Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

R >> Robert Tressell >> The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56

That was the ideal character. Owen knew that Frankie's character did
not come up to this lofty ideal. Then there was Nora, how would she
fare?

Owen stood up and began walking about the room, oppressed with a kind
of terror. Presently he returned to the fire and began rearranging
the clothes that were drying. He found that the boots, having been
placed too near the fire, had dried too quickly and consequently the
sole of one of them had begun to split away from the upper: he
remedied this as well as he was able and then turned the wetter parts
of the clothing to the fire. Whilst doing this he noticed the
newspaper, which he had forgotten, in the coat pocket. He drew it out
with an exclamation of pleasure. Here was something to distract his
thoughts: if not instructive or comforting, it would at any rate be
interesting and even amusing to read the reports of the
self-satisfied, futile talk of the profound statesmen who with comical
gravity presided over the working of the Great System which their
combined wisdom pronounced to be the best that could possibly be
devised. But tonight Owen was not to read of those things, for as
soon as he opened the paper his attention was riveted by the staring
headline of one of the principal columns:

TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
Wife And Two Children Killed
Suicide of the Murderer

It was one of the ordinary poverty crimes. The man had been without
employment for many weeks and they had been living by pawning or
selling their furniture and other possessions. But even this resource
must have failed at last, and when one day the neighbours noticed that
the blinds remained down and that there was a strange silence about
the house, no one coming out or going in, suspicions that something
was wrong were quickly aroused. When the police entered the house,
they found, in one of the upper rooms, the dead bodies of the woman
and the two children, with their throats severed, laid out side by
side upon the bed, which was saturated with their blood.

There was no bedstead and no furniture in the room except the straw
mattress and the ragged clothes and blankets which formed the bed upon
the floor.

The man's body was found in the kitchen, lying with outstretched arms
face downwards on the floor, surrounded by the blood that had poured
from the wound in his throat which had evidently been inflicted by the
razor that was grasped in his right hand.

No particle of food was found in the house, and on a nail in the wall
in the kitchen was hung a piece of blood-smeared paper on which was
written in pencil:

`This is not my crime, but society's.'

The report went on to explain that the deed must have been perpetrated
during a fit of temporary insanity brought on by the sufferings the
man had endured.

`Insanity!' muttered Owen, as he read this glib theory. `Insanity!
It seems to me that he would have been insane if he had NOT killed
them.'

Surely it was wiser and better and kinder to send them all to sleep,
than to let them continue to suffer.

At the same time he thought it very strange that the man should have
chosen to do it that way, when there were so many other cleaner,
easier and more painless ways of accomplishing the same object. He
wondered why it was that most of these killings were done in more or
less the same crude, cruel messy way. No; HE would set about it in a
different fashion. He would get some charcoal, then he would paste
strips of paper over the joinings of the door and windows of the room
and close the register of the grate. Then he would kindle the
charcoal on a tray or something in the middle of the room, and then
they would all three just lie down together and sleep; and that would
be the end of everything. There would be no pain, no blood, and no
mess.

Or one could take poison. Of course, there was a certain amount of
difficulty in procuring it, but it would not be impossible to find
some pretext for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small
quantities at different shops until one had sufficient. Then he
remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the
colours he frequently had to use in his work, was one of the most
deadly poisons: and there was some other stuff that photographers
used, which was very easy to procure. Of course, one would have to be
very careful about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a
lot of pain. It would be necessary to find out exactly how the stuff
acted before using it. It would not be very difficult to do so. Then
he remembered that among his books was one that probably contained
some information about this subject. He went over to the book-shelf
and presently found the volume; it was called The Cyclopedia of
Practical Medicine, rather an old book, a little out of date, perhaps,
but still it might contain the information he wanted. Opening it, he
turned to the table of contents. Many different subjects were
mentioned there and presently he found the one he sought:

Poisons: chemically, physiologically and pathologically considered.
Corrosive Poisons.
Narcotic Poisons.
Slow Poisons.
Consecutive Poisons.
Accumulative Poisons.

