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The Ragged Trousered Philanthrop=
ists
By
Robert Tressell
Contents
Chapter
2 - Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord.
Chapter
6 - It is not My Crime
Chapter
7 - The Exterminating Machines
Chapter
8 - The Cap on the Stairs
Chapter
12 - The Letting of the Room
Chapter
13 - Penal Servitude and Death
Chapter
14 - Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence.
Chapter
15 - The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones
Chapter
17 - The Rev. John Starr
Chapter
19 - The Filling of the Tank
Chapter
20 - The Forty Thieves. The Battle:
Brigands versus Bandits
Chapter
21 - The Reign of Terror. The Great
Money Trick
Chapter
27 - The March of the Imperialists.
Chapter
28 - The Week before Christmas
Chapter
30 - The Brigands hold a Council of War.
Chapter
33 - The Soldier's Children
Chapter
34 - The Beginning of the End
Chapter
35 - Facing the 'Problem'
Chapter
37 - A Brilliant Epigram
Chapter
38 - The Brigands' Cave
Chapter
39 - The Brigands at Work
Chapter
41 - The Easter Offering. The Beano
Meeting
Chapter
43 - The Good Old Summer-time
Chapter
45 - The Great Oration
Chapter
48 - The Wise men of the East
Chapter
52 - 'It's a Far, Far Better Thing that I do, than I have Ever Done' =
Chapter
53 - Barrington Finds a Situation.
In wr=
iting
this book my intention was to present, in the form of an interesting story,=
a
faithful picture of working-class life--more especially of those engaged in=
the
Building trades--in a small town in the south of England.
I wished to describe the relations existing
between the workmen and their employers, the attitude and feelings of these=
two
classes towards each other; their circumstances when at work and when out of
employment; their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their religious and
political opinions and ideals.
The action of the story covers a period of onl=
y a
little over twelve months, but in order that the picture might be complete =
it
was necessary to describe how the workers are circumstanced at all periods =
of
their lives, from the cradle to the grave.
Therefore the characters include women and children, a young boy--the
apprentice--some improvers, journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out o=
ld
men.
I designed to show the conditions relating from
poverty and unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to d=
eal
with them and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy,
namely--Socialism. I intended to e=
xplain
what Socialists understand by the word 'poverty': to define the Socialist
theory of the causes of poverty, and to explain how Socialists propose to
abolish poverty.
It may be objected that, considering the numbe=
r of
books dealing with these subjects already existing, such a work as this was
uncalled for. The answer is that not only are the majority of people oppose=
d to
Socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist is
sufficient to show that he does not know what Socialism means. The same is true of all the anti-social=
ist
writers and the 'great statesmen' who make anti-socialist speeches: unless =
we
believe that they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own
interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do not
understand Socialism. There is no =
other
possible explanation of the extraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry out against is not
Socialism but a phantom of their own imagining.
Another answer is that 'The Philanthropists' is
not a treatise or essay, but a novel. My
main object was to write a readable story full of human interest and based =
on
the happenings of everyday life, the subject of Socialism being treated
incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is for =
others
to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at least one merit--=
that
of being true. I have invented
nothing. There are no scenes or
incidents in the story that I have not either witnessed myself or had
conclusive evidence of. As far as I
dared I let the characters express themselves in their own sort of language=
and
consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At the same time I believe that--becaus=
e it
is true--the book is not without its humorous side.
The scenes and characters are typical of every
town in the South of England and they will be readily recognized by those
concerned. If the book is publishe=
d I
think it will appeal to a very large number of readers. Because it is true it will probably be
denounced as a libel on the working classes and their employers, and upon t=
he
religious-professing section of the community. But I believe it will be
acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their lives
amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that no attack is
made upon sincere religion.
The h=
ouse
was named 'The Cave'. It was a lar=
ge
old-fashioned three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, a=
nd
situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back nearly two hundred yards =
from
the main road and was reached by means of a by-road or lane, on each side of
which was a hedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many=
years
and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of
Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators.
There were, altogether, about twenty-five men
working there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters,
besides several unskilled labourers. New
floors were being put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two =
of
the rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting wall and
substituting an iron girder. Some =
of the
window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. Some=
of
the ceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to be
replastered. Openings were cut thr=
ough
walls and doors were being put where no doors had been before. Old broken
chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and fix=
ed
in their places. All the old white=
wash
had to be washed off the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped o=
ff
the walls preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was full of the sounds of hamme=
ring
and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the rattle of pails, the splashing of w=
ater
brushes, and the scraping of the stripping knives used by those who were
removing the old wallpaper. Besides being full of these the air was heavily
laden with dust and disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the =
dirt
that had been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those employed there might be=
said
to be living in a Tariff Reform Paradise--they had Plenty of Work.
