“‘E won’t be able to get a job again in a ‘urry,” remarked Easton; “‘e’s too old.”
“You know, after all, you can’t blame Misery for sackin’ ’im,” said Crass after a pause. “‘E was too slow for a funeral.”
“I wonder how much you’ll be able to do when you’re as old as he is?” said Owen.
“Praps I won’t want to do nothing,” replied Crass, with a feeble laugh. “I’m goin’ to live on me means.”
“I should say the best thing old Jack could do would be to go in the workhouse,” said Harlow.
“Yes: I reckon that’s what’ll be the end of it,” said Easton, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“It’s a grand finish, isn’t it?” observed Owen. “After working hard all one’s life to be treated like a criminal at the end.”
“I don’t know what you call bein’ treated like criminals,” exclaimed Crass. “I reckon they ‘as a bloody fine time of it, an’ we’ve got to find the money.”
“Oh, for Gord’s sake, don’t start no more arguments,” cried Harlow, addressing Owen. “We ‘ad enough of that last week. You can’t expect a boss to employ a man when ‘e’s too old to work.”