He turned to the chapter indicated and, reading it, he was astonished
to find what a number of poisons there were within easy reach of
whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied upon
to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. Why, it was not
even necessary to buy them: one could gather them from the hedges by
the road side and in the fields.

The more he thought of it the stranger it seemed that such a clumsy
method as a razor should be so popular. Why almost any other way
would be better and easier than that. Strangulation or even hanging,
though the latter method could scarcely be adopted in that house,
because there were no beams or rafters or anything from which it would
be possible to suspend a cord. Still, he could drive some large nails
or hooks into one of the walls. For that matter, there were already
some clothes-hooks on some of the doors. He began to think that this
would be an even more excellent way than poison or charcoal; he could
easily pretend to Frankie that he was going to show him some new kind
of play.

He could arrange the cord on the hook on one of the doors and then
under pretence of play, it would be done. The boy would offer no
resistance, and in a few minutes it would all be over.

He threw down the book and pressed his hands over his ears: he fancied
he could hear the boy's hands and feet beating against the panels of
the door as he struggled in his death agony.

Then, as his arms fell nervelessly by his side again, he thought that
he heard Frankie's voice calling.

`Dad! Dad!'

Owen hastily opened the door.

`Are you calling, Frankie?'

`Yes. I've been calling you quite a long time.'

`What do you want?'

`I want you to come here. I want to tell you something.'

`Well, what is it dear? I thought you were asleep a long time ago,'
said Owen as he came into the room.

`That's just what I want to speak to you about: the kitten's gone to
sleep all right, but I can't go. I've tried all different ways,
counting and all, but it's no use, so I thought I'd ask you if you'd
mind coming and staying with me, and letting me hold you hand for a
little while and the p'raps I could go.'

The boy twined his arms round Owen's neck and hugged him very tightly.

`Oh, Dad, I love you so much!' he said. `I love you so much, I could
squeeze you to death.'

`I'm afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tightly as that.'

The boy laughed softly as he relaxed his hold. `That WOULD be a funny
way of showing you how much I love you, wouldn't it, Dad? Squeezing
you to death!'

`Yes, I suppose it would,' replied Owen huskily, as he tucked the
bedclothes round the child's shoulders. `But don't talk any more,
dear; just hold my hand and try to sleep.'

`All right,' said Frankie.

Lying there very quietly, holding his father's hand and occasionally
kissing it, the child presently fell asleep. Then Owen got up very
gently and, having taken the kitten out of the bed again and arranged
the bedclothes, he softly kissed the boy's forehead and returned to
the other room.

Looking about for a suitable place for the kitten to sleep in, he
noticed Frankie's toy box, and having emptied the toys on to the floor
in a corner of the room, he made a bed in the box with some rags and
placed it on its side on the hearthrug, facing the fire, and with some
difficulty persuaded the kitten to lie in it. Then, having placed the
chairs on which his clothes were drying at a safe distance from the
fire, he went into the bedroom. Nora was still awake.

`Are you feeling any better, dear?' he said.

`Yes, I'm ever so much better since I've been in bed, but I can't help
worrying about your clothes. I'm afraid they'll never be dry enough
for you to put on the first thing in the morning. Couldn't you stay
at home till after breakfast, just for once?'

`No; I mustn't do that. If I did Hunter would probably tell me to
stay away altogether. I believe he would be glad of an excuse to get
rid of another full-price man just now.'

`But if it's raining like this in the morning, you'll be wet through
before you get there.'

`It's no good worrying about that dear: besides, I can wear this old
coat that I have no now, over the other.'

`And if you wrap your old shoes in some paper, and take them with you,
you can take off your wet boots as soon as you get to the place.'

`Yes, all right,' responded Owen. `Besides,' he added, reassuringly,
`even if I do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you
know.'

`Well, I hope the weather will be a little better than this in the
morning,' said Nora. `Isn't it a dreadful night! I keep feeling
afraid that the house is going to be blown down.'

