Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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Rushton felt sure that Owen could do it, and was very desirous that he
should undertake it, but he did not want him to know that. He wished
to convey the impression that he was almost indifferent whether Owen
did the work or not. In fact, he wished to seem to be conferring a
favour upon him by procuring him such a nice job as this.

`I'll tell you what I CAN do,' Owen replied. `I can make you a
watercolour sketch - a design - and if you think it good enough, of
course, I can reproduce it on the ceiling and the walls, and I can let
you know, within a little, how long it will take.'

Rushton appeared to reflect. Owen stood examining the photograph and
began to feel an intense desire to do the work.

Rushton shook his head dubiously.

`If I let you spend a lot of time over the sketches and then Mr
Sweater does not approve of your design, where do I come in?'

`Well, suppose we put it like this: I'll draw the design at home in
the evenings - in my own time. If it's accepted, I'll charge you for
the time I've spent upon it. If it's not suitable, I won't charge the
time at all.'

Rushton brightened up considerably. `All right. You can do so,' he
said with an affectation of good nature, `but you mustn't pile it on
too thick, in any case, you know, because, as I said before, 'e don't
want to spend too much money on it. In fact, if it's going to cost a
great deal 'e simply won't 'ave it done at all.'

Rushton knew Owen well enough to be sure that no consideration of time
or pains would prevent him from putting the very best that was in him
into this work. He knew that if the man did the room at all there was
no likelihood of his scamping it for the sake of getting it done
quickly; and for that matter Rushton did not wish him to hurry over
it. All that he wanted to do was to impress upon Owen from the very
first that he must not charge too much time. Any profit that it was
possible to make out of the work, Rushton meant to secure for himself.
He was a smart man, this Rushton, he possessed the ideal character:
the kind of character that is necessary for any man who wishes to
succeed in business - to get on in life. In other words, his
disposition was very similar to that of a pig - he was intensely
selfish.

No one had any right to condemn him for this, because all who live
under the present system practise selfishness, more or less. We must
be selfish: the System demands it. We must be selfish or we shall be
hungry and ragged and finally die in the gutter. The more selfish we
are the better off we shall be. In the `Battle of Life' only the
selfish and cunning are able to survive: all others are beaten down
and trampled under foot. No one can justly be blamed for acting
selfishly - it is a matter of self-preservation - we must either
injure or be injured. It is the system that deserves to be blamed.
What those who wish to perpetuate the system deserve is another
question.

`When do you think you'll have the drawings ready?' inquired Rushton.
`Can you get them done tonight?'

`I'm afraid not,' replied Owen, feeling inclined to laugh at the
absurdity of the question. `It will need a little thinking about.'

`When can you have them ready then? This is Monday. Wednesday
morning?'

Owen hesitated.

`We don't want to keep 'im waiting too long, you know, or 'e may give
up the idear altogether.'

`Well, sat Friday morning, then,' said Owen, resolving that he would
stay up all night if necessary to get it done.

Rushton shook his head.

`Can't you get it done before that? I'm afraid that if we keeps 'im
waiting all that time we may lose the job altogether.'

`I can't get them done any quicker in my spare time,' returned Owen,
flushing. `If you like to let me stay home tomorrow and charge the
time the same as if I had gone to work at the house, I could go to my
ordinary work on Wednesday and let you have the drawings on Thursday
morning.'

`Oh, all right,' said Rushton as he returned to the perusal of his
letters.

That night, long after his wife and Frankie were asleep, Owen worked
in the sitting-room, searching through old numbers of the Decorators'
Journal and through the illustrations in other books of designs for
examples of Moorish work, and making rough sketches in pencil.

