He soon became a favourite with Owen, for whom he conceived a great respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any special work of any kind to be done it was Owen who did it. On such occasions, Bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to assist Owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy might be allowed to work with him. Bert’s regard for Owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of Crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy’s aspirations. “There’ll be plenty of time for you to think about doin’ fancy work after you’ve learnt to do plain painting,” he would say. This morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, Bert returned with them to the kitchen. “Now let’s see,” said Crass, thoughtfully, “You’ve put the tea in the pail, I s’pose.” “Yes.” “And now you want a job, don’t you?” “Yes,” replied the boy. “Well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and walls.” “All right,” said Bert. When he got as far as the door leading into the scullery he looked round and said: “I’ve got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.” “Never mind about that,” said Crass. “I’ll do them.” Bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded to carry out Crass’s instructions. It was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle only made it seem more so. Bert shivered: he would like to have put his jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this. He lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing up on to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a square yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush. He was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down over the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm, wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt. When he had scrubbed it sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and, taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of the ceiling that he had washed. Then he dropped it back into the pail, and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation. Then he peeped into the kitchen, where Crass was still seated by the fire, smoking and toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed stick. Bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he himself might go and have a warm at the fire. “’E might just as well ’ave let me do them bloaters,” he muttered to himself, regarding Crass malignantly through the crack of the door. “This is a fine job to give to anybody—a cold mornin’ like this.”