Long after Nora was asleep, Owen lay listening to the howling of the
wind and the noise of the rain as it poured heavily on the roof ...

Chapter 7

The Exterminating Machines

`Come on, Saturday!' shouted Philpot, just after seven o'clock one
Monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work.

It was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by
the flickering light of two candles which Crass had lighted and stuck
on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve
out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men.

`Yes, it do seem a 'ell of a long week, don't it?' remarked Harlow as
he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and
blouse. `I've 'ad bloody near enough of it already.'

`Wish to Christ it was breakfast-time,' growled the more easily
satisfied Easton.

Extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their
work: they did not `love' it. They had no conception of that lofty
ideal of `work for work's sake', which is so popular with the people
who do nothing. On the contrary, when the workers arrived in the
morning they wished it was breakfast-time. When they resumed work
after breakfast they wished it was dinner-time. After dinner they
wished it was one o'clock on Saturday.

So they went on, day after day, year after year, wishing their time
was over and, without realizing it, really wishing that they were
dead.

How extraordinary this must appear to those idealists who believe in
`work for work's sake', but who themselves do nothing but devour or
use and enjoy or waste the things that are produced by the labour of
those others who are not themselves permitted to enjoy a fair share of
the good things they help to create?

Crass poured several lots of colour into several pots.

`Harlow,' he said, `you and Sawkins, when he comes, can go up and do
the top bedrooms out with this colour. You'll find a couple of
candles up there. It's only goin' to 'ave one coat, so see that you
make it cover all right, and just look after Sawkins a bit so as 'e
doesn't make a bloody mess of it. You do the doors and windows, and
let 'im do the cupboards and skirtings.'

`That's a bit of all right, I must say,' Harlow said, addressing the
company generally. `We've got to teach a b--r like 'im so as 'e can
do us out of a job presently by working under price.'

`Well, I can't 'elp it,' growled Crass. `You know 'ow it is: `Unter
sends 'im 'ere to do paintin', and I've got to put 'im on it. There
ain't nothing else for 'im to do.'

Further discussion on this subject was prevented by Sawkins' arrival,
nearly a quarter of an hour late.

`Oh, you 'ave come, then,' sneered Crass. `Thought p'raps you'd gorn
for a 'oliday.'

Sawkins muttered something about oversleeping himself, and having
hastily put on his apron, he went upstairs with Harlow.

`Now, let's see,' Crass said, addressing Philpot. `You and Newman 'ad
better go and make a start on the second floor: this is the colour,
and 'ere's a couple of candles. You'd better not both go in one room
or 'Unter will growl about it. You take one of the front and let
Newman take one of the back rooms. Take a bit of stoppin' with you:
they're goin' to 'ave two coats, but you'd better putty up the 'oles as
well as you can, this time.'

`Only two coats!' said Philpot. `Them rooms will never look nothing
with two coats - a light colour like this.'

`It's only goin' to get two, anyway,' returned Crass, testily.
`'Unter said so, so you'll 'ave to do the best you can with 'em, and
get 'em smeared over middlin' sudden, too.'

Crass did not think it necessary to mention that according to the copy
of the specification of the work which he had in his pocket the rooms
in question were supposed to have four coats.

Crass now turned to Owen.

`There's that drorin'-room,' he said. `I don't know what's goin' to
be done with that yet. I don't think they've decided about it.
Whatever's to be done to it will be an extra, because all that's said
about it in the contract is to face it up with putty and give it one
coat of white. So you and Easton 'ad better get on with it.'

Slyme was busy softening some putty by rubbing and squeezing it
between his hands.

`I suppose I'd better finish the room I started on on Saturday?' he
asked.

`All right,' replied Crass. `Have you got enough colour?'

`Yes,' said Slyme.

As he passed through the kitchen on the way to his work, Slyme
accosted Bert, the boy, who was engaged in lighting, with some pieces
of wood, a fire to boil the water to make the tea for breakfast at
eight o'clock.