He did not attempt to finish anything yet: it was necessary to think
first; but he roughed out the general plan, and when at last he did go
to bed he could not sleep for a long time. He almost fancied he was
in the drawing-room at the `Cave'. First of all it would be necessary
to take down the ugly plaster centre flower with its crevices all
filled up with old whitewash. The cornice was all right; it was
fortunately a very simple one, with a deep cove and without many
enrichments. Then, when the walls and the ceiling had been properly
prepared, the ornamentation would be proceeded with. The walls,
divided into panels and arches containing painted designs and
lattice-work; the panels of the door decorated in a similar manner.
The mouldings of the door and window frames picked out with colours
and gold so as to be in character with the other work; the cove of the
cornice, a dull yellow with a bold ornament in colour - gold was not
advisable in the hollow because of the unequal distribution of the
light, but some of the smaller mouldings of the cornice should be
gold. On the ceiling there would be one large panel covered with an
appropriate design in gold and colours and surrounded by a wide margin
or border. To separate this margin from the centre panel there would
be a narrow border, and another border - but wider - round the outer
edge of the margin, where the ceiling met the cornice. Both these
borders and the margin would be covered with ornamentation in colour
and gold. Great care would be necessary when deciding what parts were
to be gilded because - whilst large masses of gilding are apt to look
garish and in bad taste - a lot of fine gold lines are ineffective,
especially on a flat surface, where they do not always catch the
light. Process by process he traced the work, and saw it advancing
stage by stage until, finally, the large apartment was transformed and
glorified. And then in the midst of the pleasure he experienced in
the planning of the work there came the fear that perhaps they would
not have it done at all.

The question, what personal advantage would he gain never once
occurred to Owen. He simply wanted to do the work; and he saw so
fully occupied with thinking and planning how it was to be done that
the question of profit was crowded out.

But although this question of what profit could be made out of the
work never occurred to Owen, it would in due course by fully
considered by Mr Rushton. In fact, it was the only thing about the
work that Mr Rushton would think of at all: how much money could be
made out of it. This is what is meant by the oft-quoted saying, `The
men work with their hands - the master works with his brains.'

Chapter 12

The Letting of the Room

It will be remembered that when the men separated, Owen going to the
office to see Rushton, and the others on their several ways, Easton
and Slyme went together.

During the day Easton had found an opportunity of speaking to him
about the bedroom. Slyme was about to leave the place where he was at
present lodging, and he told Easton that although he had almost
decided on another place he would take a look at the room. At Easton's
suggestion they arranged that Slyme was to accompany him home that
night. As the former remarked, Slyme could come to see the place, and
if he didn't like it as well as the other he was thinking of taking,
there was no harm done.

Ruth had contrived to furnish the room. Some of the things she had
obtained on credit from a second-hand furniture dealer. Exactly how
she had managed, Easton did not know, but it was done.

`This is the house,' said Easton. As they passed through, the gate
creaked loudly on its hinges and then closed of itself rather noisily.

Ruth had just been putting the child to sleep and she stood up as they
came in, hastily fastening the bodice of her dress as she did so.

`I've brought a gentleman to see you,' said Easton.

Although she knew that he was looking out for someone for the room,
Ruth had not expected him to bring anyone home in this sudden manner,
and she could not help wishing that he had told her beforehand of his
intention. It being Monday, she had been very busy all day and she
was conscious that she was rather untidy in her appearance. Her long
brown hair was twisted loosely into a coil behind her head. She
blushed in an embarrassed way as the young man stared at her.

Easton introduced Slyme by name and they shook hands; and then at
Ruth's suggestion Easton took a light to show him the room, and while
they were gone Ruth hurriedly tidied her hair and dress.

When they came down again Slyme said he thought the room would suit
him very well. What were the terms?

Did he wish to take the room only - just to lodge? inquired Ruth, or
would he prefer to board as well?

Slyme intimated that he desired the latter arrangement.

In that case she thought twelve shillings a week would be fair. She
believed that was about the usual amount. Of course that would
include washing, and if his clothes needed a little mending she would
do it for him.

Slyme expressed himself satisfied with these terms, which were as Ruth
had said - about the usual ones. He would take the room, but he was
not leaving his present lodgings until Saturday. It was therefore
agreed that he was to bring his box on Saturday evening.

When he had gone, Easton and Ruth stood looking at each other in
silence. Ever since this plan of letting the room first occurred to
them they had been very anxious to accomplish it; and yet, now that it
was done, they felt dissatisfied and unhappy, as if they had suddenly
experienced some irreparable misfortune. In that moment they
remembered nothing of the darker side of their life together. The
hard times and the privations were far off and seemed insignificant
beside the fact that this stranger was for the future to share their
home. To Ruth especially it seemed that the happiness of the past
twelve months had suddenly come to an end. She shrank with
involuntary aversion and apprehension from the picture that rose
before her of the future in which this intruder appeared the most
prominent figure, dominating everything and interfering with every
detail of their home life. Of course they had known all this before,
but somehow it had never seemed so objectionable as it did now, and as
Easton thought of it he was filled an unreasonable resentment against
Slyme, as if the latter had forced himself upon them against their
will.

