Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

R >> Robert Tressell >> The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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Situated on the Grand Parade, it was a favourite resort of the
`Elite', who frequented it for afternoon tea and coffee and for little
suppers after the theatre.

It had plate-glass windows, resplendent with gilding, marble-topped
tables with snow white covers, vases of flowers, and all the other
appurtenances of glittering cut glass and silver. The obsequious
waiters were in evening dress, the walls were covered with lofty
plate-glass mirrors in carved and gilded frames, and at certain hours
of the day and night an orchestra consisting of two violins and a harp
discoursed selections of classic music.

But of late years the business had not been paying, and finally the
proprietor went bankrupt and was sold out. The place was shut up for
several months before the shop was let to a firm of dealers in fancy
articles, and the other part was transformed into flats.

Rushton had the contract for the work. When the men went there to `do
it up' they found the interior of the house in a state of
indescribable filth: the ceilings discoloured with smoke and hung with
cobwebs, the wallpapers smeared and black with grease, the handrails
and the newel posts of the staircase were clammy with filth, and the
edges of the doors near the handles were blackened with greasy dirt
and finger-marks. The tops of the skirtings, the mouldings of the
doors, the sashes of the windows and the corners of the floors were
thick with the accumulated dust of years.

In one of the upper rooms which had evidently been used as a nursery
or playroom for the children of the renowned chef, the wallpaper for
about two feet above the skirting was blackened with grease and
ornamented with childish drawings made with burnt sticks and blacklead
pencils, the door being covered with similar artistic efforts, to say
nothing of some rude attempts at carving, evidently executed with an
axe or a hammer. But all this filth was nothing compared with the
unspeakable condition of the kitchen and scullery, a detailed
description of which would cause the blood of the reader to curdle,
and each particular hair of his head to stand on end.

Let it suffice to say that the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the
paintwork, the gas-stove, the kitchen range, the dresser and
everything else were uniformly absolutely and literally - black. And
the black was composed of soot and grease.

In front of the window there was a fixture — a kind of bench or table,
deeply scored with marks of knives like a butcher's block. The sill
of the window was about six inches lower than the top of the table, so
that between the glass of the lower sash of the window, which had
evidently never been raised, and the back of the table, there was a
long narrow cavity or trough, about six inches deep, four inches wide
and as long as the width of the window, the sill forming the bottom of
the cavity.

This trough was filled with all manner of abominations: fragments of
fat and decomposed meat, legs of rabbits and fowls, vegetable matter,
broken knives and forks, and hair: and the glass of the window was
caked with filth of the same description.

This job was the cause of the sacking of the Semi-drunk and another
man named Bill Bates, who were sent into the kitchen to clean it down
and prepare it for painting and distempering.

They commenced to do it, but it made them feel so ill that they went
out and had a pint each, and after that they made another start at it.
But it was not long before they felt that it was imperatively
necessary to have another drink. So they went over to the pub, and
this time they had two pints each. Bill paid for the first two and
then the Semi-drunk refused to return to work unless Bill would
consent to have another pint with him before going back. When they
had drunk the two pints, they decided - in order to save themselves
the trouble and risk of coming away from the job - to take a couple of
quarts back with them in two bottles, which the landlord of the pub
lent them, charging twopence on each bottle, to be refunded when they
were returned.

When they got back to the job they found the `coddy' in the kitchen,
looking for them and he began to talk and grumble, but the Semi-drunk
soon shut him up: he told him he could either have a drink out of one
of the bottles or a punch in the bloody nose - whichever he liked! Or
if he did not fancy either of these alternatives, he could go to hell!

As the `coddy' was a sensible man he took the beer and advised them to
pull themselves together and try to get some work done before Misery
came, which they promised to do.

When the `coddy' was gone they made another attempt at the work.
Misery came a little while afterwards and began shouting at them
because he said he could not see what they had done. It looked as if
they had been asleep all the morning: Here it was nearly ten o'clock,
and as far as he could see, they had done Nothing!

When he was gone they drank the rest of the beer and then they began
to feel inclined to laugh. What did they care for Hunter or Rushton
either? To hell with both of 'em! They left off scraping and
scrubbing, and began throwing buckets of water over the dresser and
the walls, laughing uproariously all the time.

`We'll show the b--s how to wash down paintwork!' shouted the
Semi-drunk, as he stood in the middle of the room and hurled a pailful
of water over the door of the cupboard. `Bring us another bucket of
water, Bill.'

