Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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The weather had become so bitterly cold that, fearing he would be laid
up if he went without it any longer, he took his overcoat out of pawn,
and that week they had to almost starve. Not that it was much better
other weeks, for lately he had only been making six and a half hours a
day - from eight-thirty in the morning till four o'clock in the
evening, and on Saturday only four and a half hours - from half past
eight till one. This made his wages - at sevenpence an hour -
twenty-one shillings and sevenpence a week - that is, when there was
work to do every day, which was not always. Sometimes they had to
stand idle three days out of six. The wages of those who got sixpence
halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence - when they worked every
day - and as for those who - like Sawkins - received only fivepence,
their week's wages amounted to fifteen and sixpence.

When they were only employed for two or three days or perhaps only a
few hours, their `Saturday night' sometimes amounted to half a
sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less. Then most
of them said that it was better than nothing at all.

Many of them were married men, so, in order to make existence
possible, their wives went out charing or worked in laundries. They
had children whom they had to bring up for the most part on `skim'
milk, bread, margarine, and adulterated tea. Many of these children -
little mites of eight or nine years - went to work for two or three
hours in the morning before going to school; the same in the evening
after school, and all day on Saturday, carrying butchers' trays loaded
with meat, baskets of groceries and vegetables, cans of paraffin oil,
selling or delivering newspapers, and carrying milk. As soon as they
were old enough they got Half Time certificates and directly they were
fourteen they left school altogether and went to work all the day.
When they were old enough some of them tried to join the Army or Navy,
but were found physically unfit.

It is not much to be wondered at that when they became a little older
they were so degenerate intellectually that they imagined that the
surest way to obtain better conditions would be to elect gangs of
Liberal and Tory land-grabbers, sweaters, swindlers and lawyers to
rule over them.

When Owen arrived at the yard he found Bert White cleaning out the
dirty pots in the paint-shop. The noise he made with the scraping
knife prevented him from hearing Owen's approach and the latter stood
watching him for some minutes without speaking. The stone floor of
the paint shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a
tomb. The boy was trembling with cold and he looked pitifully
undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old apron girt
about him. Because it was so cold he was wearing his jacket with the
ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them clean, or to prevent them
getting any dirtier, for they were already in the same condition as
the rest of his attire, which was thickly encrusted with dried paint
of many colours, and his hands and fingernails were grimed with it.

As he watched the poor boy bending over his task, Owen thought of
Frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would
ever be in a similar plight.

When he saw Owen, the boy left off working and wished him good
morning, remarking that it was very cold.

`Why don't you light a fire? There's lots of wood lying about the
yard.'

`No,' said Bert shaking his head. `That would never do! Misery
wouldn't 'arf ramp if 'e caught me at it. I used to 'ave a fire 'ere
last winter till Rushton found out, and 'e kicked up an orful row and
told me to move meself and get some work done and then I wouldn't feel
the cold.'

`Oh, he said that, did he?' said Owen, his pale face becoming suddenly
suffused with blood. `We'll see about that.'

He went out into the yard and crossing over to where - under a shed -
there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of
places where Rushton & Co. had made alterations, he gathered an armful
of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins accosted him.

`You mustn't go burnin' any of that, you know! That's all got to be
saved and took up to the bloke's house. Misery spoke about it only
this mornin'.'

Owen did not answer him. He carried the wood into the shop and after
throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and,
applying a match, produced a roaring fire. Then he brought in several
more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop. Bert
took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of
them because he was afraid there would be trouble when Misery came,
but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and
shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the
benefit of the heat.

Owen waited for about half an hour to see if Hunter would return, but
as that disciple did not appear, he decided not to wait any longer.
Before leaving he gave Bert some instructions:

`Keep up the fire with all the old paint that you can scrape off those
things and any other old paint or rubbish that's here, and whenever it
grows dull put more wood on. There's a lot of old stuff here that's
of no use except to be thrown away or burnt. Burn it all. If Hunter
says anything, tell him that I lit the fire, and that I told you to
keep it burning. If you want more wood, go out and take it.'

`All right,' replied Bert.

On his way out Owen spoke to Sawkins. His manner was so menacing, his
face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the
latter thought of the talk there had been about Owen being mad, and
felt half afraid of him.

