He began to walk about the house again.He wanted to go away now, but he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away.
No one saw him go.
For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked.The musical ringing of Bundy's trowel, the noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pair of steps.
No one dared to speak.
At last Philpot could stand it no longer.He was very thirsty.
He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived.
He listened intently.He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room.Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention.Owen looked round and Philpot began to make signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while.This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed.He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know.
Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly.`Was it gorn or not?' he wondered.
He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen's room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer.`Do you think it's gorn?' he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen's door.
`I don't know,' replied Owen in a low tone.
Philpot wondered.He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not.
At last an idea came.He would go downstairs to get some more cement.
Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again.
`Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he asked in a loud voice.
`No,' replied Owen.`I'm not using it.'
`Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some.Is there anything I can bring up for you?'
`No, thanks,' replied Owen.
Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized as a paint-shop.Crass was there mixing some colour.
`I want a bit of stopping,' Philpot said as he helped himself to some.
`Is the b--r gorn?' whispered Crass.
`I don't know,' replied Philpot.`Where's his bike?'
`'E always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied Crass.
`Tell you what,' whispered Philpot, after a pause.`Give the boy a hempty bottle and let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there.
If Misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some hoil.'
This was done.Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately:
the bike was gone.As the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth.
`Thank Gord!' said one.
`Hope the b--r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck,' said another.
`These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any good yet,' cried a third.
Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him.Then they again went on working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that Misery's presence inspired, they made better progress.A few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked.
One of these was old Jack Linden.He was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves.As a rule he did not smoke when working; it was contrary to orders.
As Philpot was returning to work again he paused for a moment to whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him upstairs.
On reaching Philpot's room the latter placed the step-ladder near the cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed it to Linden with the remark, `Get some of that acrost yer, matey; it'll put yer right.'
While Linden was taking a hasty drink, Joe kept watch on the landing outside in case Hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear.
When Linden was gone downstairs again, Philpot, having finished what remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up the chimney, resumed the work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls.He must make a bit of a show tonight or there would be a hell of a row when Misery came in the morning.
Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way.He felt like a beaten dog.
He was more indignant on poor old Linden's account than on his own, and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation.
All his life it had been the same: incessant work under similar more or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being just able to avoid starvation.
And the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past;darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough, when he would be unable to work any more.