`There's a bloater I want's cooked,' he said.

`All right,' replied Bert. `Put it over there on the dresser along of
Philpot's and mine.'

Slyme took the bloater from his food basket, but as he was about to
put it in the place indicated, he observed that his was rather a
larger one than either of the other two. This was an important
matter. After they were cooked it would not be easy to say which was
which: he might possibly be given one of the smaller ones instead of
his own. He took out his pocket knife and cut off the tail of the
large bloater.

`'Ere it is, then,' he said to Bert. `I've cut the tail of mine so as
you'll know which it is.'

It was now about twenty minutes past seven and all the other men
having been started at work, Crass washed his hands under the tap.
Then he went into the kitchen and having rigged up a seat by taking
two of the drawers out of the dresser and placing them on the floor
about six feet apart and laying a plank across, he sat down in front
of the fire, which was now burning brightly under the pail, and,
lighting his pipe, began to smoke. The boy went into the scullery and
began washing up the cups and jars for the men to drink out of.

Bert was a lean, undersized boy about fifteen years of age and about
four feet nine inches in height. He had light brown hair and hazel
grey eyes, and his clothes were of many colours, being thickly
encrusted with paint, the result of the unskillful manner in which he
did his work, for he had only been at the trade about a year. Some of
the men had nicknamed him `the walking paint-shop', a title which Bert
accepted good-humouredly.

This boy was an orphan. His father had been a railway porter who had
worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for
many years, with the usual result, namely, that he and his family
lived in a condition of perpetual poverty. Bert, who was their only
child and not very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so
when his father died a little over a year ago, his mother readily
assented when the boy said that he wished to become a decorator. It
was a nice light trade, and she thought that a really good painter,
such as she was sure he would become, was at least always able to earn
a good living. Resolving to give the boy the best possible chance,
she decided if possible to place him at Rushton's, that being one of
the leading firms in the town. At first Mr Rushton demanded ten
pounds as a premium, the boy to be bound for five years, no wages the
first year, two shillings a week the second, and a rise of one
shilling every year for the remainder of the term. Afterwards, as a
special favour - a matter of charity, in fact, as she was a very poor
woman - he agreed to accept five pounds.

This sum represented the thrifty savings of years, but the poor woman
parted with it willingly in order that the boy should become a skilled
workman. So Bert was apprenticed - bound for five years - to Rushton
& Co.

For the first few months his life had been spent in the paint-shop at
the yard, a place that was something between a cellar and a stable.
There, surrounded by the poisonous pigments and materials of the
trade, the youthful artisan worked, generally alone, cleaning the
dirty paint-pots brought in by the workmen from finished `jobs'
outside, and occasionally mixing paint according to the instructions
of Mr Hunter, or one of the sub-foremen.

Sometimes he was sent out to carry materials to the places where the
men were working - heavy loads of paint or white lead - sometimes
pails of whitewash that his slender arms had been too feeble to carry
more than a few yards at a time.

Often his fragile, childish figure was seen staggering manfully along,
bending beneath the weight of a pair of steps or a heavy plank.

He could manage a good many parcels at once: some in each hand and
some tied together with string and slung over his shoulders.
Occasionally, however, there were more than he could carry; then they
were put into a handcart which he pushed or dragged after him to the
distant jobs.

That first winter the boy's days were chiefly spent in the damp,
evil-smelling, stone-flagged paint-shop, without even a fire to warm
the clammy atmosphere.

But in all this he had seen no hardship. With the unconsciousness of
boyhood, he worked hard and cheerfully. As time went on, the goal of
his childish ambition was reached - he was sent out to work with the
men! And he carried the same spirit with him, always doing his best
to oblige those with whom he was working.

He tried hard to learn, and to be a good boy, and he succeeded, fairly
well.

He soon became a favourite with Owen, for whom he conceived a great
respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any
special work of any kind to be done it was Owen who did it. On such
occasions, Bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to
assist Owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy
might be allowed to work with him.