At twelve o'clock Bob Crass--the painters'
foreman--blew a blast upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen,
where Bert the apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in =
the
large galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By
the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated tea-c=
ups
and one or two empty condensed milk tins.
Each man on the 'job' paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and
sugar--they did not have milk--and although they had tea at breakfast-time =
as
well as at dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune.=
Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sid=
es
at a distance of about eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across=
, in
front of the fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the
dresser, formed the seating accommodation.
The floor of the room was covered with all manner of debris, dust, d=
irt,
fragments of old mortar and plaster. A
sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls, and a bucket
containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner.
As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar=
or
condensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down.
At first there was no attempt at conversation =
and
nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of
the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a
pointed stick at the fire.
'I don't think much of this bloody tea,' sudde=
nly
remarked Sawkins, one of the labourers.
'Well it oughter be all right,' retorted Bert;
'it's been bilin' ever since 'arf past eleven.'
Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-fa=
ced
boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of a suit that h=
e had
once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small=
for
him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and
broken hob-nailed boots. The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trous=
ers
had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the
original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too large fo=
r him
and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a pitiable spectacle of
neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his br=
ead
and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and
dirt.
'Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, =
or
else you've bin usin' up wot was left yesterday,' continued Sawkins.
'Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy
alone?' said Harlow, another painter.
'If you don't like the tea you needn't drink it. For my part, I'm si=
ck
of listening to you about it every damn day.'
'It's all very well for you to say I needn't d=
rink
it,' answered Sawkins, 'but I've paid my share an' I've got a right to expr=
ess
an opinion. It's my belief that 'a=
rf the
money we gives 'him is spent on penny 'orribles: 'e's always got one in 'is
hand, an' to make wot tea 'e does buy last, 'e collects all the slops wot's
left and biles it up day after day.'
'No, I don't!' said Bert, who was on the verge=
of
tears. 'It's not me wot buys the t=
hings
at all. I gives the money I gets to
Crass, and 'e buys them 'imself, so there!'
At this revelation, some of the men furtively
exchanged significant glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.
'You'd better keep your bloody thruppence and =
make
your own tea after this week,' he said, addressing Sawkins, 'and then p'raps
we'll 'ave a little peace at meal-times.'
'An' you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or
bacon for you no more,' added Bert, tearfully, 'cos I won't do it.'
Sawkins was not popular with any of the
others. When, about twelve months
previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a simple
labourer, but since then he had 'picked up' a slight knowledge of the trade,
and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a white jacket, rega=
rded
himself as a fully qualified painter.
The others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condit=
ion,
but his wages--fivepence an hour--were twopence an hour less than the stand=
ard
rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was 'st=
ood
off' when Sawkins was kept on. Mor=
eover,
he was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and t=
he
'Bloke'. Every new hand who was ta=
ken on
was usually warned by his new mates 'not to let the b--r Sawkins see anythi=
ng.'
The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at
length broken by one of the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter
and applause that followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.
'How did you get on yesterday?' asked Crass,
addressing Bundy, the plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting col=
umns
of the Daily Obscurer.
'No luck,' replied Bundy, gloomily. 'I had a b=
ob
each way on Stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the
start.'
This gave rise to a conversation between Crass,
Bundy, and one or two others concerning the chances of different horses in =
the
morrow's races. It was Friday, and=
no
one had much money, so at the suggestion of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, =
each
member contributing threepence for the purpose of backing a dead certainty
given by the renowned Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the syndi=
cate
was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper. He was generally
regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there must be something
wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or football and was always
talking a lot of rot about religion and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he=
was
generally admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had
little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about thirty-two years of =
age,
and of medium height, but so slightly built that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in=
his
clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an unnatural
colour flushed the think cheeks.
There was a certain amount of justification for
the attitude of his fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and
unorthodox opinions on the subjects mentioned.