`Damn him!' he thought. `I wish I'd never brought him here at all!'

Ruth did not appear to him to be very happy about it either.

`Well?' he said at last. `What do you think of him?'

`Oh, he'll be all right, I suppose.'

`For my part, I wish he wasn't coming,' Easton continued.

`That's just what I was thinking,' replied Ruth dejectedly. `I don't
like him at all. I seemed to turn against him directly he came in the
door.'

`I've a good mind to back out of it, somehow, tomorrow,' exclaimed
Easton after another silence. `I could tell him we've unexpectedly
got some friends coming to stay with us.'

`Yes,' said Ruth eagerly. `It would be easy enough to make some
excuse or other.'

As this way of escape presented itself she felt as if a weight had
been lifted from her mind, but almost in the same instant she
remembered the reasons which had at first led them to think of letting
the room, and she added, disconsolately:

`It's foolish for us to go on like this, dear. We must let the room
and it might just as well be him as anyone else. We must make the
best of it, that's all.'

Easton stood with his back to the fire, staring gloomily at her.

`Yes, I suppose that's the right way to look at it,' he replied at
length. `If we can't stand it, we'll give up the house and take a
couple of rooms, or a small flat - if we can get one.'

Ruth agreed, although neither alternative was very inviting. The
unwelcome alteration in their circumstances was after all not
altogether without its compensations, because from the moment of
arriving at this decision their love for each other seemed to be
renewed and intensified. They remembered with acute regret that
hitherto they had not always fully appreciated the happiness of that
exclusive companionship of which there now remained to them but one
week more. For once the present was esteemed at its proper value,
being invested with some of the glamour which almost always envelops
the past.

Chapter 13

Penal Servitude and Death

On Tuesday - the day after his interview with Rushton - Owen remained
at home working at the drawings. He did not get them finished, but
they were so far advanced that he thought he would be able to complete
them after tea on Wednesday evening. He did not go to work until
after breakfast on Wednesday and his continued absence served to
confirm the opinion of the other workmen that he had been discharged.
This belief was further strengthened by the fact that a new hand had
been sent to the house by Hunter, who came himself also at about a
quarter past seven and very nearly caught Philpot in the act of
smoking.

During breakfast, Philpot, addressing Crass and referring to Hunter,
inquired anxiously:

`'Ow's 'is temper this mornin', Bob?'

`As mild as milk,' replied Crass. `You'd think butter wouldn't melt
in 'is mouth.'

`Seemed quite pleased with 'isself, didn't 'e?' said Harlow.

`Yes,' remarked Newman. `'E said good morning to me!'

`So 'e did to me!' said Easton. `'E come inter the drorin'-room an'
'e ses, "Oh, you're in 'ere are yer, Easton," 'e ses - just like that,
quite affable like. So I ses, "Yes, sir." "Well," 'e ses, "get it
slobbered over as quick as you can," 'e ses, "'cos we ain't got much
for this job: don't spend a lot of time puttying up. Just smear it
over an' let it go!"'

`'E certinly seemed very pleased about something,' said Harlow. `I
thought prap's there was a undertaking job in: one o' them generally
puts 'im in a good humour.'

`I believe that nothing would please 'im so much as to see a epidemic
break out,' remarked Philpot. `Small-pox, Hinfluenza, Cholery morbus,
or anything like that.'

`Yes: don't you remember 'ow good-tempered 'e was last summer when
there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?' observed Harlow.

`Yes,' said Crass with a chuckle. `I recollect we 'ad six children's
funerals to do in one week. Ole Misery was as pleased as Punch,
because of course as a rule there ain't many boxin'-up jobs in the
summer. It's in winter as hundertakers reaps their 'arvest.'

`We ain't 'ad very many this winter, though, so far,' said Harlow.

