Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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It was not often that Easton was glad to hear of the approach of
Nimrod, but on this occasion he heard Bert's message with a sigh of
relief.

`I say,' added the boy in a whisper to Owen, `if it comes orf - I mean
if you gets the job to do this room - will you ask to 'ave me along of
you?'

`Yes, all right, sonny,' replied Owen, and Bert went off to warn the
others.

`Unaware that he had been observed, Nimrod sneaked stealthily into the
house and began softly crawling about from room to room, peeping
around corners and squinting through the cracks of doors, and looking
through keyholes. He was almost pleased to see that everybody was
very hard at work, but on going into Newman's room Misery was not
satisfied with the progress made since his last visit. The fact was
that Newman had been forgetting himself again this morning. He had
been taking a little pains with the work, doing it something like
properly, instead of scamping and rushing it in the usual way. The
result was that he had not done enough.

`You know, Newman, this kind of thing won't do!' Nimrod howled. `You
must get over a bit more than this or you won't suit me! If you can't
move yourself a bit quicker I shall 'ave to get someone else. You've
been in this room since seven o'clock this morning and it's dam near
time you was out of it!'

Newman muttered something about being nearly finished now, and Hunter
ascended to the next landing - the attics, where the cheap man -
Sawkins, the labourer - was at work. Harlow had been taken away from
the attics to go on with some of the better work, so Sawkins was now
working alone. He had been slogging into it like a Trojan and had
done quite a lot. He had painted not only the sashes of the window,
but also a large part of the glass, and when doing the skirting he had
included part of the floor, sometimes an inch, sometimes half an inch.

The paint was of a dark drab colour and the surface of the newly
painted doors bore a strong resemblance to corduroy cloth, and from
the bottom corners of nearly every panel there was trickling down a
large tear, as if the doors were weeping for the degenerate condition
of the decorative arts. But these tears caused to throb of pity in
the bosom of Misery: neither did the corduroy-like surface of the work
grate upon his feelings. He perceived them not. He saw only that
there was a Lot of Work done and his soul was filled with rapture as
he reflected that the man who had accomplished all this was paid only
fivepence an hour. At the same time it would never do to let Sawkins
know that he was satisfied with the progress made, so he said:

`I don't want you to stand too much over this up 'ere, you know,
Sawkins. Just mop it over anyhow, and get away from it as quick as
you can.'

`All right, sir,' replied Sawkins, wiping the sweat from his brow as
Misery began crawling downstairs again.

`Where's Harlow go to, then?' he demanded of Philpot. `'E wasn't 'ere
just now, when I came up.'

`'E's gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,' replied Joe, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. `'E'll be back in 'arf
a mo.' And indeed at that moment Harlow was just coming upstairs
again.

`'Ere, we can't allow this kind of thing in workin' hours, you know.'
Hunter bellowed. `There's plenty of time for that in the dinner
hour!'

Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which Easton and Owen had
been painting. He stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally
comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with
that done by Sawkins in the attics. Misery was not a painter himself:
he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the
quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain
painting.

`I believe it would pay us a great deal better,' he thought to
himself, `if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like
Sawkins.' And with his mind filled with this reflection he shortly
afterwards sneaked stealthily from the house.

Chapter 14

Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence

Owen spent the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the
drawing-room making pencil sketches in his pocket-book and taking
measurements. In the evening after leaving off, instead of going
straight home as usual he went round to the Free Library to see if he
could find anything concerning Moorish decorative work in any of the
books there. Although it was only a small and ill-equipped
institution he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations of
several examples of which he made sketches. After about an hour spent
this way, as he was proceeding homewards he observed two children - a
boy and a girl - whose appearance seemed familiar. They were standing
at the window of a sweetstuff shop examining the wares exposed
therein. As Owen came up the children turned round and the recognized
each other simultaneously. They were Charley and Elsie Linden. Owen
spoke to them as he drew near and the boy appealed to him for his
opinion concerning a dispute they had been having.

`I say, mister. Which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of
everlasting stickjaw torfee, or a prize packet?'

`I'd rather have a prize packet,' replied Owen, unhesitatingly.

`There! I told you so!' cried Elsie, triumphantly.

`Well, I don't care. I'd sooner 'ave the torfee,' said Charley,
doggedly.

