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 labourers.

`Well it oughter be all right,' retorted Bert; `it's been bilin' ever
since 'arf past eleven.'

Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years
of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were
part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long
ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather lightly and
scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots.
The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched
with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original
fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several
sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack.
He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat
there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers
that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.

`Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've bin usin'
up wot was left yesterday,' continued Sawkins.

`Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone?' said Harlow,
another painter. `If you don't like the tea you needn't drink it.
For my part, I'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.'

`It's all very well for you to say I needn't drink it,' answered