When the two men regained the upper landing on which they were working they exchanged significant glances and laughed quietly. Hearing these half-suppressed sounds of merriment, Philpot, who was working alone in a room close by, put his head out of the doorway.
“Wot’s the game?” he inquired in a low voice.
“Ole Crass ain’t arf wild about Owen doin’ that room,” replied Harlow, and repeated the substance of Crass’s remarks.
“It is a bit of a take-down for the bleeder, ain’t it, ’avin’ to play second fiddle,” said Philpot with a delighted grin.
“’E’s ’opin’ Owen’ll make a mess of it,” Easton whispered.
“Well, ’e’ll be disappointed, mate,” answered Philpot. “I was workin’ along of Owen for Pushem and Sloggem about two year ago, and I seen ’im do a job down at the Royal ’Otel—the smokin’-room ceilin’ it was—and I can tell you it looked a bloody treat!”
“I’ve heard tell of it,” said Harlow.
“There’s no doubt Owen knows ’is work,” remarked Easton, “although ’e is a bit orf is onion about Socialism.”
“I don’t know so much about that, mate,” returned Philpot. “I agree with a lot that ’e ses. I’ve often thought the same things meself, but I can’t talk like ’im, ’cause I ain’t got no ’ead for it.”
“I agree with some of it too,” said Harlow with a laugh, “but all the same ’e does say some bloody silly things, you must admit. For instance, that stuff about money bein’ the cause of poverty.”