y you at my expense; I have said
it, and you can believe it."

I got up every morning before sunrise, and went to bed early. We
house painters ate a great deal and slept soundly; the only thing
amiss was that my heart used to beat violently at night. I did not
quarrel with my mates. Violent abuse, desperate oaths, and wishes
such as, "Blast your eyes," or "Cholera take you," never ceased all
day, but, nevertheless, we lived on very friendly terms. The other
fellows suspected me of being some sort of religious sectary, and
made good-natured jokes at my expense, saying that even my own
father had disowned me, and thereupon would add that they rarely
went into the temple of God themselves, and that many of them had
not been to confession for ten years. They justified this laxity
on their part by saying that a painter among men was like a jackdaw
among birds.

The men had a good opinion of me, and treated me with respect; it
was evident that my not drinking, not smoking, but leading a quiet,
steady life pleased them very much. It was only an unpleasant shock
to them that I took no hand in stealing oil and did not go with
them to ask for tips from people on whose property we were working.
Stealing oil and paints from those who employed them was a house
painter's custom, and was not regarded as theft, and it was remarkable
that even so upright a man as Radish would always carry away a
little white lead and oil as he went home from work. And even the
most respectable old fellows, who owned the houses in which they
lived in the suburb, were not ashamed to ask for a tip, and it made
me feel vexed and ashamed to see the men go in a body to congratulate
some nonentity on the commencement or the completion of the job,
and thank him with degrading servility when they had received a few
coppers.

With people on whose work they were engaged they behaved like wily
courtiers, and almost every day I was reminded of Shakespeare's
Polonius.

"I fancy it is going to rain," the man whose house was being painted
would say, looking at the sky.

"It is, there is not a doubt it is," the painters would agree.

"I don't think it is a rain-cloud, though. Perhaps it won't rain
after all."

"No, it won't, your honour! I am sure it won't."

But their attitude to their patrons behind their backs was usually
one of irony, and when they saw, for instance, a gentleman sitting
in the verandah reading a newspaper, they would observe:

"He read