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The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

Preface

In writing this book my intention was to present, in the form of an
interesting story, a faithful picture of working-class life - more
especially of those engaged in the Building trades - in a small town
in the south of England.

I wished to describe the relations existing between the workmen and
their employers, the attitude and feelings of these two classes
towards each other; their circumstances when at work and when out of
employment; their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their
religious and political opinions and ideals.

The action of the story covers a period of only a little over twelve
months, but in order that the picture might be complete it was
necessary to describe how the workers are circumstanced at all periods
of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. Therefore the
characters include women and children, a young boy - the apprentice -
some improvers, journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men.

I designed to show the conditions relating from poverty and
unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal
with them and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy,
namely - Socialism. I intended to explain what Socialists understand
by the word `poverty': to define the Socialist theory of the causes of
poverty, and to explain how Socialists propose to abolish poverty.

It may be objected that, considering the number of books dealing with
these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for.
The answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to
Socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average
anti-socialist is sufficient to show that he does not know what
Socialism means. The same is true of all the anti-socialist writers
and the `great statesmen' who make anti-socialist speeches: unless we
believe that they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve
their own interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude
that they do not understand Socialism. There is no other possible
explanation of the extraordinary things they write and say. The thing
they cry out against is not Socialism but a phantom of their own
imagining.

Another answer is that `The Philanthropists' is not a treatise or
essay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story full
of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the
subject of Socialism being treated incidentally.

This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is
for others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at
least one merit - that of being true. I have invented nothing. There
are no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not either
witnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared I
let the characters express themselves in their own sort of language
and consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At
the same time I believe that - because it is true - the book is not
without its humorous side.

The scenes and characters are typical of every town in the South of
England and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. If
the book is published I think it will appeal to a very large number of
readers. Because it is true it will probably be denounced as a libel
on the working classes and their employers, and upon the
religious-professing section of the community. But I believe it will
be acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend
their lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident
that no attack is made upon sincere religion.

Chapter 1:

An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious
Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves

The house was named `The Cave'. It was a large old-fashioned
three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and
situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back
nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means
of a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of
hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied
for many years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new
owner by the firm of Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators.

There were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there,
carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides
several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the
old ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made
into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron
girder. Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they
were being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked
and broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were cut
through walls and doors were being put where no doors had been before.
Old broken chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being
taken up and fixed in their places. All the old whitewash had to be
washed off the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off
the walls preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The
air was full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of
trowels, the rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the
scraping of the stripping knives used by those who were removing the
old wallpaper. Besides being full of these the air was heavily laden
with dust and disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the
dirt that had been accumulating within the old house for years. In
brief, those employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff
Reform Paradise - they had Plenty of Work.

At twelve o'clock Bob Crass - the painters' foreman - blew a blast
upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the
apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large
galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor.
By the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs,
dilapidated tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each
man on the `job' paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar -
they did not have milk - and although they had tea at breakfast-time
as well as at dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a
fortune.

Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of
about eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front
of the fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the
dresser, formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was
covered with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar
and plaster. A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the
walls, and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one
corner.

As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin
with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them
brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their
laps or placed on the floor beside them.

At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard
but the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater
which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a
pointed stick at the fire.

`I don't think much of this bloody tea,' suddenly remarked Sawkins,
one of the labourers.

`Well it oughter be all right,' retorted Bert; `it's been bilin' ever
since 'arf past eleven.'

Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years
of age and about four feet nine inches in height. 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.
For my part, I'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.'

`It's all very well for you to say I needn't drink it,' answered
Sawkins, `but I've paid my share an' I've got a right to express an
opinion. It's my belief that 'arf the money we gives 'him is spent on
penny 'orribles: 'e's always got one in 'is hand, an' to make wot tea
'e does buy last, 'e collects all the slops wot's left and biles it up
day after day.'

`No, I don't!' said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. `It's not me
wot buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and 'e
buys them 'imself, so there!'

At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant
glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.

`You'd better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after
this week,' he said, addressing Sawkins, `and then p'raps we'll 'ave a
little peace at meal-times.'

