f the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls
preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was
full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the
rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of
the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper.
Besides being full of these the air was heavily laden with dust and
disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had
been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those
employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff Reform
Paradise--they had Plenty of Work.

At twelve o'clock Bob Crass--the painters' foreman--blew a blast upon a
whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the
apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large
galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By
the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated
tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each man on the
'job' paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar--they did not
have milk--and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at
dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune.

Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about
eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the
fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser,
formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered
with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and
plaster. A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the
walls, and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner.

As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin
with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them
brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their
laps or placed on the floor beside them.

At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but
the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater
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-looki