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.' He shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went on with the work.
A little later, Crass, still sitting by the fire, heard footsteps approaching along the passage.

He started up guiltily and, thrusting the hand holding his pipe into his apron pocket, retreated hastily into the scullery.