Bill was out in the scullery filling his pail under the tap, and
laughing so much that he could scarcely stand. As soon as it was full
he passed it to the Semi-drunk, who threw it bodily, pail and all, on
to the bench in front of the window, smashing one of the panes of
glass. The water poured off the table and all over the floor.

Bill brought the next pailful in and threw it at the kitchen door,
splitting one of the panels from top to bottom, and then they threw
about half a dozen more pailfuls over the dresser.

`We'll show the b--rs how to clean paintwork,' they shouted, as they
hurled the buckets at the walls and doors.

By this time the floor was deluged with water, which mingled with the
filth and formed a sea of mud.

They left the two taps running in the scullery and as the waste pipe
of the sink was choked up with dirt, the sink filled up and overflowed
like a miniature Niagara.

The water ran out under the doors into the back-yard, and along the
passage out to the front door. But Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk
remained in the kitchen, smashing the pails at the walls and doors and
the dresser, and cursing and laughing hysterically.

They had just filled the two buckets and were bringing them into the
kitchen when they heard Hunter's voice in the passage, shouting out
inquiries as to where all that water came from. Then they heard him
advancing towards them and they stood waiting for him with the pails
in their hands, and directly he opened the door and put his head into
the room they let fly the two pails at him. Unfortunately, they were
too drunk and excited to aim straight. One pail struck the middle
rail of the door and the other the wall by the side of it.

Misery hastily shut the door again and ran upstairs, and presently the
`coddy' came down and called out to them from the passage.

They went out to see what he wanted, and he told them that Misery had
gone to the office to get their wages ready: they were to make out
their time sheets and go for their money at once. Misery had said that
if they were not there in ten minutes he would have the pair of them
locked up.

The Semi-drunk said that nothing would suit them better than to have
all their pieces at once - they had spent all their money and wanted
another drink. Bill Bates concurred, so they borrowed a piece of
blacklead pencil from the `coddy' and made out their time sheets, took
off their aprons, put them into their tool bags, and went to the
office for their money, which Misery passed out to them through the
trap-door.

The news of this exploit spread all over the town during that day and
evening, and although it was in July, the next morning at six o'clock
there were half a dozen men waiting at the yard to ask Misery if there
was `any chance of a job'.

Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk had had their spree and had got the sack
for it and most of the chaps said it served them right. Such conduct
as that was going too far.

Most of them would have said the same thing no matter what the
circumstances might have been. They had very little sympathy for each
other at any time.

Often, when, for instance, one man was sent away from one `job' to
another, the others would go into his room and look at the work he had
been doing, and pick out all the faults they could find and show them
to each other, making all sorts of ill-natured remarks about the
absent one meanwhile. `Jist run yer nose over that door, Jim,' one
would say in a tone of disgust. `Wotcher think of it? Did yer ever
see sich a mess in yer life? Calls hisself a painter!' And the other
man would shake his head sadly and say that although the one who had
done it had never been up to much as a workman, he could do it a bit
better than that if he liked, but the fact was that he never gave
himself time to do anything properly: he was always tearing his bloody
guts out! Why, he'd only been in this room about four hours from
start to finish! He ought to have a watering cart to follow him
about, because he worked at such a hell of a rate you couldn't see him
for dust! And then the first man would reply that other people could
do as they liked, but for his part, HE was not going to tear his guts
out for nobody!

The second man would applaud these sentiments and say that he wasn't
going to tear his out either: and then they would both go back to
their respective rooms and tear into the work for all they were worth,
making the same sort of `job' as the one they had been criticizing,
and afterwards, when the other's back was turned, each of them in turn
would sneak into the other's room and criticize it and point out the
faults to anyone else who happened to be near at hand.

Harlow was working at the place that had been Macaroni's Cafe when one
day a note was sent to him from Hunter at the shop. It was written on
a scrap of wallpaper, and worded in the usual manner of such notes -
as if the writer had studied how to avoid all suspicion of being
unduly civil:

Harlow go to the yard at once take your tools with you.
Crass will tell you where you have to go.
J.H.

