The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
neath. Philpot realised this all the more because some of the buttons of his coat and waistcoat were missing.
As they worked on, trembling with cold, and with their teeth chattering, their faces and hands turned that pale violet colour generally seen on the lips of a corpse. Their eyes became full of water and the lids were red and inflamed. Philpot's and Harlow's boots were soon wet through, and their feet were sore and intensely painful with cold.
Their hands, of course, suffered the most, becoming so numbed that they were unable to feel the brushes they held; in fact, presently, as Philpot was taking a dip of colour, the brush fell into the pot, and then, finding that he was unable to move his fingers, he put his hand into his trousers pocket to thaw, and began to walk about, stamping his feet upon the ground. His example was quickly followed by Owen, Easton, and Harlow, and they all went round the corner to the sheltered side of the house where Slyme was working, and began walking up and down, rubbing their hands, stamping their feet, and swinging their arms to warm themselves.
'If I thought Nimrod wasn't comin', I'd put my overcoat on and work in it,' remarked Philpot, 'but you never knows when to expect the blighter, and if 'e saw me in it, it would mean the bloody push.'
'It wouldn't interfere with our workin' if we did wear 'em,' said Easton, 'in fact, we'd be able to work all the quicker if we wasn't so cold.'
'Even if Misery didn't come, I suppose Crass would 'ave something to say if we put 'em on,' continued Philpot.
'Well, yer couldn't blame 'im if 'e did say something, could yer?' said Slyme, offensively. 'Crass would get into a row 'imself if 'Unter came and saw us workin' in overcoats. It would look ridiclus.'
Slyme suffered less from the cold than any of them, not only because he had secured the most sheltered window, but also because he was better clothed than most of the rest.
'What's Crass supposed to be doin' inside?' asked Easton, as he tramped up and down, with his shoulders hunched up and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers.
'Blowed if I know,' replied Philpot; 'messin' about touchin up or makin' colour. He never does 'is share of a job like this; 'e knows 'ow to work things all right for 'isself.'
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