`Why, can't you agree which of the two to buy?'

`Oh no, it's not that,' replied Elsie. `We was only just SUPPOSING
what we'd buy if we 'ad a fardin; but we're not really goin' to buy
nothing, because we ain't got no money.'

`Oh, I see,' said Owen. `But I think *I* have some money,' and
putting his hand into his pocket he produced two halfpennies and gave
one to each of the children, who immediately went in to buy the toffee
and the prize packet, and when they came out he walked along with
them, as they were going in the same direction as he was: indeed, they
would have to pass by his house.

`Has your grandfather got anything to do yet?' he inquired as they
went along.

`No. 'E's still walkin' about, mister,' replied Charley.

When they reached Owen's door he invited them to come up to see the
kitten, which they had been inquiring about on the way. Frankie was
delighted with these two visitors, and whilst they were eating some
home-made cakes that Nora gave them, he entertained them by displaying
the contents of his toy box, and the antics of the kitten, which was
the best toy of all, for it invented new games all the time: acrobatic
performances on the rails of chairs; curtain climbing; running slides
up and down the oilcloth; hiding and peeping round corners and under
the sofa. The kitten cut so many comical capers, and in a little
while the children began to create such an uproar, that Nora had to
interfere lest the people in the flat underneath should be annoyed.

However, Elsie and Charley were not able to stay very long, because
their mother would be anxious about them, but they promised to come
again some other day to play with Frankie.

`I'm going to 'ave a prize next Sunday at our Sunday School,' said
Elsie as they were leaving.

`What are you going to get it for?' asked Nora.

`'Cause I learned my text properly. I had to learn the whole of the
first chapter of Matthew by heart and I never made one single mistake!
So teacher said she'd give me a nice book next Sunday.'

`I 'ad one too, the other week, about six months ago, didn't I,
Elsie?' said Charley.

`Yes,' replied Elsie and added: `Do they give prizes at your Sunday
School, Frankie?'

`I don't go to Sunday School.'

`Ain't you never been?' said Charley in a tone of surprise.

`No,' replied Frankie. `Dad says I have quite enough of school all
the week.'

`You ought to come to ours, man!' urged Charley. `It's not like being
in school at all! And we 'as a treat in the summer, and prizes and
sometimes a magic lantern 'tainment. It ain't 'arf all right, I can
tell you.'

Frankie looked inquiringly at his mother.

`Might I go, Mum?'

`Yes, if you like, dear.'

`But I don't know the way.'

`Oh, it's not far from 'ere,' cried Charley. `We 'as to pass by your
'ouse when we're goin', so I'll call for you on Sunday if you like.'

`It's only just round in Duke Street; you know, the "Shining Light
Chapel",' said Elsie. `It commences at three o'clock.'

`All right,' said Nora. `I'll have Frankie ready at a quarter to
three. But now you must run home as fast as you can. Did you like
those cakes?'

`Yes, thank you very much,' answered Elsie.

`Not 'arf!' said Charley.

`Does your mother make cakes for you sometimes?'

`She used to, but she's too busy now, making blouses and one thing and
another,' Elsie answered.

`I suppose she hasn't much time for cooking,' said Nora, `so I've
wrapped up some more of those cakes in this parcel for you to take
home for tomorrow. I think you can manage to carry it all right,
can't you, Charley?'

`I think I'd better carry it myself,' said Elsie. `Charley's SO
careless, he's sure to lose some of them.'

`I ain't no more careless than you are,' cried Charley, indignantly.
`What about the time you dropped the quarter of butter you was sent
for in the mud?'

`That wasn't carelessness: that was an accident, and it wasn't butter
at all: it was margarine, so there!'

Eventually it was arranged that they were to carry the parcel in
turns, Elsie to have first innings. Frankie went downstairs to the
front door with them to see them off, and as they went down the street
he shouted after them:

`Mind you remember, next Sunday!'

`All right,' Charley shouted back. `We shan't forget.'

On Thursday Owen stayed at home until after breakfast to finish the
designs which he had promised to have ready that morning.

When he took them to the office at nine o'clock, the hour at which he
had arranged to meet Rushton, the latter had not yet arrived, and he
did not put in an appearance until half an hour later. Like the
majority of people who do brain work, he needed a great deal more rest
than those who do only mere physical labour.