`I am going to the office to see Rushton; if Hunter comes here, you
say I told you to tell him that if I find the boy in that shop again
without a fire, I'll report it to the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children. And as for you, if the boy comes out here to get
more wood, don't you attempt to interfere with him.'

`I don't want to interfere with the bloody kid,' grunted Sawkins. `It
seems to me as if he's gorn orf 'is bloody crumpet,' he added as he
watched Owen walking rapidly down the street. `I can't understand why
people can't mind their own bloody business: anyone would think the
boy belonged to 'IM.'

That was just how the matter presented itself to Owen. The idea that
it was his own child who was to be treated in this way possessed and
infuriated him as he strode savagely along. In the vicinity of the
Slave Market on the Grand Parade he passed - without seeing them -
several groups of unemployed artisans whom he knew. Some of them were
offended and remarked that he was getting stuck up, but others,
observing how strange he looked, repeated the old prophecy that one of
these days Owen would go out of his mind.

As he drew near to his destination large flakes of snow began to fall.
He walked so rapidly and was in such a fury that by the time he
reached the shop he was scarcely able to speak.

`Is - Hunter - or Rushton here?' he demanded of the shopman.

`Hunter isn't, but the guv'nor is. What was it you wanted?'

`He'll soon - know - that,' panted Owen as he strode up to the office
door, and without troubling to knock, flung it violently open and
entered.

The atmosphere of this place was very different from that of the damp
cellar where Bert was working. A grate fitted with asbestos blocks
and lit with gas communicated a genial warmth to the air.

Rushton was standing leaning over Miss Wade's chair with his left arm
round her neck. Owen recollected afterwards that her dress was
disarranged. She retired hastily to the far end of the room as
Rushton jumped away from her, and stared in amazement and confusion at
the intruder - he was too astonished and embarrassed to speak. Owen
stood panting and quivering in the middle of the office and pointed a
trembling finger at his employer:

`I've come - here - to tell - you - that - if I find young - Bert
White - working - down in that shop - without a fire - I'll have you
prosecuted. The place is not good enough for a stable - if you owned
a valuable dog - you wouldn't keep it there - I give you fair warning -
I know - enough - about you - to put you - where you deserve to be -
if you don't treat him better I'll have you punished I'll show you
up.'

Rushton continued to stare at him in mingled confusion, fear and
perplexity; he did not yet comprehend exactly what it was all about;
he was guiltily conscious of so many things which he might reasonably
fear to be shown up or prosecuted for if they were known, and the fact
of being caught under such circumstances with Miss Wade helped to
reduce him to a condition approaching terror.

`If the boy has been there without a fire, I 'aven't known anything
about it,' he stammered at last. `Mr 'Unter has charge of all those
matters.'

`You - yourself - forbade him - to make a fire last winter - and
anyhow - you know about it now. You obtained money from his mother
under the pretence - that you were going - to teach him a trade - but
for the last twelve months - you have been using him - as if he were -
a beast of burden. I advise you to see to it - or I shall - find -
means - to make you - wish you had done so.'

With this Owen turned and went out, leaving the door open, and Rushton
in a state of mind compounded of fear, amazement and anger.

As he walked homewards through the snow-storm, Owen began to realize
that the consequence of what he had done would be that Rushton would
not give him any more work, and as he reflected on all that this would
mean to those at home, for a moment he doubted whether he had done
right. But when he told Nora what had happened she said there were
plenty of other firms in the town who would employ him - when they had
the work. He had done without Rushton before and could do so again;
for her part - whatever the consequences might be - she was glad that
he had acted as he did.

`We'll get through somehow, I suppose,' said Owen, wearily. `There's
not much chance of getting a job anywhere else just now, but I shall
try to get some work on my own account. I shall do some samples of
show-cards the same as I did last winter and try to get orders from
some of the shops - they usually want something extra at this time,
but I'm afraid it is rather too late: most of them already have all
they want.'

`I shouldn't go out again today if I were you,' said Nora, noticing
how ill he looked. `You should stay at home and read, or write up
those minutes.'

