inder the fruit-merchant is goin' to open it again. If
it's true, there'll be a bit of a job there for someone, because it'll
'ave to be done up.'

'Well, I hope it does come orf replied Philpot. 'It'll be a job for
some poor b--rs.'

'I wonder if they've started anyone yet on the venetian blinds for this
'ouse?' remarked Easton after a pause.

'I don't know,' replied Philpot.

They relapsed into silence for a while.

'I wonder what time it is?' said Philpot at length. 'I don't know 'ow
you feel, but I begin to want my dinner.'

'That's just what I was thinking; it can't be very far off it now. It's
nearly 'arf an hour since Bert went down to make the tea. It seems a
'ell of a long morning to me.'

'So it does to me,' said Philpot; 'slip upstairs and ask Slyme what
time it is.'

Harlow laid his brush across the top of his paint-pot and went
upstairs. He was wearing a pair of cloth slippers, and walked softly,
not wishing that Crass should hear him leaving his work, so it happened
that without any intention of spying on Slyme, Harlow reached the door
of the room in which the former was working without being heard and,
entering suddenly, surprised Slyme--who was standing near the
fireplace--in the act of breaking a whole roll of wallpaper across his
knee as one might break a stick. On the floor beside him was what had
been another roll, now broken into two pieces. When Harlow came in,
Slyme started, and his face became crimson with confusion. He hastily
gathered the broken rolls together and, stooping down, thrust the
pieces up the flue of the grate and closed the register.

'Wot's the bloody game?' inquired Harlow.

Slyme laughed with an affectation of carelessness, but his hands
trembled and his face was now very pale.

'We must get our own back somehow, you know, Fred,' he said.

Harlow did not reply. He did not understand. After puzzling over it
for a few minutes, he gave it up.

'What's the time?' he asked.

'Fifteen minutes to twelve,' said Slyme and added, as Harlow was going
away: 'Don't mention anything about that paper to Crass or any of the
others.'

'I shan't say nothing,' replied Harlow.

Gradually, as he pondered over it, Harlow began to comprehend the
meaning of the destruction of the two rolls of paper. Slyme was doing
the paperhanging piecework--so much for each roll hung. Four of the
rooms upstairs had been done with the same pattern, and Hunter--who was
not over-skilfu