`Oh, you've brought them sketches, I suppose,' he remarked in a surly
tone as he came in. `You know, there was no need for you to wait: you
could 'ave left 'em 'ere and gone on to your job.'

He sat down at his desk and looked carelessly at the drawing that Owen
handed to him. It was on a sheet of paper about twenty-four by
eighteen inches. The design was drawn with pencil and one half of it
was coloured.

`That's for the ceiling,' said Owen. `I hadn't time to colour all of
it.'

With an affectation of indifference, Rushton laid the drawing down and
took the other which Owen handed to him.

`This is for the large wall. The same design would be adapted for the
other walls; and this one shows the door and the panels under the
window.'

Rushton expressed no opinion about the merits of the drawings. He
examined them carelessly one after the other, and then, laying them
down, he inquired:

`How long would it take you to do this work - if we get the job?'

`About three weeks: say 150 hours. That is - the decorative work
only. Of course, the walls and ceiling would have to be painted
first: they will need three coats of white.'

Rushton scribbled a note on a piece of paper.

`Well,' he said, after a pause, `you can leave these 'ere and I'll see
Mr Sweater about it and tell 'im what it will cost, and if he decides
to have it done I'll let you know.'

He put the drawings aside with the air of a man who has other matters
to attend to, and began to open one of the several letters that were
on his desk. He meant this as an intimation that the audience was at
an end and that he desired the `hand' to retire from the presence.
Owen understood this, but he did not retire, because it was necessary
to mention one or two things which Rushton would have to allow for
when preparing the estimate.

`Of course I should want some help,' he said. `I should need a man
occasionally, and the boy most of the time. Then there's the gold
leaf - say, fifteen books.'

`Don't you think it would be possible to use gold paint?'

`I'm afraid not.'

`Is there anything else?' inquired Rushton as he finished writing down
these items.

`I think that's all, except a few sheets of cartridge paper for
stencils and working drawings. The quantity of paint necessary for
the decorative work will be very small.'

As soon as Owen was gone, Rushton took up the designs and examined
them attentively.

`These are all right,' he muttered. `Good enough for anywhere. If he
can paint anything like as well as this on the walls and ceiling of
the room, it will stand all the looking at that anyone in this town is
likely to give it.'

`Let's see,' he continued. `He said three weeks, but he's so anxious
to do the job that he's most likely under-estimated the time; I'd
better allow four weeks: that means about 200 hours: 200 hours at
eight-pence: how much is that? And say he has a painter to help him
half the time. 100 hours at sixpence-ha'penny.'

He consulted a ready reckoner that was on the desk.

`Time, £9.7.6. Materials: fifteen books of gold, say a pound. Then
there's the cartridge paper and the colours - say another pound, at
the outside. Boy's time? Well, he gets no wages as yet, so we
needn't mention that at all. Then there's the preparing of the room.
Three coats of white paint. I wish Hunter was here to give me an idea
what it will cost.'

As if in answer to his wish, Nimrod entered the office at that moment,
and in reply to Rushton's query said that to give the walls and
ceiling three coats of paint would cost about three pounds five for
time and material. Between them the two brain workers figured that
fifteen pounds would cover the entire cost of the work - painting and
decorating.

`Well, I reckon we can charge Sweater forty-five pounds for it,' said
Rushton. `It isn't like an ordinary job, you know. If he gets a
London firm to do it, it'll cost him double that, if not more.'

Having arrived at this decision, Rushton rung up Sweater's Emporium on
the telephone, and, finding that Mr Sweater was there, he rolled up
the designs and set out for that gentleman's office.

The men work with their hands, and the masters work with their brains.
What a dreadful calamity it would be for the world and for mankind if
all these brain workers were to go on strike.

Chapter 15

The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones

Hunter had take on three more painters that morning. Bundy and two
labourers had commenced the work of putting in the new drains; the
carpenters were back again doing some extra work, and there was also a
plumber working on the house; so there was quite a little crowd in the
kitchen at dinner-time. Crass had been waiting for a suitable
opportunity to produce the newspaper cutting which it will be
remembered he showed to Easton on Monday morning, but he had waited in
vain, for there had been scarcely any `political' talk at meal-times
all the week, and it was now Thursday. As far as Owen was concerned,
his thoughts were so occupied with the designs for the drawing-room
that he had no time for anything else, and most of the others were
only too willing to avoid a subject which frequently led to
unpleasantness. As a rule Crass himself had no liking for such
discussion, but he was so confident of being able to `flatten out'
Owen with the cutting from the Obscurer that he had several times
tried to lead the conversation into the desired channel, but so far
without success.

