Within easy reach was the top of a cupboard where he had concealed a pint of beer in a bottle.

To this he now applied himself.

Having taken a long pull at the bottle, he tenderly replaced it on the top of the cupboard and proceeded to 'hinjoy' a quiet smoke, remarking to himself: 'This is where we get some of our own back.' He held, however, his trowel in one hand, ready for immediate action in case of interruption.
Philpot was about fifty-five years old.

He wore no white jacket, only an old patched apron; his trousers were old, very soiled with paint and ragged at the bottoms of the legs where they fell over the much-patched, broken and down-at-heel boots.

The part of his waistcoat not protected by his apron was covered with spots of dried paint.