“I don’t think much of this bloody tea,” suddenly remarked Sawkins, one of the labourers.
“Well it oughter be all right,” retorted Bert; “it’s been bilin’ ever since ’arf past eleven.”
Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
“Well then, you can’t have put enough tea in, or else you’ve bin usin’ up wot was left yesterday,” continued Sawkins.
“Why the bloody ’ell don’t you leave the boy alone?” said Harlow, another painter. “If you don’t like the tea you needn’t drink it. For my part, I’m sick of listening to you about it every damn day.”
“It’s all very well for you to say I needn’t drink it,” answered Sawkins, “but I’ve paid my share an’ I’ve got a right to express an opinion. It’s my belief that ’arf the money we gives him is spent on penny ’orribles: ’e’s always got one in ’is hand, an’ to make wot tea ’e does buy last, ’e collects all the slops wot’s left and biles it up day after day.”
“No, I don’t!” said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. “It’s not me wot buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and ’e buys them ’imself, so there!”
At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.
“You’d better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after this week,” he said, addressing Sawkins, “and then p’raps we’ll ’ave a little peace at meal-times.”
“An’ you needn’t ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,” added Bert, tearfully, ’cos I won’t do it.”