“I should ’ave thought it would pay you better to use a ’orse for sich work as that,” said Grinder.
“We do use the horses whenever it’s necessary for very big loads, you know,” answered Rushton, and added with a laugh: “But the donkeys are quite strong enough for such a job as that.”
The “donkeys” struggled on up the hill for about another hundred yards and then they were forced to halt again.
“We mustn’t stop long, you know,” said Harlow. “Most likely he’s gone to the job, and he’ll wait to see how long it takes us to get there.”
Barrington felt inclined to say that in that case Rushton would have to wait, but he remained silent, for he remembered that although he personally did not care a brass button whether he got the sack or not, the others were not so fortunately circumstanced.
Whilst they were resting, another two-legged donkey passed by pushing another cart—or rather, holding it back, for he was coming slowly down the hill. Another Heir of all the ages—another Imperialist—a degraded, brutalized wretch, clad in filthy, stinking rags, his toes protruding from the rotten broken boots that were tied with bits of string upon his stockingless feet. The ramshackle cart was loaded with empty bottles and putrid rags, heaped loosely in the cart and packed into a large sack. Old coats and trousers, dresses, petticoats, and under-clothing, greasy, mildewed and malodorous. As he crept along with his eyes on the ground, the man gave utterance at intervals to uncouth, inarticulate sounds.
“That’s another way of gettin’ a livin’,” said Sawkins with a laugh as the miserable creature slunk past.
Harlow also laughed, and Barrington regarded them curiously. He thought it strange that they did not seem to realize that they might some day become like this man themselves.
“I’ve often wondered what they does with all them dirty old rags,” said Philpot.
“Made into paper,” replied Harlow, briefly.