The affairs of the world are ordered in accord=
ance
with orthodox opinions. If anyone =
did
not think in accordance with these he soon discovered this fact for
himself. Owen saw that in the worl=
d a
small class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of
the things that are produced by work. He
saw also that a very great number--in fact the majority of the people--live=
d on
the verge of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived liv=
es
of semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but st=
ill
very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by privation, killed
themselves and their children in order to put a period to their misery. And strangest of all--in his opinion--h=
e saw
that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were=
the
people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or died of h=
unger,
were the people who worked. And se=
eing
all this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such
results was rotten and should be altered.
And he had sought out and eagerly read the writings of those who tho=
ught
they knew how it might be done.
It was because he was in the habit of speaking=
of
these subjects that his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was
probably something wrong with his mind.
When all the members of the syndicate had hand=
ed
over their contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie,
and when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy had
thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some carefully cooked
statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection. Bert, his eyes starting o=
ut
of his head and his mouth wide open, was devouring the contents of a paper
called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned
Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate or l=
abourer
to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted him, lay down on the
dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his coat rolled up as a pillow,
went to sleep. Sawkins, with the s=
ame
intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who took no part in the syndica=
te was
Barrington, a labourer, who, having finished his dinner, placed the cup he
brought for his tea back into his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe
which he slowly filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence.
Some time previously the firm had done some wo=
rk
for a wealthy gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside
Mugsborough. This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was
commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the
latter to give Barrington employment. It
was whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of
the gentleman's, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been
disowned by his people. Rushton was
supposed to have given him a job in the hope of currying favour with his
wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery=
may
have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work
except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a
painter's labourer at the usual wages--fivepence per hour.
He was about twenty-five years of age and a go=
od
deal taller than the majority of the others, being about five feet ten inch=
es
in height and slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to learn all tha=
t he
could about the trade, and although rather reserved in his manner, he had
contrived to make himself fairly popular with his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when
addressed, and it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the present occasi=
on, he
generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and unconscious of his
surroundings.
Most of the others also lit their pipes and a
desultory conversation ensued.
'Is the gent what's bought this 'ouse any rela=
tion
to Sweater the draper?' asked Payne, the carpenter's foreman.
'It's the same bloke,' replied Crass.
'Didn't he used to be on the Town Council or
something?'
''E's bin on the Council for years,' returned
Crass. ''E's on it now. 'E's mayor=
this
year. 'E's bin mayor several times
before.'
'Let's see,' said Payne, reflectively, ''e mar=
ried
old Grinder's sister, didn't 'e? Y=
ou
know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.'
'Yes, I believe he did,' said Crass.
'It wasn't Grinder's sister,' chimed in old Ja=
ck
Linden. 'It was 'is niece. I know, because I remember working in t=
heir
'ouse just after they was married, about ten year ago.'
'Oh yes, I remember now,' said Payne. 'She used to manage one of Grinder's br=
anch
shops didn't she?'
'Yes,' replied Linden. 'I remember it very well because there =
was a
lot of talk about it at the time. =
By all
accounts, ole Sweater used to be a regler 'ot un: no one never thought as h=
e'd
ever git married at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to =
work
for him.'
This important matter being disposed of, there
followed a brief silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.
'Funny name to call a 'ouse, ain't it?' he
said. '"The Cave." I wonder what made 'em give it a name l=
ike
that.'
'They calls 'em all sorts of outlandish names
nowadays,' said old Jack Linden.
'There's generally some sort of meaning to it,
though,' observed Payne. 'For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made=
a
pile, 'e might call 'is 'ouse, "Epsom Lodge" or "Newmarket
Villa".'
'Or sometimes there's a hoak tree or a cherry =
tree
in the garding,' said another man; 'then they calls it "Hoak Lodge&quo=
t;
or "Cherry Cottage".'
'Well, there's a cave up at the end of this
garden,' said Harlow with a grin, 'you know, the cesspool, what the drains =
of
the 'ouse runs into; praps they called it after that.'
'Talking about the drains,' said old Jack Lind=
en
when the laughter produced by this elegant joke had ceased. 'Talking about the drains, I wonder what
they're going to do about them; the 'ouse ain't fit to live in as they are =
now,
and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done away with.'
'So it is going to be,' replied Crass. 'There's going to be a new set of drains
altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with the main.'
Crass really knew no more about what was going=
to
be done in this matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course
would be adopted. He never missed =
an
opportunity of enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that =
he
was in the confidence of the firm.
'That's goin' to cost a good bit,' said Linden=
.