The minutes referred to were those of the last meeting of the local
branch of the Painters' Society, of which Owen was the secretary, and
as the snow continued to fall, he occupied himself after dinner in the
manner his wife suggested, until four o'clock, when Frankie returned
from school bringing with him a large snowball, and crying out as a
piece of good news that the snow was still falling heavily, and that
he believed it was freezing!

They went to bed very early that night, for it was necessary to
economize the coal, and not only that, but - because the rooms were so
near the roof - it was not possible to keep the place warm no matter
how much coal was used. The fire seemed, if anything, to make the
place colder, for it caused the outer air to pour in through the
joints of the ill-fitting doors and windows.

Owen lay awake for the greater part of the night. The terror of the
future made rest or sleep impossible. He got up very early the next
morning - long before it was light - and after lighting the fire, set
about preparing the samples he had mentioned to Nora, but found that
it would not be possible to do much in this direction without buying
more cardboard, for most of what he had was not in good condition.

They had bread and butter and tea for breakfast. Frankie had his in
bed and it was decided to keep him away from school until after dinner
because the weather was so very cold and his only pair of boots were
so saturated with moisture from having been out in the snow the
previous day.

`I shall make a few inquiries to see if there's any other work to be
had before I buy the cardboard,' said Owen, `although I'm afraid it's
not much use.'

Just as he was preparing to go out, the front door bell rang, and as
he was going down to answer it he saw Bert White coming upstairs. The
boy was carrying a flat, brown-paper parcel under his arm.

`A corfin plate,' he explained as he arrived at the door. `Wanted at
once - Misery ses you can do it at 'ome, an' I've got to wait for it.'

Owen and his wife looked at each other with intense relief. So he was
not to be dismissed after all. It was almost too good to be true.

`There's a piece of paper inside the parcel with the name of the party
what's dead,' continued Bert, `and here's a little bottle of Brunswick
black for you to do the inscription with.'

`Did he send any other message?'

`Yes: he told me to tell you there's a job to be started Monday morning -
a couple of rooms to be done out somewhere. Got to be finished by
Thursday; and there's another job 'e wants you to do this afternoon -
after dinner - so you've got to come to the yard at one o'clock. 'E
told me to tell you 'e meant to leave a message for you yesterday
morning, but 'e forgot.'

`What did he say to you about the fire - anything?'

`Yes: they both of 'em came about an hour after you went away - Misery
and the Bloke too - but they didn't kick up a row. I wasn't arf
frightened, I can tell you, when I saw 'em both coming, but they was
quite nice. The Bloke ses to me, "Ah, that's right, my boy," 'e ses.
"Keep up a good fire. I'm going to send you some coke," 'e ses. And
then they 'ad a look round and 'e told Sawkins to put some new panes
of glass where the winder was broken, and - you know that great big
packing-case what was under the truck shed?'

`Yes.'

`Well, 'e told Sawkins to saw it up and cover over the stone floor of
the paint-shop with it. It ain't 'arf all right there now. I've
cleared out all the muck from under the benches and we've got two
sacks of coke sent from the gas-works, and the Bloke told me when
that's all used up I've got to get a order orf Miss Wade for another
lot.'

At one o'clock Owen was at the yard, where he saw Misery, who
instructed him to go to the front shop and paint some numbers on the
racks where the wallpapers were stored. Whilst he was doing this work
Rushton came in and greeted him in a very friendly way.

`I'm very glad you let me know about the boy working in that
paint-shop,' he observed after a few preliminary remarks. `I can
assure you as I don't want the lad to be uncomfortable, but you know I
can't attend to everything myself. I'm much obliged to you for
telling me about it; I think you did quite right; I should have done
the same myself.'

Owen did not know what to reply, but Rushton walked off without
waiting...