They were just finishing their dinners when the boy brought this note;
and after reading it aloud for the benefit of the others, Harlow
remarked that it was worded in much the same way in which one would
speak to a dog. The others said nothing; but after he was gone the
other men - who all considered that it was ridiculous for the `likes
of us' to expect or wish to be treated with common civility - laughed
about it, and said that Harlow was beginning to think he was Somebody:
they supposed it was through readin' all those books what Owen was
always lendin' 'im. And then one of them got a piece of paper and
wrote a note to be given to Harlow at the first opportunity. This
note was properly worded, written in a manner suitable for a gentleman
like him, neatly folded and addressed:

Mr Harlow Esq.,
c/o Macaroni's Royal Cafe
till called for.

Mister Harlow,
Dear Sir: Wood you kinely oblige me bi cummin to the paint shop
as soon as you can make it convenient as there is a sealin' to be
wate-woshed hoppin this is not trubbling you to much

I remane
Yours respeckfully
Pontius Pilate.

This note was read out for the amusement of the company and afterwards
stored away in the writer's pocket till such a time as an opportunity
should occur of giving it to Harlow.

As the writer of the note was on his way back to his room to resume
work he was accosted by a man who had gone into Harlow's room to
criticize it, and had succeeded in finding several faults which he
pointed out to the other, and of course they were both very much
disgusted with Harlow.

`I can't think why the coddy keeps him on the job,' said the first
man. `Between you and me, if I had charge of a job, and Misery sent
Harlow there - I'd send 'im back to the shop.'

`Same as you,' agreed the other as he went back to tear into his own
room. `Same as you, old man: I shouldn't 'ave 'im neither.'

It must not be supposed from this that either of these two men were on
exceptionally bad terms with Harlow; they were just as good friends
with him - to his face - as they were with each other - to each
other's faces - and it was just their way: that was all.

If it had been one or both of these two who had gone away instead of
Harlow, just the same things would have been said about them by the
others who remained - it was merely their usual way of speaking about
each other behind each other's backs.

It was always the same: if any one of them made a mistake or had an
accident or got into any trouble he seldom or never got any sympathy
from his fellow workmen. On the contrary, most of them at such times
seemed rather pleased than otherwise.

There was a poor devil - a stranger in the town; he came from London -
who got the sack for breaking some glass. He had been sent to `burn
off' some old paint of the woodwork of a window. He was not very
skilful in the use of the burning-off lamp, because on the firm when
he had been working in London it was a job that the ordinary hands
were seldom or never called upon to do. There were one or two men who
did it all. For that matter, not many of Rushton's men were very
skilful at it either. It was a job everybody tried to get out of,
because nearly always the lamp went wrong and there was a row about
the time the work took. So they worked this job on to the stranger.

This man had been out of work for a long time before he got a start at
Rushton's, and he was very anxious not to lose the job, because he had
a wife and family in London. When the `coddy' told him to go and burn
off this window he did not like to say that he was not used to the
work: he hoped to be able to do it. But he was very nervous, and the
end was that although he managed to do the burning off all right, just
as he was finishing he accidentally allowed the flame of the lamp to
come into contact with a large pane of glass and broke it.

They sent to the shop for a new pane of glass, and the man stayed late
that night and put it in in his own time, thus bearing half the cost
of repairing it.

Things were not very busy just then, and on the following Saturday two
of the hands were `stood off'. The stranger was one of them, and
nearly everybody was very pleased. At mealtimes the story of the
broken window was repeatedly told amid jeering laughter. It really
seemed as if a certain amount of indignation was felt that a stranger -
especially such an inferior person as this chap who did not know how
to use a lamp - should have had the cheek to try to earn his living at
all! One thing was very certain - they said, gleefully - he would
never get another job at Rushton's: that was one good thing.

And yet they all knew that this accident might have happened to any
one of them.

Once a couple of men got the sack because a ceiling they distempered
had to be washed off and done again. It was not really the men's
fault at all: it was a ceiling that needed special treatment and they
had not been allowed to do it properly.

But all the same, when they got the sack most of the others laughed
and sneered and were glad. Perhaps because they thought that the fact
that these two unfortunates had been disgraced, increased their own
chances of being `kept on'. And so it was with nearly everything.
With a few exceptions, they had an immense amount of respect for
Rushton and Hunter, and very little respect or sympathy for each
other.

Exactly the same lack of feeling for each other prevailed amongst the
members of all the different trades. Everybody seemed glad if anybody
got into trouble for any reason whatever.