'Yes, I suppose it will,' replied Crass, 'but
money ain't no object to old Sweater.
'E's got tons of it; you know 'e's got a large wholesale business in
London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one 'e's got 'ere=
.'
Easton was still reading the Obscurer; he was =
not
about to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving
at--probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand--but he
was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreig=
ners
of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think =
that
it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question:=
to
tell the truth, he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length he said aloud, addressing him=
self
to Crass:
'Wot do you think of this 'ere fissical policy,
Bob?'
'Ain't thought much about it,' replied Crass.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'I don't never worry my 'ed about polit=
ics.'
'Much better left alone,' chimed in old Jack
Linden sagely, 'argyfying about politics generally ends up with a bloody row
an' does no good to nobody.'
At this there was a murmur of approval from se=
veral
of the others. Most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about
politics. If two or three men of s=
imilar
opinions happened to be together they might discuss such things in a friend=
ly
and superficial way, but in a mixed company it was better left alone. The 'Fissical Policy' emanated from the=
Tory
party. That was the reason why som=
e of
them were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were opp=
osed
to it. Some of them were under the
delusion that they were Conservatives: similarly, others imagined themselve=
s to
be Liberals. As a matter of fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public affa=
irs of
their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in the planet of
Jupiter.
Easton began to regret that he had broached so
objectionable a subject, when, looking up from his paper, Owen said:
'Does the fact that you never "trouble yo=
ur
heads about politics" prevent you from voting at election times?'
No one answered, and there ensued a brief
silence. Easton however, in spite =
of the
snub he had received, could not refrain from talking.
'Well, I don't go in for politics much, either,
but if what's in this 'ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take
some interest in it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.'
'If you're going to believe all that's in that
bloody rag you'll want some salt,' said Harlow.
The Obscurer was a Tory paper and Harlow was a
member of the local Liberal club.
Harlow's remark roused Crass.
'Wot's the use of talkin' like that?' he said;
'you know very well that the country IS being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to buy something; look
round the place an' you'll see that more than 'arf the damn stuff comes from
abroad. They're able to sell their=
goods
'ere because they don't 'ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to put 'e=
avy
dooties on our goods to keep 'em out of their countries; and I say it's abo=
ut
time it was stopped.'
''Ear, 'ear,' said Linden, who always agreed w=
ith
Crass, because the latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power =
to
put in a good--or a bad--word for a man to the boss. ''Ear, 'ear!
Now that's wot I call common sense.'
Several other men, for the same reason as Lind=
en,
echoed Crass's sentiments, but Owen laughed contemptuously.
'Yes, it's quite true that we gets a lot of st=
uff
from foreign countries,' said Harlow, 'but they buys more from us than we do
from them.'
'Now you think you know a 'ell of a lot,' said
Crass. ''Ow much more did they buy=
from
us last year, than we did from them?'
Harlow looked foolish: as a matter of fact his
knowledge of the subject was not much wider than Crass's. He mumbled something about not having n=
o 'ed
for figures, and offered to bring full particulars next day.
'You're wot I call a bloody windbag,' continued
Crass; 'you've got a 'ell of a lot to say, but wen it comes to the point you
don't know nothin'.'
'Why, even 'ere in Mugsborough,' chimed in
Sawkins--who though still lying on the dresser had been awakened by the
shouting--'We're overrun with 'em!
Nearly all the waiters and the cook at the Grand Hotel where we was
working last month is foreigners.'
'Yes,' said old Joe Philpot, tragically, 'and =
then
thers all them Hitalian horgin grinders, an' the blokes wot sells 'ot
chestnuts; an' wen I was goin' 'ome last night I see a lot of them Frenchies
sellin' hunions, an' a little wile afterwards I met two more of 'em comin' =
up
the street with a bear.'
Notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this
intelligence, Owen again laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who
thought it was a very serious state of affairs.
It was a dam' shame that these people were allowed to take the bread=
out
of English people's mouths: they ought to be driven into the bloody sea.
And so the talk continued, principally carried=
on
by Crass and those who agreed with him.
None of them really understood the subject: not one of them had ever
devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the earnest investigation of it. The papers they read were filled with v=
ague
and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported into
this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly arriving, and their
destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the in=
jury
they did to British trade. These w=
ere
the seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within th=
em a
bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners.