Chapter 52

'It's a Far, Far Better Thing that I do, than I have Ever Done'

Although Owen, Easton and Crass and a few others were so lucky as to
have had a little work to do during the last few months, the majority
of their fellow workmen had been altogether out of employment most of
the time, and meanwhile the practical business-men, and the pretended
disciples of Christ - the liars and hypocrites who professed to
believe that all men are brothers and God their Father - had continued
to enact the usual farce that they called `Dealing' with the misery
that surrounded them on every side. They continued to organize
`Rummage' and `Jumble' sales and bazaars, and to distribute their
rotten cast-off clothes and boots and their broken victuals and soup
to such of the Brethren as were sufficiently degraded to beg for them.
The beautiful Distress Committee was also in full operation; over a
thousand Brethren had registered themselves on its books. Of this
number - after careful investigation - the committee had found that no
fewer than six hundred and seventy-two were deserving of being allowed
to work for their living. The Committee would probably have given
these six hundred and seventy-two the necessary permission, but it was
somewhat handicapped by the fact that the funds at its disposal were
only sufficient to enable that number of Brethren to be employed for
about three days. However, by adopting a policy of temporizing,
delay, and general artful dodging, the Committee managed to create the
impression that they were Dealing with the Problem.

If it had not been for a cunning device invented by Brother Rushton, a
much larger number of the Brethren would have succeeded in registering
themselves as unemployed on the books of the Committee. In previous
years it had been the practice to issue an application form called a
`Record Paper' to any Brother who asked for one, and the Brother
returned it after filling it in himself. At a secret meeting of the
Committee Rushton proposed - amid laughter and applause, it was such a
good joke - a new and better way, calculated to keep down the number
of applicants. The result of this innovation was that no more forms
were issued, but the applicants for work were admitted into the office
one at a time, and were there examined by a junior clerk, somewhat
after the manner of a French Juge d'Instruction interrogating a
criminal, the clerk filling in the form according to the replies of
the culprit.

`What's your name?'

`Where do you live?'

`How long have you been living there?'

`Where did you live before you went there?'

`How long were you living at that place?'

`Why did you move?'

`Did you owe any rent when you left?'

`What was your previous address?'

`How old are you? When was your last birthday?'

`What is your Trade, Calling, Employment, or Occupation?'

`Are you Married or single or a Widower or what?'

`How many children have you? How many boys? How many girls? Do they
go to work? What do they earn?'

`What kind of a house do you live in? How many rooms are there?'

`How much rent do you owe?'

`Who was your last employer? What was the foreman's name? How long
did you work there? What kind of work did you do? Why did you
leave?'

`What have you been doing for the last five years? What kind of work,
how many hours a day? What wages did you get?'

`Give the full names and addresses of all the different employers you
have worked for during the last five years, and the reasons why you
left them?'

`Give the names of all the foremen you have worked under during the
last five years?'

`Does your wife earn anything? How much?'

`Do you get any money from any Club or Society, or from any Charity,
or from any other source?'

`Have you ever received Poor Relief?'

`Have you ever worked for a Distress Committee before?'

`Have you ever done any other kinds of work than those you have
mentioned? Do you think you would be fit for any other kind'

`Have you any references?' and so on and so forth.

When the criminal had answered all the questions, and when his answers
had all been duly written down, he was informed that a member of the
Committee, or an Authorized Officer, or some Other Person, would in
due course visit his home and make inquiries about him, after which
the Authorized Officer or Other Person would make a report to the
Committee, who would consider it at their next meeting.

As the interrogation of each criminal occupied about half an hour, to
say nothing of the time he was kept waiting, it will be seen that as a
means of keeping down the number of registered unemployed the idea
worked splendidly.

When Rushton introduced this new rule it was carried unanimously, Dr
Weakling being the only dissentient, but of course he - as Brother
Grinder remarked - was always opposed to any sensible proposal. There
was one consolation, however, Grinder added, they was not likely to be
pestered with 'im much longer; the first of November was coming and if
he - Grinder - knowed anything of working men they was sure to give
Weakling the dirty kick out directly they got the chance.

A few days afterwards the result of the municipal election justified
Brother Grinder's prognostications, for the working men voters of Dr
Weakling's ward did give him the dirty kick out: but Rushton, Didlum,
Grinder and several other members of the band were triumphantly
returned with increased majorities.

Mr Dauber, of Dauber and Botchit, had already been elected a Guardian
of the Poor.