During dinner - as they called it - various subjects were discussed.
Harlow mentioned that he had found traces of bugs in one of the
bedrooms upstairs and this called forth a number of anecdotes of those
vermin and of houses infested by them. Philpot remembered working in
a house over at Windley; the people who lived in it were very dirty
and had very little furniture; no bedsteads, the beds consisting of
dilapidated mattresses and rags on the floor. He declared that these
ragged mattresses used to wander about the rooms by themselves. The
house was so full of fleas that if one placed a sheet of newspaper on
the floor one could hear and see them jumping on it. In fact,
directly one went into that house one was covered from head to foot
with fleas! During the few days he worked at that place, he lost
several pounds in weight, and of evenings as he walked homewards the
children and people in the streets, observing his ravaged countenance,
thought he was suffering from some disease and used to get out of his
way when they saw him coming.

There were several other of these narratives, four or five men talking
at the top of their voices at the same time, each one telling a
different story. At first each story-teller addressed himself to the
company generally, but after a while, finding it impossible to make
himself heard, he would select some particular individual who seemed
disposed to listen and tell him the story. It sometimes happened that
in the middle of the tale the man to whom it was being told would
remember a somewhat similar adventure of his own, which he would
immediately proceed to relate without waiting for the other to finish,
and each of them was generally so interested in the gruesome details
of his own story that he was unconscious of the fact that the other
was telling one at all. In a contest of this kind the victory usually
went to the man with the loudest voice, but sometimes a man who had a
weak voice, scored by repeating the same tale several times until
someone heard it.

Barrington, who seldom spoke and was an ideal listener, was
appropriated by several men in succession, who each told him a
different yarn. There was one man sitting on an up-ended pail in the
far corner of the room and it was evident from the movements of his
lips that he also was relating a story, although nobody knew what it
was about or heard a single word of it, for no one took the slightest
notice of him...

When the uproar had subsided Harlow remembered the case of a family
whose house got into such a condition that the landlord had given them
notice and the father had committed suicide because the painters had
come to turn 'em out of house and home. There were a man, his wife
and daughter - a girl about seventeen - living in the house, and all
three of 'em used to drink like hell. As for the woman, she COULD
shift it and no mistake! Several times a day she used to send the
girl with a jug to the pub at the corner. When the old man was out,
one could have anything one liked to ask for from either of 'em for
half a pint of beer, but for his part, said Harlow, he could never
fancy it. They were both too ugly.

The finale of this tale was received with a burst of incredulous
laughter by those who heard it.

`Do you 'ear what Harlow says, Bob?' Easton shouted to Crass.

`No. What was it?'

`'E ses 'e once 'ad a chance to 'ave something but 'e wouldn't take it
on because it was too ugly!'

`If it 'ad bin me, I should 'ave shut me bl--y eyes,' cried Sawkins.
`I wouldn't pass it for a trifle like that.'

`No,' said Crass amid laughter, `and you can bet your life 'e didn't
lose it neither, although 'e tries to make 'imself out to be so
innocent.'

`I always though old Harlow was a bl--y liar,' remarked Bundy, `but
now we knows 'e is.'

Although everyone pretended to disbelieve him, Harlow stuck to his
version of the story.

`It's not their face you want, you know,' added Bundy as he helped
himself to some more tea.

`I know it wasn't my old woman's face that I was after last night,'
observed Crass; and then he proceeded amid roars of laughter to give a
minutely detailed account of what had taken place between himself and
his wife after they had retired for the night.

This story reminded the man on the pail of a very strange dream he had
had a few weeks previously: `I dreamt I was walkin' along the top of a
'igh cliff or some sich place, and all of a sudden the ground give way
under me feet and I began to slip down and down and to save meself
from going over I made a grab at a tuft of grass as was growin' just
within reach of me 'and. And then I thought that some feller was
'ittin me on the 'ead with a bl--y great stick, and tryin' to make me
let go of the tuft of grass. And then I woke up to find my old woman
shouting out and punchin' me with 'er fists. She said I was pullin'
'er 'air!'

