As each man came in he filled his cup, jam jar, or condensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them brought their food in little wicker baskets, which they held on their laps, or placed on the floor beside them.
At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and the frizzling of the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire.
“I don’t think much of this bloody tea,” suddenly remarked Sawkins, one of the laborers.
“Well, it oughter be all right,” retorted Bert; “it’s bin bilin’ ever since ‘arf past eleven....”
“Has anyone seen old Jack Linden since ‘e got the push?” inquired Harlow.
“I seen ’im Saturday,” said Slyme.
“Is ‘e doin’ anything?”
“I don’t know: I didn’t ‘ave time to speak to ’im.”
“No, ‘e ain’t got nothing,” remarked Philpot. “I seen ’im Saturday night, an’ ‘e told me ‘e’s been walkin’ about ever since.”
Philpot did not add that he had “lent” Linden a shilling, which he never expected to see again.