foreman?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I see you're getting on with the work here.'

'Ho yes sir, we're beginning to make a bit hov a show now, sir,'
replied Crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth.

'Mr Rushton isn't here yet, I suppose?'

'No, sir: 'e don't horfun come hon the job hin the mornin, sir; 'e
generally comes hafternoons, sir, but Mr 'Unter's halmost sure to be
'ere presently, sir.'

'It's Mr Rushton I want to see: I arranged to meet him here at ten
o'clock; but'--looking at his watch--'I'm rather before my time.'

'He'll be here presently, I suppose,' added Mr Sweater. 'I'll just
take a look round till he comes.'

'Yes, sir,' responded Crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went
out of the room.

Hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, Crass followed him
into the front hall and began explaining what progress had so far been
made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered only by monosyllables
and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation was not
appreciated and returned to the kitchen.

Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman's room and was
discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the
price of a little light refreshment.

'I think,' he remarked, 'that we oughter see-ise this 'ere tuneropperty
to touch 'im for an allowance.'

'We won't git nothin' out of 'IM, mate,' returned Newman. ''E's a
red-'ot teetotaller.'

'That don't matter. 'Ow's 'e to know that we buys beer with it? We
might 'ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all 'e
knows!'

Mr Sweater now began ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently
came into the room where Philpot was. The latter greeted him with
respectful cordiality:

'Good morning, sir.'

'Good morning. You've begun painting up here, then.'

'Yes, sir, we've made a start on it,' replied Philpot, affably.

'Is this door wet?' asked Sweater, glancing apprehensively at the
sleeve of his coat.

'Yes, sir,' answered Philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the
great man, 'the paint is wet, sir, but the PAINTERS is dry.'

'Confound it!' exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter
part of Philpot's reply. 'I've got some of the beastly stuff on my
coat sleeve.'

'Oh, that's nothing, sir,' cried Philpot, secretly delighted. 'I'll
get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just 'arf a mo!'

He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and there was a