“Old Sweater did make some remark about it the other day,” replied Harlow, “and I heard Misery tell ’im it was impossible to make a perfect job of such old doors.”
“I believe that man’s the biggest liar Gord ever made,” said Easton, an opinion in which Harlow entirely concurred.
“I wonder what the time is?” said the latter after a pause.
“I don’t know exactly,” replied Easton, “but it can’t be far off twelve.”
“’E don’t seem to be comin’, does ’e?” Harlow continued.
“No: and I shouldn’t be surprised if ’e didn’t turn up at all, now. P’raps ’e don’t mean to stop nobody today after all.”
They spoke in hushed tones and glanced cautiously about them fearful of being heard or observed.
“This is a bloody life, ain’t it?” Harlow said, bitterly. “Workin’ our guts out like a lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and then as soon as they’ve done with you, you’re chucked aside like a dirty rag.”
“Yes: and I begin to think that a great deal of what Owen says is true. But for my part I can’t see ’ow it’s ever goin’ to be altered, can you?”
“Blowed if I know, mate. But whether it can be altered or not, there’s one thing very certain; it won’t be done in our time.”