To them the mysterious thing they variously called the 'Friscal Poli=
cy',
the 'Fistical Policy', or the 'Fissical Question' was a great Anti-Foreign
Crusade. The country was in a hell=
of a
state, poverty, hunger and misery in a hundred forms had already invaded
thousands of homes and stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. How came these things to be? It was the bloody foreigner! Therefore, down with the foreigners and=
all
their works. Out with them. Drive them b--s into the bloody sea! One did not need to think twice about i=
t. It was scarcely necessary to think abou=
t it
at all.
This was the conclusion reached by Crass and s=
uch
of his mates who thought they were Conservatives--the majority of them could
not have read a dozen sentences aloud without stumbling--it was not necessa=
ry
to think or study or investigate anything.
It was all as clear as daylight.
The foreigner was the enemy, and the cause of poverty and bad trade.=
When the storm had in some degree subsided,
'Some of you seem to think,' said Owen,
sneeringly, 'that it was a great mistake on God's part to make so many
foreigners. You ought to hold a ma=
ss
meeting about it: pass a resolution something like this: "This meeting=
of
British Christians hereby indignantly protests against the action of the
Supreme Being in having created so many foreigners, and calls upon him to
forthwith rain down fire, brimstone and mighty rocks upon the heads of all
those Philistines, so that they may be utterly exterminated from the face of
the earth, which rightly belongs to the British people".'
Crass looked very indignant, but could think of
nothing to say in answer to Owen, who continued:
'A little while ago you made the remark that y=
ou
never trouble yourself about what you call politics, and some of the rest
agreed with you that to do so is not worth while. Well, since you never "worry"=
yourself
about these things, it follows that you know nothing about them; yet you do=
not
hesitate to express the most decided opinions concerning matters of which y=
ou
admittedly know nothing. Presently, when there is an election, you will go =
and
vote in favour of a policy of which you know nothing. I say that since you never take the tro=
uble
to find out which side is right or wrong you have no right to express any
opinion. You are not fit to vote. =
You
should not be allowed to vote.'
Crass was by this time very angry.
'I pays my rates and taxes,' he shouted, 'an' =
I've
got as much right to express an opinion as you 'ave. I votes for who the bloody 'ell I likes=
. I shan't arst your leave nor nobody els=
e's! Wot the 'ell's it got do with you who I=
votes
for?'
'It has a great deal to do with me. If you vote for Protection you will be
helping to bring it about, and if you succeed, and if Protection is the evil
that some people say is is, I shall be one of those who will suffer. I say you have no right to vote for a p=
olicy
which may bring suffering upon other people, without taking the trouble to =
find
out whether you are helping to make things better or worse.'
Owen had risen from his seat and was walking up
and down the room emphasizing his words with excited gestures.
'As for not trying to find out wot side is rig=
ht,'
said Crass, somewhat overawed by Owen's manner and by what he thought was t=
he
glare of madness in the latter's eyes, 'I reads the Ananias every week, and=
I
generally takes the Daily Chloroform, or the Hobscurer, so I ought to know
summat about it.'
'Just listen to this,' interrupted Easton, wis=
hing
to create a diversion and beginning to read from the copy of the Obscurer w=
hich
he still held in his hand:
'GRE= AT DISTRESS IN MUGSBOROUGH. HUNDREDS= OUT OF EMPLOYMENT. WORK OF THE CHARITY SOCIETY. 789 CASES ON THE BOOKS.<= o:p>
'Gre=
at as
was the distress among the working classes last year, unfortunately there seems every prospe=
ct
that before the winter which has =
just
commenced is over the distress will be even more acute.
Alre=
ady
the Charity Society and kindred associations are relieving more cases than they did at the
corresponding time last year. App=
lications
to the Board of Guardians have also been much more numerous, and the Soup Kitchen has had=
to
open its doors on Nov. 7th a fort=
night
earlier than usual. The number of =
men,
women and children provided with =
meals
is three or four times greater than
last year.'
