sevenpence an hour, don’t you?” he said.