By this time the violence of the storm had in a great measure abated, but as rain was still falling it was decided not to attempt to resume work that day. Besides, it would have been too late, even if the weather had cleared up.
“P’raps it’s just as well it ’as rained,” remarked one man. “If it ’adn’t some of us might ’ave got the sack tonight. As it is, there’ll be hardly enough for all of us to do tomorrer and Saturday mornin’ even if it is fine.”
This was true: nearly all the outside was finished, and what remained to be done was ready for the final coat. Inside all there was to do was to colour wash the walls and to give the woodwork of the kitchen and scullery the last coat of paint.
It was inevitable—unless the firm had some other work for them to do somewhere else—that there would be a great slaughter on Saturday.
“Now,” said Philpot, assuming what he meant to be the manner of a school teacher addressing children, “I wants you hall to make a speshall heffort and get ’ere very early in the mornin’—say about four o’clock—and them wot doos the most work tomorrer, will get a prize on Saturday.”
“What’ll it be, the sack?” inquired Harlow.
“Yes,” replied Philpot, “and not honly will you get a prize for good conduck tomorrer, but if you all keep on workin’ like we’ve bin doing lately till you’re too hold and wore hout to do any more, you’ll be allowed to go to a nice workhouse for the rest of your lives! and each one of you will be given a title—‘Pauper!’”
And they laughed!
Although the majority of them had mothers or fathers or other near relatives who had already succeeded to the title—they laughed!
As they were going home, Crass paused at the gate, and pointing up to the large gable at the end of the house, he said to Philpot: