“I mean to tackle ’im about it at breakfast-time. I don’t see why ’e should be allowed to get out of it like that. There was a bloke down at the ‘Cricketers’ the other night talkin’ about the same thing—a chap as takes a interest in politics and the like, and ’e said the very same as me. Why, the number of men what’s been throwed out of work by all this ’ere new-fangled machinery is something chronic!”
“Of course,” agreed Easton, “everyone knows it.”
“You ought to give us a look in at the ‘Cricketers’ some night. There’s a lot of decent chaps comes there.”
“Yes, I think I will.”
“What ’ouse do you usually use?” asked Crass after a pause.
Easton laughed. “Well, to tell you the truth I’ve not used anywhere’s lately. Been ’avin too many ’ollerdays.”
“That do make a bit of difference, don’t it?” said Crass. “But you’ll be all right ’ere, till this job’s done. Just watch yerself a bit, and don’t get comin’ late in the mornin’s. Old Nimrod’s dead nuts on that.”
“I’ll see to that all right,” replied Easton. “I don’t believe in losing time when there IS work to do. It’s bad enough when you can’t get it.”
“You know,” Crass went on, confidentially. “Between me an’ you an’ the gatepost, as the sayin’ is, I don’t think Mr bloody Owen will be ’ere much longer. Nimrod ’ates the sight of ’im.”
Easton had it in his mind to say that Nimrod seemed to hate the sight of all of them: but he made no remark, and Crass continued: