Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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`Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he asked in a loud voice.

`No,' replied Owen. `I'm not using it.'

`Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some. Is there anything
I can bring up for you?'

`No, thanks,' replied Owen.

Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized
as a paint-shop. Crass was there mixing some colour.

`I want a bit of stopping,' Philpot said as he helped himself to some.

`Is the b--r gorn?' whispered Crass.

`I don't know,' replied Philpot. `Where's his bike?'

`'E always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied
Crass.

`Tell you what,' whispered Philpot, after a pause. `Give the boy a
hempty bottle and let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there.
If Misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some
hoil.'

This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately:
the bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house a chorus
of thanksgiving burst forth.

`Thank Gord!' said one.

`Hope the b--r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck,' said another.

`These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any
good yet,' cried a third.

Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left
off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on
working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that
Misery's presence inspired, they made better progress. A few of them
lit their pipes and smoked as they worked.

One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had
received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he
would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves. As a rule he did not
smoke when working; it was contrary to orders.

As Philpot was returning to work again he paused for a moment to
whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him
upstairs.

On reaching Philpot's room the latter placed the step-ladder near the
cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed it to Linden with
the remark, `Get some of that acrost yer, matey; it'll put yer right.'

While Linden was taking a hasty drink, Joe kept watch on the landing
outside in case Hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear.

When Linden was gone downstairs again, Philpot, having finished what
remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up the chimney, resumed the
work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls. He
must make a bit of a show tonight or there would be a hell of a row
when Misery came in the morning.

Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way. He felt like a beaten
dog.

He was more indignant on poor old Linden's account than on his own,
and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation.

All his life it had been the same: incessant work under similar more
or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being
just able to avoid starvation.

And the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past;
darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough,
when he would be unable to work any more.

He thought of his child. Was he to be a slave and a drudge all his
life also?

it would be better for the boy to die now.

As Owen thought of his child's future there sprung up within him a
feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fellow workmen.

THEY WERE THE ENEMY. Those who not only quietly submitted like so
many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and
opposed and ridiculed any suggestion to alter it.

THEY WERE THE REAL OPPRESSORS - the men who spoke of themselves as
`The likes of us,' who, having lived in poverty and degradation all
their lives considered that what had been good enough for them was
good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into
existence.

He hated and despised them because the calmly saw their children
condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberately
refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than
those they had themselves.

It was because they were indifferent to the fate of THEIR children
that he would be unable to secure a natural and human life for HIS.
It was their apathy or active opposition that made it impossible to
establish a better system of society under which those who did their
fair share of the world's work would be honoured and rewarded.
Instead of helping to do this, they abased themselves, and grovelled
before their oppressors, and compelled and taught their children to do
the same. THEY were the people who were really responsible for the
continuance of the present system.

Owen laughed bitterly to himself. What a very comical system it was.

Those who worked were looked upon with contempt, and subjected to
every possible indignity. Nearly everything they produced was taken
away from them and enjoyed by the people who did nothing. And then
the workers bowed down and grovelled before those who had robbed them
of the fruits of their labour and were childishly grateful to them for
leaving anything at all.

No wonder the rich despised them and looked upon them as dirt. They
WERE despicable. They WERE dirt. They admitted it and gloried in it.

While these thoughts were seething in Owen's mind, his fellow workmen
were still patiently toiling on downstairs. Most of them had by this
time dismissed Hunter from their thoughts. They did not take things
so seriously as Owen. They flattered themselves that they had more
sense than that. It could not be altered. Grin and bear it. After
all, it was only for life! Make the best of things, and get your own
back whenever you get a chance.

Presently Harlow began to sing. He had a good voice and it was a good
song, but his mates just then did not appreciate either one of the
other. His singing was the signal for an outburst of exclamations and
catcalls.

`Shut it, for Christ's sake!'

`That's enough of that bloody row!'

And so on. Harlow stopped.

`How's the enemy?' asked Easton presently, addressing no one in
particular.

`Don't know,' replied Bundy. `It must be about half past four. Ask
Slyme; he's got a watch,'

It was a quarter past four.

`It gets dark very early now,' said Easton.

`Yes,' replied Bundy. `It's been very dull all day. I think it's
goin' to rain. Listen to the wind.'

`I 'ope not,' replied Easton. `That means a wet shirt goin' 'ome.'

He called out to old Jack Linden, who was still working at the front
doors:

`Is it raining, Jack?'

Old Jack, his pipe still in his mouth, turned to look at the weather.
It was raining, but Linden did not see the large drops which splashed
heavily upon the ground. He saw only Hunter, who was standing at the
gate, watching him. For a few seconds the two men looked at each
other in silence. Linden was paralysed with fear. Recovering
himself, he hastily removed his pipe, but it was too late.

Misery strode up.

`I don't pay you for smoking,' he said, loudly. `Make out your time
sheet, take it to the office and get your money. I've had enough of
you!'

Jack made no attempt to defend himself: he knew it was of no use. He
silently put aside the things he had been using, went into the room
where he had left his tool-bag and coat, removed his apron and white
jacket, folded them up and put them into his tool-bag along with the
tools he had been using - a chisel-knife and a shavehook - put on his
coat, and, with the tool-bag slung over his shoulder, went away from
the house.

Without speaking to anyone else, Hunter then hastily walked over the
place, noting what progress had been made by each man during his
absence. He then rode away, as he wanted to get to the office in time
to give Linden his money.

It was now very cold and dark within the house, and as the gas was not
yet laid on, Crass distributed a number of candles to the men, who
worked silently, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts. Who
would be the next?

Outside, sombre masses of lead-coloured clouds gathered ominously in
the tempestuous sky. The gale roared loudly round the old-fashioned
house and the windows rattled discordantly. Rain fell in torrents.

They said it meant getting wet through going home, but all the same,
Thank God it was nearly five o'clock!

Chapter 3

The Financiers

That night as Easton walked home through the rain he felt very
depressed. It had been a very bad summer for most people and he had
not fared better than the rest. A few weeks with one firm, a few days
with another, then out of a job, then on again for a month perhaps,
and so on.

William Easton was a man of medium height, about twenty-three years
old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. He wore a stand-up
collar with a coloured tie and his clothes, though shabby, were clean
and neat.

He was married: his wife was a young woman whose acquaintance he had
made when he happened to be employed with others painting the outside
of the house where she was a general servant. They had `walked out'
for about fifteen months. Easton had been in no hurry to marry, for
he knew that, taking good times with bad, his wages did no average a
pound a week. At the end of that time, however, he found that he
could not honourably delay longer, so they were married.

That was twelve months ago.

As a single man he had never troubled much if he happened to be out of
work; he always had enough to live on and pocket money besides; but
now that he was married it was different; the fear of being `out'
haunted him all the time.

He had started for Rushton & Co. on the previous Monday after having
been idle for three weeks, and as the house where he was working had
to be done right through he had congratulated himself on having
secured a job that would last till Christmas; but he now began to fear
that what had befallen Jack Linden might also happen to himself at any
time. He would have to be very careful not to offend Crass in any
way. He was afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was.
Easton knew that Crass could get him the sack at any time, and would
not scruple to do so if he wanted to make room for some crony of his
own. Crass was the `coddy' or foreman of the job. Considered as a
workman he had no very unusual abilities; he was if anything inferior
to the majority of his fellow workmen. But although he had but little
real ability he pretended to know everything, and the vague references
he was in the habit of making to `tones', and `shades', and `harmony',
had so impressed Hunter that the latter had a high opinion of him as a
workman. It was by pushing himself forward in this way and by
judicious toadying to Hunter that Crass managed to get himself put in
charge of work.

Although Crass did as little work as possible himself he took care
that the others worked hard. Any man who failed to satisfy him in
this respect he reported to Hunter as being `no good', or `too slow
for a funeral'. The result was that this man was dispensed with at
the end of the week. The men knew this, and most of them feared the
wily Crass accordingly, though there were a few whose known abilities
placed them to a certain extent above the reach of his malice. Frank
Owen was one of these.

There were others who by the judicious administration of pipefuls of
tobacco and pints of beer, managed to keep in Crass's good graces and
often retained their employment when better workmen were `stood off'.

As he walked home through the rain thinking of these things, Easton
realized that it was not possible to foresee what a day or even an
hour might bring forth.

By this time he had arrived at his home; it was a small house, one of
a long row of similar ones, and it contained altogether four rooms.

The front door opened into a passage about two feet six inches wide
and ten feet in length, covered with oilcloth. At the end of the
passage was a flight of stairs leading to the upper part of the house.
The first door on the left led into the front sitting-room, an
apartment about nine feet square, with a bay window. This room was
very rarely used and was always very tidy and clean. The mantelpiece
was of wood painted black and ornamented with jagged streaks of red
and yellow, which were supposed to give it the appearance of marble.
On the walls was a paper with a pale terra-cotta ground and a pattern
consisting of large white roses with chocolate coloured leaves and
stalks.

There was a small iron fender with fire-irons to match, and on the
mantelshelf stood a clock in a polished wood case, a pair of blue
glass vases, and some photographs in frames. The floor was covered
with oilcloth of a tile pattern in yellow and red. On the walls were
two or three framed coloured prints such as are presented with
Christmas numbers of illustrated papers. There was also a photograph
of a group of Sunday School girls with their teachers with the church
for the background. In the centre of the room was a round deal table
about three feet six inches across, with the legs stained red to look
like mahogany. Against one wall was an old couch covered with faded
cretonne, four chairs to match standing backs to wall in different
parts of the room. The table was covered with a red cloth with a
yellow crewel work design in the centre and in each of the four
corners, the edges being overcast in the same material. On the table
were a lamp and a number of brightly bound books.

Some of these things, as the couch and the chairs, Easton had bought
second-hand and had done up himself. The table, oilcloth, fender,
hearthrug, etc, had been obtained on the hire system and were not yet
paid for. The windows were draped with white lace curtains and in the
bay was a small bamboo table on which reposed a large Holy Bible,
cheaply but showily bound.

If anyone had ever opened this book they would have found that its
pages were as clean as the other things in the room, and on the
flyleaf might have been read the following inscription: `To dear Ruth,
from her loving friend Mrs Starvem with the prayer that God's word may
be her guide and that Jesus may be her very own Saviour. Oct. 12.
19--'

Mrs Starvem was Ruth's former mistress, and this had been her parting
gift when Ruth left to get married. It was supposed to be a keepsake,
but as Ruth never opened the book and never willingly allowed her
thoughts to dwell upon the scenes of which it reminded her, she had
forgotten the existence of Mrs Starvem almost as completely as that
well-to-do and pious lady had forgotten hers.

For Ruth, the memory of the time she spent in the house of `her loving
friend' was the reverse of pleasant. It comprised a series of
recollections of petty tyrannies, insults and indignities. Six years
of cruelly excessive work, beginning every morning two or three hours
before the rest of the household were awake and ceasing only when she
went exhausted to bed, late at night.

She had been what is called a `slavey' but if she had been really a
slave her owner would have had some regard for her health and welfare:
her `loving friend' had had none. Mrs Starvem's only thought had been
to get out of Ruth the greatest possible amount of labour and to give
her as little as possible in return.

When Ruth looked back upon that dreadful time she saw it, as one might
say, surrounded by a halo of religion. She never passed by a chapel
or heard the name of God, or the singing of a hymn, without thinking
of her former mistress. To have looked into this Bible would have
reminded her of Mrs Starvem; that was one of the reasons why the book
reposed, unopened and unread, a mere ornament on the table in the bay
window.

The second door in the passage near the foot of the stairs led into
the kitchen or living-room: from here another door led into the
scullery. Upstairs were two bedrooms.

As Easton entered the house, his wife met him in the passage and asked
him not to make a noise as the child had just gone to sleep. They
kissed each other and she helped him to remove his wet overcoat. Then
they both went softly into the kitchen.

This room was about the same size as the sitting-room. At one end was
a small range with an oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece
painted black. On the mantelshelf was a small round alarm clock and
some brightly polished tin canisters. At the other end of the room,
facing the fireplace, was a small dresser on the shelves of which were
nearly arranged a number of plates and dishes. The walls were papered
with oak paper. On one wall, between two coloured almanacks, hung a
tin lamp with a reflector behind the light. In the middle of the room
was an oblong deal table with a white tablecloth upon which the tea
things were set ready. There were four kitchen chairs, two of which
were placed close to the table. Overhead, across the room, about
eighteen inches down from the ceiling, were stretched several cords
upon which were drying a number of linen or calico undergarments, a
coloured shirt, and Easton's white apron and jacket. On the back of a
chair at one side of the fire more clothes were drying. At the other
side on the floor was a wicker cradle in which a baby was sleeping.
Nearby stood a chair with a towel hung on the back, arranged so as to
shade the infant's face from the light of the lamp. An air of homely
comfort pervaded the room; the atmosphere was warm, and the fire
blazed cheerfully over the whitened hearth.

They walked softly over and stood by the cradle side looking at the
child; as they looked the baby kept moving uneasily in its sleep. Its
face was very flushed and its eyes were moving under the half-closed
lids. Every now and again its lips were drawn back slightly, showing
part of the gums; presently it began to whimper, drawing up its knees
as if in pain.

`He seems to have something wrong with him,' said Easton.

`I think it's his teeth,' replied the mother. `He's been very
restless all day and he was awake nearly all last night.'

`P'r'aps he's hungry.'

`No, it can't be that. He had the best part of an egg this morning
and I've nursed him several times today. And then at dinner-time he
had a whole saucer full of fried potatoes with little bits of bacon in
it.'

Again the infant whimpered and twisted in its sleep, its lips drawn
back showing the gums: its knees pressed closely to its body, the
little fists clenched, and face flushed. Then after a few seconds it
became placid: the mouth resumed its usual shape; the limbs relaxed
and the child slumbered peacefully.

`Don't you think he's getting thin?' asked Easton. `It may be fancy,
but he don't seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago.'

`No, he's not quite so fat,' admitted Ruth. `It's his teeth what's
wearing him out; he don't hardly get no rest at all with them.'

They continued looking at him a little longer. Ruth thought he was a
very beautiful child: he would be eight months old on Sunday. They
were sorry they could do nothing to ease his pain, but consoled
themselves with the reflection that he would be all right once those
teeth were through.

`Well, let's have some tea,' said Easton at last.

Whilst he removed his wet boots and socks and placed them in front of
the fire to dry and put on dry socks and a pair of slippers in their
stead, Ruth half filled a tin basin with hot water from the boiler and
gave it to him, and he then went to the scullery, added some cold
water and began to wash the paint off his hands. This done he
returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table.

`I couldn't think what to give you to eat tonight,' said Ruth as she
poured out the tea. `I hadn't got no money left and there wasn't
nothing in the house except bread and butter and that piece of cheese,
so I cut some bread and butter and put some thin slices of cheese on
it and toasted it on a place in front of the fire. I hope you'll like
it: it was the best I could do.'

`That's all right: it smells very nice anyway, and I'm very hungry.'

As they were taking their tea Easton told his wife about Linden's
affair and his apprehensions as to what might befall himself. They
were both very indignant, and sorry for poor old Linden, but their
sympathy for him was soon forgotten in their fears for their own
immediate future.

They remained at the table in silence for some time: then,

`How much rent do we owe now?' asked Easton.

`Four weeks, and I promised the collector the last time he called that
we'd pay two weeks next Monday. He was quite nasty about it.'

`Well, I suppose you'll have to pay it, that's all,' said Easton.

`How much money will you have tomorrow?' asked Ruth.

He began to reckon up his time: he started on Monday and today was
Friday: five days, from seven to five, less half an hour for breakfast
and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day - forty-two hours
and a half. At sevenpence an hour that came to one pound four and
ninepence halfpenny.

`You know I only started on Monday,' he said, `so there's no back day
to come. Tomorrow goes into next week.'

`Yes, I know,' replied Ruth.

`If we pay the two week's rent that'll leave us twelve shillings to
live on.'

`But we won't be able to keep all of that,' said Ruth, `because
there's other things to pay.'

`What other things?'

`We owe the baker eight shillings for the bread he let us have while
you were not working, and there's about twelve shillings owing for
groceries. We'll have to pay them something on account. Then we want
some more coal; there's only about a shovelful left, and -'

`Wait a minnit,' said Easton. `The best way is to write out a list of
everything we owe; then we shall know exactly where we are. You get
me a piece of paper and tell me what to write. Then we'll see what it
all comes to.'

`Do you mean everything we owe, or everything we must pay tomorrow.'

`I think we'd better make a list of all we owe first.'

While they were talking the baby was sleeping restlessly, occasionally
uttering plaintive little cries. The mother now went and knelt at the
side of the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the
infant with the other.

`Except the furniture people, the biggest thing we owe is the rent,'
she said when Easton was ready to begin.

`It seems to me,' said he, as, after having cleared a space on the
table and arranged the paper, he began to sharpen his pencil with a
table-knife, `that you don't manage things as well as you might. If
you was to make a list of just the things you MUST have before you
went out of a Saturday, you'd find the money would go much farther.
Instead of doing that you just take the money in your hand without
knowing exactly what you're going to do with it, and when you come
back it's all gone and next to nothing to show for it.'

His wife made no reply: her head was bent over the child.

`Now, let's see,' went on her husband. `First of all there's the
rent. How much did you say we owe?'

`Four weeks. That's the three weeks you were out and this week.'

`Four sixes is twenty-four; that's one pound four,' said Easton as he
wrote it down. `Next?'

`Grocer, twelve shillings.'

Easton looked up in astonishment.

`Twelve shillings. Why, didn't you tell me only the other day that
you'd paid up all we owed for groceries?'

`Don't you remember we owed thirty-five shillings last spring? Well,
I've been paying that bit by bit all the summer. I paid the last of
it the week you finished your last job. Then you were out three weeks
- up till last Friday - and as we had nothing in hand I had to get
what we wanted without paying for it.'

`But do you mean to say it cost us three shillings a week for tea and
sugar and butter?'

`It's not only them. There's been bacon and eggs and cheese and other
things.'

The man was beginning to become impatient.

`Well,' he said, `What else?'

`We owe the baker eight shillings. We did owe nearly a pound, but
I've been paying it off a little at a time.'

This was added to the list.

`Then there's the milkman. I've not paid him for four weeks. He
hasn't sent a bill yet, but you can reckon it up; we have two
penn'orth every day.'

`That's four and eight,' said Easton, writing it down. `Anything
else?'

`One and seven to the greengrocer for potatoes, cabbage, and paraffin
oil.'

`Anything else?'

`We owe the butcher two and sevenpence.'

`Why, we haven't had any meat for a long time,' said Easton. `When
was it?'

`Three weeks ago; don't you remember? A small leg of mutton,'

`Oh, yes,' and he added the item.

`Then there's the instalments for the furniture and oilcloth - twelve
shillings. A letter came from them today. And there's something
else.'

She took three letters from the pocket of her dress and handed them to
him.

`They all came today. I didn't show them to you before as I didn't
want to upset you before you had your tea.'

Easton drew the first letter from its envelope.

CORPORATION OF MUGSBOROUGH
General District and Special Rates
FINAL NOTICE