While the room was in an uproar with the merriment induced by these
stories, Crass rose from his seat and crossed over to where his
overcoat was hanging on a nail in the wall, and took from the pocket a
piece of card about eight inches by about four inches. One side of it
was covered with printing, and as he returned to his seat Crass called
upon the others to listen while he read it aloud. He said it was one
of the best things he had ever seen: it had been given to him by a
bloke in the Cricketers the other night.

Crass was not a very good reader, but he was able to read this all
right because he had read it so often that he almost knew it by heart.
It was entitled `The Art of Flatulence', and it consisted of a number
of rules and definitions. Shouts of laughter greeted the reading of
each paragraph, and when he had ended, the piece of dirty card was
handed round for the benefit of those who wished to read it for
themselves. Several of the men, however, when it was offered to them,
refused to take it, and with evident disgust suggested that it should
be put into the fire. This view did not commend itself to Crass, who,
after the others had finished with it, put it back in the pocket of
his coat.

Meanwhile, Bundy stood up to help himself to some more tea. The cup he
was drinking from had a large piece broken out of one side and did not
hold much, so he usually had to have three or four helpings.

`Anyone else want any' he asked.

Several cups and jars were passed to him. These vessels had been
standing on the floor, and the floor was very dirty and covered with
dust, so before dipping them into the pail, Bundy - who had been
working at the drains all morning - wiped the bottoms of the jars upon
his trousers, on the same place where he was in the habit of wiping
his hands when he happened to get some dirt on them. He filled the
jars so full that as he held them by the rims and passed them to their
owners part of the contents slopped over and trickled through his
fingers. By the time he had finished the floor was covered with
little pools of tea.

`They say that Gord made everything for some useful purpose,' remarked
Harlow, reverting to the original subject, `but I should like to know
what the hell's the use of sich things as bugs and fleas and the
like.'

`To teach people to keep theirselves clean, of course,' said Slyme.

`That's a funny subject, ain't it?' continued Harlow, ignoring Slyme's
answer. `They say as all diseases is caused by little insects. If
Gord 'adn't made no cancer germs or consumption microbes there
wouldn't be no cancer or consumption.'

`That's one of the proofs that there ISN'T an individual God,' said
Owen. `If we were to believe that the universe and everything that
lives was deliberately designed and created by God, then we must also
believe that He made his disease germs you are speaking of for the
purpose of torturing His other creatures.'

`You can't tell me a bloody yarn like that,' interposed Crass,
roughly. `There's a Ruler over us, mate, and so you're likely to find
out.'

`If Gord didn't create the world, 'ow did it come 'ere?' demanded
Slyme.

`I know no more about that than you do,' replied Owen. `That is - I
know nothing. The only difference between us is that you THINK you
know. You think you know that God made the universe; how long it took
Him to do it; why He made it; how long it's been in existence and how
it will finally pass away. You also imagine you know that we shall
live after we're dead; where we shall go, and the kind of existence we
shall have. In fact, in the excess of your "humility", you think you
know all about it. But really you know no more of these things than
any other human being does; that is, you know NOTHING.'

`That's only YOUR opinion,' said Slyme.

`If we care to take the trouble to learn,' Owen went on, `we can know
a little of how the universe has grown and changed; but of the
beginning we know nothing,'

`That's just my opinion, matey,' observed Philpot. `It's just a
bloody mystery, and that's all about it.'

`I don't pretend to 'ave no 'ead knowledge,' said Slyme, `but 'ead
knowledge won't save a man's soul: it's 'EART knowledge as does that.
I knows in my 'eart as my sins is all hunder the Blood, and it's
knowin' that, wot's given 'appiness and the peace which passes all
understanding to me ever since I've been a Christian.'

`Glory, glory, hallelujah!' shouted Bundy, and nearly everyone
laughed.

`"Christian" is right,' sneered Owen. `You've got some title to call
yourself a Christian, haven't you? As for the happiness that passes
all understanding, it certainly passes MY understanding how you can be
happy when you believe that millions of people are being tortured in
Hell; and it also passes my understanding why you are not ashamed of
yourself for being happy under such circumstances.'