`An' you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,'
added Bert, tearfully, `cos I won't do it.'

Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve
months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a
simple labourer, but since then he had `picked up' a slight knowledge
of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a
white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The
others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition,
but his wages - fivepence an hour - were twopence an hour less than
the standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a
better workman was `stood off' when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he
was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and
the `Bloke'. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by
his new mates `not to let the b--r Sawkins see anything.'

The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of
the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that
followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.

`How did you get on yesterday?' asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the
plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the Daily
Obscurer.

`No luck,' replied Bundy, gloomily. `I had a bob each way on
Stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.'

This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two
others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow's
races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion
of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence
for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned
Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the
syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper.
He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that
there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in
racing or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion
and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally
admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had
little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about
thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built
that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his
clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an
unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks.

There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his
fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions
on the subjects mentioned.

The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox
opinions. If anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon
discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small
class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity
of the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very
great number - in fact the majority of the people - lived on the verge
of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of
semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but
still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by
privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a
period to their misery. And strangest of all - in his opinion - he
saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by
work, were the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived
in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all
this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such
results was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and
eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might
be done.

It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that
his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably
something wrong with his mind.

When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their
contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and
when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy
had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some
carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection.
Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was
devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned
Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate
or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted
him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his
coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same
intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another
who took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who,
having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back
into his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly
filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence.

Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy
gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough.
This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was
commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to
induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered
amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the
gentleman's, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been
disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job
in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he
hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery
may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of
the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was
employed as a painter's labourer at the usual wages - fivepence per
hour.

He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the
majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and
slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to
learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved
in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with
his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and
it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on
the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought
and unconscious of his surroundings.

Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation
ensued.

`Is the gent what's bought this 'ouse any relation to Sweater the
draper?' asked Payne, the carpenter's foreman.

`It's the same bloke,' replied Crass.

`Didn't he used to be on the Town Council or something?'

`'E's bin on the Council for years,' returned Crass. `'E's on it now.
'E's mayor this year. 'E's bin mayor several times before.'

`Let's see,' said Payne, reflectively, `'e married old Grinder's
sister, didn't 'e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.'

`Yes, I believe he did,' said Crass.

`It wasn't Grinder's sister,' chimed in old Jack Linden. `It was 'is
niece. I know, because I remember working in their 'ouse just after
they was married, about ten year ago.'

`Oh yes, I remember now,' said Payne. `She used to manage one of
Grinder's branch shops didn't she?'

`Yes,' replied Linden. `I remember it very well because there was a
lot of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used
to be a regler 'ot un: no one never thought as he'd ever git married
at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what
used to work for him.'

This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief
silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.

`Funny name to call a 'ouse, ain't it?' he said. `"The Cave." I
wonder what made 'em give it a name like that.'

`They calls 'em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,' said old Jack
Linden.

`There's generally some sort of meaning to it, though,' observed
Payne. `For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, 'e
might call 'is 'ouse, "Epsom Lodge" or "Newmarket Villa".'

`Or sometimes there's a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,'
said another man; `then they calls it "Hoak Lodge" or "Cherry
Cottage".'

`Well, there's a cave up at the end of this garden,' said Harlow with
a grin, `you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the 'ouse runs
into; praps they called it after that.'

`Talking about the drains,' said old Jack Linden when the laughter
produced by this elegant joke had ceased. `Talking about the drains,
I wonder what they're going to do about them; the 'ouse ain't fit to
live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to
be done away with.'

`So it is going to be,' replied Crass. `There's going to be a new set
of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with
the main.'

Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this
matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be
adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige
with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.

`That's goin' to cost a good bit,' said Linden.

`Yes, I suppose it will,' replied Crass, `but money ain't no object to
old Sweater. 'E's got tons of it; you know 'e's got a large wholesale
business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the
one 'e's got 'ere.'

Easton was still reading the Obscurer; he was not about to understand
exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at - probably the
latter never intended that anyone should understand - but he was
conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against
foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he
began to think that it was about time we did something to protect
ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question: to tell the
truth, he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length he
said aloud, addressing himself to Crass:

`Wot do you think of this 'ere fissical policy, Bob?'

