Most of them would have said the same thing no matter what the circumstances might have been. They had very little sympathy for each other at any time.
Often, when, for instance, one man was sent away from one “job” to another, the others would go into his room and look at the work he had been doing, and pick out all the faults they could find and show them to each other, making all sorts of ill-natured remarks about the absent one meanwhile. “Jist run yer nose over that door, Jim,” one would say in a tone of disgust. “Wotcher think of it? Did yer ever see sich a mess in yer life? Calls hisself a painter!” And the other man would shake his head sadly and say that although the one who had done it had never been up to much as a workman, he could do it a bit better than that if he liked, but the fact was that he never gave himself time to do anything properly: he was always tearing his bloody guts out! Why, he’d only been in this room about four hours from start to finish! He ought to have a watering cart to follow him about, because he worked at such a hell of a rate you couldn’t see him for dust! And then the first man would reply that other people could do as they liked, but for his part, HE was not going to tear his guts out for nobody!
The second man would applaud these sentiments and say that he wasn’t going to tear his out either: and then they would both go back to their respective rooms and tear into the work for all they were worth, making the same sort of “job” as the one they had been criticizing, and afterwards, when the other’s back was turned, each of them in turn would sneak into the other’s room and criticize it and point out the faults to anyone else who happened to be near at hand.
Harlow was working at the place that had been Macaroni’s Cafe when one day a note was sent to him from Hunter at the shop. It was written on a scrap of wallpaper, and worded in the usual manner of such notes—as if the writer had studied how to avoid all suspicion of being unduly civil:
Harlow go to the yard at once take your tools with you.
Crass will tell you where you have to go.
J.H.
They were just finishing their dinners when the boy brought this note; and after reading it aloud for the benefit of the others, Harlow remarked that it was worded in much the same way in which one would speak to a dog. The others said nothing; but after he was gone the other men—who all considered that it was ridiculous for the “likes of us” to expect or wish to be treated with common civility—laughed about it, and said that Harlow was beginning to think he was Somebody: they supposed it was through readin’ all those books what Owen was always lendin’ ’im. And then one of them got a piece of paper and wrote a note to be given to Harlow at the first opportunity. This note was properly worded, written in a manner suitable for a gentleman like him, neatly folded and addressed:
Mr Harlow Esq.,
c/o Macaroni’s Royal Cafe
till called for.
Mister Harlow,
Dear Sir: Wood you kinely oblige me bi cummin to the paint shop as soon as you can make it convenient as there is a sealin’ to be wite-woshed hoppin this is not trubbling you to much
I remane
Yours respeckfully
Pontius Pilate.