from his brow as
Misery began crawling downstairs again.

'Where's Harlow go to, then?' he demanded of Philpot. ''E wasn't 'ere
just now, when I came up.'

''E's gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,' replied Joe, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. ''E'll be back in 'arf
a mo.' And indeed at that moment Harlow was just coming upstairs again.

''Ere, we can't allow this kind of thing in workin' hours, you know.'
Hunter bellowed. 'There's plenty of time for that in the dinner hour!'

Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which Easton and Owen had
been painting. He stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally
comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with
that done by Sawkins in the attics. Misery was not a painter himself:
he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the
quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain
painting.

'I believe it would pay us a great deal better,' he thought to himself,
'if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like Sawkins.' And
with his mind filled with this reflection he shortly afterwards sneaked
stealthily from the house.

Chapter 14

Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence

Owen spent the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the
drawing-room making pencil sketches in his pocket-book and taking
measurements. In the evening after leaving off, instead of going
straight home as usual he went round to the Free Library to see if he
could find anything concerning Moorish decorative work in any of the
books there. Although it was only a small and ill-equipped institution
he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations of several examples
of which he made sketches. After about an hour spent this way, as he
was proceeding homewards he observed two children--a boy and a
girl--whose appearance seemed familiar. They were standing at the
window of a sweetstuff shop examining the wares exposed therein. As
Owen came up the children turned round and the recognized each other
simultaneously. They were Charley and Elsie Linden. Owen spoke to
them as he drew near and the boy appealed to him for his opinion
concerning a dispute they had been having.

'I say, mister. Which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of
everlasting stickjaw torfee, or a prize packet?'

'I'd rather have a prize packet,' replied Owen, unhesitatingly.

'There! I told you so!' cried El