Bert's regard for Owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of
Crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy's aspirations.
`There'll be plenty of time for you to think about doin' fancy work
after you've learnt to do plain painting,' he would say.

This morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, Bert
returned with them to the kitchen.

`Now let's see,' said Crass, thoughtfully, `You've put the tea in the
pail, I s'pose.'

`Yes.'

`And now you want a job, don't you?'

`Yes,' replied the boy.

`Well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and
wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and
walls.'

`All right,' said Bert. When he got as far as the door leading into
the scullery he looked round and said:

`I've got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.'

`Never mind about that,' said Crass. `I'll do them.'

Bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a
pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the
bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded
to carry out Crass's instructions.

It was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle
only made it seem more so. Bert shivered: he would like to have put
his jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this.
He lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing
up on to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a
square yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush.

He was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down
over the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm,
wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt. When he had scrubbed it
sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and
then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and,
taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of
the ceiling that he had washed. Then he dropped it back into the
pail, and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation. Then
he peeped into the kitchen, where Crass was still seated by the fire,
smoking and toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed
stick. Bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he
himself might go and have a warm at the fire.

`'E might just as well 'ave let me do them bloaters,' he muttered to
himself, regarding Crass malignantly through the crack of the door.
`This is a fine job to give to anybody - a cold mornin' like this.'

He shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went
on with the work.

A little later, Crass, still sitting by the fire, heard footsteps
approaching along the passage. He started up guiltily and, thrusting
the hand holding his pipe into his apron pocket, retreated hastily
into the scullery. He thought it might be Hunter, who was in the
habit of turning up at all sorts of unlikely times, but it was only
Easton.

`I've got a bit of bacon I want the young 'un to toast for me,' he
said as Crass came back.

`You can do it yourself if you like,' replied Crass affably, looking
at his watch. `It's about ten to eight.'

Easton had been working for Rushton & Co. for a fortnight, and had
been wise enough to stand Crass a drink on several occasions: he was
consequently in that gentleman's good books for the time being.

`How are you getting on in there?' Crass asked, alluding to the work
Easton and Owen were doing in the drawing-room. `You ain't fell out
with your mate yet, I s'pose?'

`No; 'e ain't got much to say this morning; 'is cough's pretty bad. I
can generally manage to get on orl right with anybody, you know,'
Easton added.

`Well, so can I as a rule, but I get a bit sick listening to that
bloody fool. Accordin' to 'im, everything's wrong. One day it's
religion, another it's politics, and the next it's something else.'

`Yes, it is a bit thick; too much of it,' agreed Easton, `but I don't
take no notice of the bloody fool: that's the best way.'

`Of course, we know that things is a bit bad just now,' Crass went on,
`but if the likes of 'im could 'ave their own way they'd make 'em a
bloody sight worse.'

`That's just what I say,' replied Easton.

`I've got a pill ready for 'im, though, next time 'e start yappin','
Crass continued as he drew a small piece of printed paper from his
waistcoat pocket. `Just read that; it's out of the Obscurer.'

Easton took the newspaper cutting and read it: `Very good,' he
remarked as he handed it back.

`Yes, I think that'll about shut 'im up. Did yer notice the other day
when we was talking about poverty and men bein' out of work, 'ow 'e
dodged out of answerin' wot I said about machinery bein' the cause of
it? 'e never answered me! Started talkin' about something else.'

`Yes, I remember 'e never answered it,' said Easton, who had really no
recollection of the incident at all.

`I mean to tackle 'im about it at breakfast-time. I don't see why 'e
should be allowed to get out of it like that. There was a bloke down
at the "Cricketers" the other night talkin' about the same thing - a
chap as takes a interest in politics and the like, and 'e said the
very same as me. Why, the number of men what's been throwed out of
work by all this 'ere new-fangled machinery is something chronic!'

`Of course,' agreed Easton, `everyone knows it.'

`You ought to give us a look in at the "Cricketers" some night.
There's a lot of decent chaps comes there.'