`Not so many as usual,' admitted Crass, `but still, we can't grumble:
we've 'ad one nearly every week since the beginning of October.
That's not so bad, you know.'

Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of Rushton
& Co.'s business. He always had the job of polishing or varnishing
the coffin and assisting to take it home and to `lift in' the corpse,
besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. This work was
more highly paid for than painting.

`But I don't think there's no funeral job in,' added Crass after a
pause. `I think it's because 'e's glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh
ask me.'

`Praps that 'as got something to do with it,' said Harlow. `But all
the same I don't call that a proper way to treat anyone - givin' a man
the push in that way just because 'e 'appened to 'ave a spite against
'im.'

`It's wot I call a bl--dy shame!' cried Philpot. `Owen's a chap wots
always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and 'e knows 'is work,
although 'e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when 'e
gets on about Socialism.'

`I suppose Misery didn't say nothin' about 'im this mornin'?' inquired
Easton.

`No,' replied Crass, and added: `I only 'ope Owen don't think as I
never said anything against 'im. 'E looked at me very funny that
night after Nimrod went away. Owen needn't think nothing like that
about ME, because I'm a chap like this - if I couldn't do nobody no
good, I wouldn't never do 'em no 'arm!'

At this some of the others furtively exchanged significant glances,
and Harlow began to smile, but no one said anything.

Philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not helped himself to any tea,
called Bert's attention to the fact and the boy filled Owen's cup and
passed it over to the new hand.

Their conjectures regarding the cause of Hunter's good humour were all
wrong. As the reader knows, Owen had not been discharged at all, and
there was nobody dead. The real reason was that, having decided to
take on another man, Hunter had experienced no difficulty in getting
one at the same reduced rate as that which Newman was working for,
there being such numbers of men out of employment. Hitherto the usual
rate of pay in Mugsborough had been sevenpence an hour for skilled
painters. The reader will remember that Newman consented to accept a
job at sixpence halfpenny. So far none of the other workmen knew that
Newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure
whether he was the only one or not. The man whom Hunter had taken on
that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep his own
counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out what
the others were getting.

Just before half past eight Owen arrived and was immediately assailed
with questions as to what had transpired at the office. Crass
listened with ill-concealed chagrin to Owen's account, but most of the
others were genuinely pleased.

`But what a way to speak to anybody!' observed Harlow, referring to
Hunter's manner on the previous Monday night.

`You know, I reckon if ole Misery 'ad four legs, 'e'd make a very good
pig,' said Philpot, solemnly, `and you can't expect nothin' from a pig
but a grunt.'

During the morning, as Easton and Owen were working together in the
drawing-room, the former remarked:

`Did I tell you I had a room I wanted to let, Frank?'

`Yes, I think you did.'

`Well, I've let it to Slyme. I think he seems a very decent sort of
chap, don't you?'

`Yes, I suppose he is,' replied Owen, hesitatingly. `I know nothing
against him.'

`Of course, we'd rather 'ave the 'ouse to ourselves if we could afford
it, but work is so scarce lately. I've been figuring out exactly what
my money has averaged for the last twelve months and how much a week
do you think it comes to?'

`God only knows,' said Owen. `How much?'

`About eighteen bob.'

`So you see we had to do something,' continued Easton; `and I reckon
we're lucky to get a respectable sort of chap like Slyme, religious
and teetotal and all that, you know. Don't you think so?'

`Yes, I suppose you are,' said Owen, who, although he intensely
disliked Slyme, knew nothing definite against him.

They worked in silence for some time, and then Owen said:

`At the present time there are thousands of people so badly off that,
compared with them, WE are RICH. Their sufferings are so great that
compared with them, we may be said to be living in luxury. You know
that, don't you?'

`Yes, that's true enough, mate. We really ought to be very thankful:
we ought to consider ourselves lucky to 'ave a inside job like this
when there's such a lot of chaps walkin' about doin' nothing.'

`Yes,' said Owen: `we're lucky! Although we're in a condition of
abject, miserable poverty we must consider ourselves lucky that we're
not actually starving.'

Owen was painting the door; Easton was doing the skirting. This work
caused no noise, so they were able to converse without difficulty.

