His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather lightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots.

The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags.

His coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack.

He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
'Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've bin usin' up wot was left yesterday,' continued Sawkins.
'Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone ?' said Harlow, another painter.

'If you don't like the tea you needn't drink it.