There was a garden gate that had been made at the carpenter's shop:
it was not very well put together, and for the usual reason; the man
had not been allowed the time to do it properly. After it was fixed,
one of his shopmates wrote upon it with lead pencil in big letters:
`This is good work for a joiner. Order one ton of putty.'

But to hear them talking in the pub of a Saturday afternoon just after
pay-time one would think them the best friends and mates and the most
independent spirits in the world, fellows whom it would be very
dangerous to trifle with, and who would stick up for each other
through thick and thin. All sorts of stories were related of the
wonderful things they had done and said; of jobs they had `chucked
up', and masters they had `told off': of pails of whitewash thrown
over offending employers, and of horrible assaults and batteries
committed upon the same. But strange to say, for some reason or
other, it seldom happened that a third party ever witnessed any of
these prodigies. It seemed as if a chivalrous desire to spare the
feelings of their victims had always prevented them from doing or
saying anything to them in the presence of witnesses.

When he had drunk a few pints, Crass was a very good hand at these
stories. Here is one that he told in the bar of the Cricketers on the
Saturday afternoon of the same week that Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk
got the sack. The Cricketers was only a few minutes walk from the
shop and at pay-time a number of the men used to go in there to take a
drink before going home.

`Last Thursday night about five o'clock, 'Unter comes inter the
paint-shop an' ses to me, "I wants a pail o' wash made up tonight,
Crass," 'e ses, "ready for fust thing in the mornin'," 'e ses. "Oh," I
ses, lookin' 'im straight in the bloody eye, "Oh, yer do, do yer?" -
just like that. "Yes," 'e ses. "Well, you can bloody well make it
yerself!" I ses, "'cos I ain't agoin' to," I ses - just like that.
"Wot the 'ell do yer mean," I ses, "by comin' 'ere at this time o'
night with a order like that?" I ses. You'd a larfed,' continued
Crass, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking
another drink out of his glass, and looking round to note the effect
of the story, `you'd a larfed if you'd bin there. 'E was fairly
flabbergasted! And wen I said that to 'im I see 'is jaw drop! An'
then 'e started apoligizing and said as 'e 'adn't meant no offence,
but I told 'im bloody straight not to come no more of it. "You bring
the horder at a reasonable time," I ses - just like that - "and I'll
attend to it," I ses, "but not otherwise," I ses.'

As he concluded this story, Crass drained his glass and gazed round
upon the audience, who were full of admiration. They looked at each
other and at Crass and nodded their heads approvingly. Yes,
undoubtedly, that was the proper way to deal with such bounders as
Nimrod; take up a strong attitude, an' let 'em see as you'll stand no
nonsense!

`Yer don't blame me, do yer?' continued Crass. `Why should we put up
with a lot of old buck from the likes of 'im! We're not a lot of
bloody Chinamen, are we?'

So far from blaming him, they all assured him that they would have
acted in precisely the same way under similar circumstances.

`For my part, I'm a bloke like this,' said a tall man with a very loud
voice - a chap who nearly fell down dead every time Rushton or Misery
looked at him. `I'm a bloke like this 'ere: I never stands no cheek
from no gaffers! If a guv'nor ses two bloody words to me, I downs me
tools and I ses to 'im, "Wot! Don't I suit yer, guv'ner? Ain't I
done enuff for yer? Werry good! Gimmie me bleedin' a'pence."'

`Quite right too,' said everybody. That was the way to serve 'em. If
only everyone would do the same as the tall man - who had just paid
for another round of drinks - things would be a lot more comfortable
than they was.

`Last summer I was workin' for ole Buncer,' said a little man with a
cutaway coat several sizes too large for him. `I was workin' for ole
Buncer, over at Windley, an' you all knows as 'e don't arf lower it.
Well, one day, when I knowed 'e was on the drunk, I 'ad to first coat
a room out - white; so thinks I to meself, "If I buck up I shall be
able to get this lot done by about four o'clock, an' then I can clear
orf 'ome. 'Cos I reckoned as 'e'd be about flattened out by that
time, an' you know 'e ain't got no foreman. So I tears into it an'
gets this 'ere room done about a quarter past four, an' I'd just got
me things put away for the night w'en 'oo should come fallin' up the
bloody stairs but ole Buncer, drunk as a howl! An' no sooner 'e gits
inter the room than 'e starts yappin' an' rampin'. "Is this 'ere hall
you've done?" 'e shouts out. "Wotcher bin up to hall day?" 'e ses,
an' 'e keeps on shouting' an' swearin' till at last I couldn't stand
it no longer, 'cos you can guess I wasn't in a very good temper with
'im comin' along jist then w'en I thought I was goin' to get orf a bit
early - so w'en 'e kept on shoutin' I never made no answer to 'im, but
ups with me fist an' I gives 'im a slosh in the dial an' stopped 'is
clock! Then I chucked the pot o' w'ite paint hover 'im, an' kicked
'im down the bloody stairs.'

