"The bloomin' miracles," Bindle called the little army that transformed the place in the course of a few hours.
When first told of the system he had been incredulous, and on applying for a job to the foreman in charge he remarked:
"I've 'eard tell of dumb dawgs, mebbe it's true, and dumb waiters; but dumb painters—I won't believe it—it ain't natural."
The foreman had eyed him deliberately; then in a contemptuous tone, remarked:
"If you get this job you've got to go without winkin' or breathin' in case you make a noise. If you want to cough you've got to choke; if you want to sneeze you've got to bust instead. You'll get to like it in time."
"Sounds pleasant," remarked Bindle drily; "still, I'll join," he added with decision, "though it's like bein' a night-watchman in a museum."
The hours were awkward and the restrictions severe, but the pay was good, and Bindle had in his mind's eye the irate form of Mrs. Bindle with her inevitable interrogation, "Got a job?"
"You starts at eleven p.m.," proceeded the foreman, "and you leaves off at eight next mornin'—if you're lucky. If y'ain't you gets the sack, and leaves all the same."
At first Bindle found the work inexpressibly dreary. To be within a few yards of a fellow-creature and debarred from speaking to him was
