“Yes. I can’t exactly see that meself,” agreed Philpot.
“We must tackle ’im about that at dinner-time,” said Harlow. “I should rather like to ’ear ’ow ’e makes it out.”
“For Gord’s sake don’t go startin’ no arguments at dinner-time,” said Easton. “Leave ’im alone when ’e is quiet.”
“Yes; let’s ’ave our dinner in peace, if possible,” said Philpot. “Sh!!” he added, hoarsely, suddenly holding up his hand warningly. They listened intently. It was evident from the creaking of the stairs that someone was crawling up them. Philpot instantly disappeared. Harlow lifted up the pail of whitewash and set it down again noisily.
“I think we’d better ’ave the steps and the plank over this side, Easton,” he said in a loud voice.
“Yes. I think that’ll be the best way,” replied Easton.
While they were arranging their scaffold to do the ceiling Crass arrived on the landing. He made no remark at first, but walked into the room to see how many ceilings they had done.
“You’d better look alive, you chaps,” he said as he went downstairs again. “If we don’t get these ceilings finished by dinner-time, Nimrod’s sure to ramp.”
“All right,” said Harlow, gruffly. “We’ll bloody soon slosh ’em over.”
“Slosh” was a very suitable word; very descriptive of the manner in which the work was done. The cornices of the staircase ceilings were enriched with plaster ornaments. These ceilings were supposed to have been washed off, but as the men who were put to do that work had not been allowed sufficient time to do it properly, the crevices of the ornaments were still filled up with old whitewash, and by the time Harlow and Easton had “sloshed” a lot more whitewash on to them they were mere formless unsightly lumps of plaster. The “hands” who did the “washing off” were not to blame. They had been hunted away from the work before it was half done.