`Serve 'im blooming well right, too,' said Crass as he took a fresh
glass of beer from one of the others, who had just `stood' another
round.

`What did the b--r say to that?' inquired the tall man.

`Not a bloody word!' replied the little man, `'E picked 'isself up,
and called a keb wot was passin' an' got inter it an' went 'ome; an' I
never seen no more of 'im until about 'arf-past eleven the next day,
w'en I was second-coatin' the room, an' 'e comes up with a noo suit
o' clothes on, an' arsts me if I'd like to come hover to the pub an'
'ave a drink? So we goes hover, an' 'e calls for a w'iskey an' soda
for isself an' arsts me wot I'd 'ave, so I 'ad the same. An' w'ile we
was gettin' it down us, 'e ses to me, "Ah, Garge," 'e ses. "You losed
your temper with me yesterday,"' 'e ses.'

`There you are, you see!' said the tall man. `There's an example for
yer! If you 'adn't served 'im as you did you'd most likely 'ave 'ad
to put up with a lot more ole buck.'

They all agreed that the little man had done quite right: they all
said that they didn' blame him in the least: they would all have done
the same: in fact, this was the way they all conducted themselves
whenever occasion demanded it. To hear them talk, one would imagine
that such affairs as the recent exploit of Bill Bates and the
Semi-drunk were constantly taking place, instead of only occurring
about once in a blue moon.

Crass stood the final round of drinks, and as he evidently thought
that circumstance deserved to be signalized in some special manner, he
proposed the following toast, which was drunk with enthusiasm:

`To hell with the man,
May he never grow fat,
What carries two faces,
Under one 'at.'

Rushton & Co. did a lot of work that summer. They did not have many
big jobs, but there were a lot of little ones, and the boy Bert was
kept busy running from one to the other. He spent most of his time
dragging a handcart with loads of paint, or planks and steps, and
seldom went out to work with the men, for when he was not taking
things out to the various places where the philanthropists were
working, he was in the paintshop at the yard, scraping out dirty
paint-pots or helping Crass to mix up colours. Although scarcely
anyone seemed to notice it, the boy presented a truly pitiable
spectacle. He was very pale and thin. Dragging the handcart did not
help him to put on flesh, for the weather was very hot and the work
made him sweat.

His home was right away on the other side of Windley. It took him
more than three-quarters of an hour to walk to the shop, and as he had
to be at work at six, that meant that he had to leave home at a few
minutes past five every morning, so that he always got up about half
past four.

He was wearing a man's coat - or rather jacket - which gave the upper
part of his body a bulky appearance. The trousers were part of a suit
of his own, and were somewhat narrowly cut, as is the rule with boys'
cheap ready-made trousers. These thin legs appearing under the big
jacket gave him a rather grotesque appearance, which was heightened by
the fact that all his clothes, cap, coat, waistcoat, trousers and
boots, were smothered with paint and distemper of various colours, and
there were generally a few streaks of paint of some sort or other upon
his face, and of course his hands - especially round the fingernails -
were grimed with it. But the worst of all were the dreadful hobnailed
boots: the leather of the uppers of these was an eighth of an inch
thick, and very stiff. Across the fore part of the boot this hard
leather had warped into ridges and valleys, which chafed his feet, and
made them bleed. The soles were five-eighths of an inch thick,
covered with hobnails, and were as hard and inflexible and almost as
heavy as iron. These boots hurt his feet dreadfully and made him feel
very tired and miserable, for he had such a lot of walking to do. He
used to be jolly glad when dinner-time came, for then he used to get
out of sight in some quiet spot and lie down for the whole hour. His
favourite dining-place was up in the loft over the carpenter's shop,
where they stored the mouldings and architraves. No one ever came
there at that hour, and after he had eaten his dinner he used to lie
down and think and rest.