`Ain't thought much about it,' replied Crass. `I don't never worry my
'ed about politics.'

`Much better left alone,' chimed in old Jack Linden sagely, `argyfying
about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an' does no good to
nobody.'

At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others.
Most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If
two or three men of similar opinions happened to be together they
might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a
mixed company it was better left alone. The 'Fissical Policy'
emanated from the Tory party. That was the reason why some of them
were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were
opposed to it. Some of them were under the delusion that they were
Conservatives: similarly, others imagined themselves to be Liberals.
As a matter of fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much
about the public affairs of their own country as they did of the
condition of affairs in the planet of Jupiter.

Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a
subject, when, looking up from his paper, Owen said:

`Does the fact that you never "trouble your heads about politics"
prevent you from voting at election times?'

No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Easton however, in
spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking.

`Well, I don't go in for politics much, either, but if what's in this
'ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take some interest in
it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.'

`If you're going to believe all that's in that bloody rag you'll want
some salt,' said Harlow.

The Obscurer was a Tory paper and Harlow was a member of the local
Liberal club. Harlow's remark roused Crass.

`Wot's the use of talkin' like that?' he said; `you know very well
that the country IS being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to
buy something; look round the place an' you'll see that more than 'arf
the damn stuff comes from abroad. They're able to sell their goods
'ere because they don't 'ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to
put 'eavy dooties on our goods to keep 'em out of their countries; and
I say it's about time it was stopped.'

`'Ear, 'ear,' said Linden, who always agreed with Crass, because the
latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a
good - or a bad - word for a man to the boss. `'Ear, 'ear! Now
that's wot I call common sense.'

Several other men, for the same reason as Linden, echoed Crass's
sentiments, but Owen laughed contemptuously.

`Yes, it's quite true that we gets a lot of stuff from foreign
countries,' said Harlow, `but they buys more from us than we do from
them.'

`Now you think you know a 'ell of a lot,' said Crass. `'Ow much more
did they buy from us last year, than we did from them?'

Harlow looked foolish: as a matter of fact his knowledge of the
subject was not much wider than Crass's. He mumbled something about
not having no 'ed for figures, and offered to bring full particulars
next day.

`You're wot I call a bloody windbag,' continued Crass; `you've got a
'ell of a lot to say, but wen it comes to the point you don't know
nothin'.'

`Why, even 'ere in Mugsborough,' chimed in Sawkins - who though still
lying on the dresser had been awakened by the shouting - `We're
overrun with 'em! Nearly all the waiters and the cook at the Grand
Hotel where we was working last month is foreigners.'

`Yes,' said old Joe Philpot, tragically, `and then thers all them
Hitalian horgin grinders, an' the blokes wot sells 'ot chestnuts; an'
wen I was goin' 'ome last night I see a lot of them Frenchies sellin'
hunions, an' a little wile afterwards I met two more of 'em comin' up
the street with a bear.'

Notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this intelligence, Owen
again laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it
was a very serious state of affairs. It was a dam' shame that these
people were allowed to take the bread out of English people's mouths:
they ought to be driven into the bloody sea.

And so the talk continued, principally carried on by Crass and those
who agreed with him. None of them really understood the subject: not
one of them had ever devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the
earnest investigation of it. The papers they read were filled with
vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise
imported into this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly
arriving, and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes
they committed, and the injury they did to British trade. These were
the seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up
within them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. To them
the mysterious thing they variously called the `Friscal Policy', the
`Fistical Policy', or the `Fissical Question' was a great Anti-Foreign
Crusade. The country was in a hell of a state, poverty, hunger and
misery in a hundred forms had already invaded thousands of homes and
stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. How came these things to
be? It was the bloody foreigner! Therefore, down with the foreigners
and all their works. Out with them. Drive them b--s into the bloody
sea! The country would be ruined if not protected in some way. This
Friscal, Fistical, Fissical or whatever the hell policy it was called,
WAS Protection, therefore no one but a bloody fool could hesitate to
support it. It was all quite plain - quite simple. One did not need
to think twice about it. It was scarcely necessary to think about it
at all.