`Do you think it's right for us to tamely make up our minds to live
for the rest of our lives under such conditions as that?'

`No; certainly not,' replied Easton; `but things are sure to get
better presently. Trade hasn't always been as bad as it is now. Why,
you can remember as well as I can a few years ago there was so much
work that we was putting in fourteen and sixteen hours a day. I used
to be so done up by the end of the week that I used to stay in bed
nearly all day on Sunday.'

`But don't you think it's worth while trying to find out whether it's
possible to so arrange things that we may be able to live like
civilized human beings without being alternately worked to death or
starved?'

`I don't see how we're goin' to alter things,' answered Easton. `At
the present time, from what I hear, work is scarce everywhere. WE
can't MAKE work, can we?'

`Do you think, then, that the affairs of the world are something like
the wind or the weather - altogether beyond our control? And that if
they're bad we can do nothing but just sit down and wait for them to
get better?'

`Well, I don't see 'ow we can odds it. If the people wot's got the
money won't spend it, the likes of me and you can't make 'em, can we?'

Owen looked curiously at Easton.

`I suppose you're about twenty-six now,' he said. `That means that
you have about another thirty years to live. Of course, if you had
proper food and clothes and hadn't to work more than a reasonable
number of hours every day, there is no natural reason why you should
not live for another fifty or sixty years: but we'll say thirty. Do
you mean to say that you are able to contemplate with indifference the
prospect of living for another thirty years under such conditions as
those we endure at present?'

Easton made no reply.

`If you were to commit some serious breach of the law, and were
sentenced next week to ten years' penal servitude, you'd probably
think your fate a very pitiable one: yet you appear to submit quite
cheerfully to this other sentence, which is - that you shall die a
premature death after you have done another thirty years' hard
labour.'

Easton continued painting the skirting.

`When there's no work,' Owen went on, taking another dip of paint as
he spoke and starting on one of the lower panels of the door, `when
there's no work, you will either starve or get into debt. When - as
at present - there is a little work, you will live in a state of
semi-starvation. When times are what you call "good", you will work
for twelve or fourteen hours a day and - if you're VERY lucky -
occasionally all night. The extra money you then earn will go to pay
your debts so that you may be able to get credit again when there's no
work.'

Easton put some putty in a crack in the skirting.

`In consequence of living in this manner, you will die at least twenty
years sooner than is natural, or, should you have an unusually strong
constitution and live after you cease to be able to work, you will be
put into a kind of jail and treated like a criminal for the remainder
of your life.'

Having faced up the cracks, Easton resumed the painting of the
skirting.

`If it were proposed to make a law that all working men and women were
to be put to death - smothered, or hung, or poisoned, or put into a
lethal chamber - as soon as they reached the age of fifty years, there
is not the slightest doubt that you would join in the uproar of
protest that would ensue. Yet you submit tamely to have your life
shortened by slow starvation, overwork, lack of proper boots and
clothing, and though having often to turn out and go to work when you
are so ill that you ought to be in bed receiving medical care.'

Easton made no reply: he knew that all this was true, but he was not
without a large share of the false pride which prompts us to hide our
poverty and to pretend that we are much better off than we really are.
He was at that moment wearing the pair of second-hand boots that Ruth
had bought for him, but he had told Harlow - who had passed some
remark about them - that he had had them for years, wearing them only
for best. He felt very resentful as he listened to the other's talk,
and Owen perceived it, but nevertheless he continued:

`Unless the present system is altered, that is all we have to look
forward to; and yet you're one of the upholders of the present system
- you help to perpetuate it!'

`'Ow do I help to perpetuate it?' demanded Easton.

`By not trying to find out how to end it - by not helping those who
are trying to bring a better state of things into existence. Even if
you are indifferent to your own fate - as you seem to be - you have no
right to be indifferent to that of the child for whose existence in
this world you are responsible. Every man who is not helping to bring
about a better state of affairs for the future is helping to perpetuate
the present misery, and is therefore the enemy of his own children.
There is no such thing as being natural: we must either help or
hinder.'

As Owen opened the door to paint its edge, Bert came along the
passage.

`Look out!' he cried, `Misery's comin' up the road. 'E'll be 'ere in
a minit.'