During all this time Hunter, who looked more worried and miserable as
the dreary weeks went by, was occupied every day in supervising what
work was being done and in running about seeking for more. Nearly
every night he remained at the office until a late hour, poring over
specifications and making out estimates. The police had become so
accustomed to seeing the light in the office that as a rule they took
no notice of it, but one Thursday night - exactly one week after the
scene between Owen and Rushton about the boy - the constable on the
beat observed the light there much later than usual. At first he paid
no particular attention to the fact, but when night merged into
morning and the light still remained, his curiosity was aroused.

He knocked at the door, but no one came in answer, and no sound
disturbed the deathlike stillness that reigned within. The door was
locked, but he was not able to tell whether it had been closed from
the inside or outside, because it had a spring latch. The office
window was low down, but it was not possible to see in because the
back of the glass had been painted.

The constable thought that the most probable explanation of the
mystery was that whoever had been there earlier in the evening had
forgotten to turn out the light when they went away; it was not likely
that thieves or anyone who had no business to be there would advertise
their presence by lighting the gas.

He made a note of the incident in his pocket-book and was about to
resume his beat when he was joined by his inspector. The latter
agreed that the conclusion arrived at by the constable was probably
the right one and they were about to pass on when the inspector
noticed a small speck of light shining through the lower part of the
painted window, where a small piece of the paint had either been
scratched or had shelled off the glass. He knelt down and found that
it was possible to get a view of the interior of the office, and as he
peered through he gave a low exclamation. When he made way for his
subordinate to look in his turn, the constable was with some
difficulty able to distinguish the figure of a man lying prone upon
the floor.

It was an easy task for the burly policeman to force open the office
door: a single push of his shoulder wrenched it from its fastenings
and as it flew back the socket of the lock fell with a splash into a
great pool of blood that had accumulated against the threshold,
flowing from the place where Hunter was lying on his back, his arms
extended and his head nearly severed from his body. On the floor,
close to his right hand, was an open razor. An overturned chair lay
on the floor by the side of the table where he usually worked, the
table itself being littered with papers and drenched with blood.

Within the next few days Crass resumed the role he had played when
Hunter was ill during the summer, taking charge of the work and
generally doing his best to fill the dead man's place, although - as
he confided to certain of his cronies in the bar of the Cricketers -
he had no intention of allowing Rushton to do the same as Hunter had
done. One of his first jobs - on the morning after the discovery of
the body - was to go with Mr Rushton to look over a house where some
work was to be done for which an estimate had to be given. It was
this estimate that Hunter had been trying to make out the previous
evening in the office, for they found that the papers on his table
were covered with figures and writing relating to this work. These
papers justified the subsequent verdict of the Coroner's jury that
Hunter committed suicide in a fit of temporary insanity, for they were
covered with a lot of meaningless scribbling, the words wrongly spelt
and having no intelligible connection with each other. There was one
sum that he had evidently tried repeatedly to do correctly, but which
came wrong in a different way every time. The fact that he had the
razor in his possession seemed to point to his having premeditated the
act, but this was accounted for at the inquest by the evidence of the
last person who saw him alive, a hairdresser, who stated that Hunter
had left the razor with him to be sharpened a few days previously and
that he had called for it on the evening of the tragedy. He had
ground this razor for Mr Hunter several times before.

Crass took charge of all the arrangements for the funeral. He bought
a new second-hand pair of black trousers at a cast-off clothing shop
in honour of the occasion, and discarded his own low-crowned silk hat -
which was getting rather shabby - in favour of Hunter's tall one,
which he found in the office and annexed without hesitation or
scruple. It was rather large for him, but he put some folded strips
of paper inside the leather lining. Crass was a proud man as he
walked in Hunter's place at the head of the procession, trying to look
solemn, but with a half-smile on his fat, pasty face, destitute of
colour except one spot on his chin near his underlip, where there was
a small patch of inflammation about the size of a threepenny piece.
This spot had been there for a very long time. At first - as well as
he could remember - it was only a small pimple, but it had grown
larger, with something the appearance of scurvy. Crass attributed its
continuation to the cold having `got into it last winter'. It was
rather strange, too, because he generally took care of himself when it
was cold: he always wore the warm wrap that had formerly belonged to
the old lady who died of cancer. However, Crass did not worry much
about this little sore place; he just put a little zinc ointment on it
occasionally and had no doubt that it would get well in time.