Easton stopped: reading was hard work to him.<= o:p>
'There's a lot more,' he said, 'about starting
relief works: two shillings a day for married men and one shilling for sing=
le
and something about there's been 1,572 quarts of soup given to poor families
wot was not even able to pay a penny, and a lot more. And 'ere's another thing, an advertisem=
ent:
'THE
SUFFERING POOR
Sir:
Distress among the poor is so acute that I earnestly ask you for aid for The Salvation Army's great
Social work on their behalf. Some=
600
are being sheltered nightly. Hundr=
eds
are found work daily. Soup and bread are distributed in the
midnight hours to homeless wander=
ers in
London. Additional workshops for
the unemployed have been establis=
hed. Our Social Work for men, women and children, for the characterless an=
d the
outcast, is the largest and oldes=
t organized
effort of its kind in the country, and greatly
needs help. £10,000 is requ=
ired
before Christmas Day. Gifts may be=
made to any specific section or home, =
if
desired. Can you please send us something to keep the work goi=
ng? Please address cheques, crossed Bank of England (Law Courts Br=
anch),
to me at 101, Queen Victoria Stre=
et,
EC. Balance Sheets and Reports upon
application. 'BRAMWELL BO=
OTH.'
'Oh, that's part of the great 'appiness an'
prosperity wot Owen makes out Free Trade brings,' said Crass with a jeering
laugh.
'I never said Free Trade brought happiness or
prosperity,' said Owen.
'Well, praps you didn't say exactly them words,
but that's wot it amounts to.'
'I never said anything of the kind. We've had Free Trade for the last fifty=
years
and today most people are living in a condition of more or less abject pove=
rty,
and thousands are literally starving.
When we had Protection things were worse still. Other countries have Protection and yet=
many
of their people are glad to come here and work for starvation wages. The only difference between Free Trade =
and
Protection is that under certain circumstances one might be a little worse =
that
the other, but as remedies for Poverty, neither of them are of any real use
whatever, for the simple reason that they do not deal with the real causes =
of
Poverty.'
'The greatest cause of poverty is
hover-population,' remarked Harlow.
'Yes,' said old Joe Philpot. 'If a boss wants two men, twenty goes a=
fter
the job: ther's too many people and not enough work.'
'Over-population!' cried Owen, 'when there's
thousands of acres of uncultivated land in England without a house or human
being to be seen. Is over-population the cause of poverty in France? Is over-population the cause of poverty=
in
Ireland? Within the last fifty yea=
rs the
population of Ireland has been reduced by more than half. Four millions of people have been
exterminated by famine or got rid of by emigration, but they haven't got ri=
d of
poverty. P'raps you think that hal=
f the
people in this country ought to be exterminated as well.'
Here Owen was seized with a violent fit of
coughing, and resumed his seat. Wh=
en the
cough had ceased he sat wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and listenin=
g to
the talk that ensued.
'Drink is the cause of most of the poverty,' s=
aid
Slyme.
This young man had been through some strange
process that he called 'conversion'. He
had had a 'change of 'art' and looked down with pious pity upon those he ca=
lled
'worldly' people. He was not 'worldly', he did not smoke or =
drink
and never went to the theatre. He had an extraordinary notion that total
abstinence was one of the fundamental principles of the Christian
religion. It never occurred to wha=
t he
called his mind, that this doctrine is an insult to the Founder of
Christianity.
'Yes,' said Crass, agreeing with Slyme, 'an' t=
hers
plenty of 'em wot's too lazy to work when they can get it. Some of the b--s who go about pleading
poverty 'ave never done a fair day's work in all their bloody lives. Then thers all this new-fangled machine=
ry,'
continued Crass. 'That's wot's ruinin' everything. Even in our trade ther's them machines =
for
trimmin' wallpaper, an' now they've brought out a paintin' machine. Ther's a pump an' a 'ose pipe, an' they
reckon two men can do as much with this 'ere machine as twenty could without
it.'
'Another thing is women,' said Harlow, 'there's
thousands of 'em nowadays doin' work wot oughter be done by men.'
'In my opinion ther's too much of this 'ere
eddication, nowadays,' remarked old Linden.
'Wot the 'ell's the good of eddication to the likes of us?'
'None whatever,' said Crass, 'it just puts foo=
lish
idears into people's 'eds and makes 'em too lazy to work.'
Barrington, who took no part in the conversati=
on,
still sat silently smoking. Owen w=
as
listening to this pitiable farrago with feelings of contempt and wonder.
'Early marriages is another thing,' said Slyme:
'no man oughtn't to be allowed to get married unless he's in a position to =
keep
a family.'
'How can marriage be a cause of poverty?' said
Owen, contemptuously. 'A man who is not married is living an unnatural
life. Why don't you continue your
argument a little further and say that the practice of eating and drinking =
is
the cause of poverty or that if people were to go barefoot and naked there
would be no poverty? The man who i=
s so
poor that he cannot marry is in a condition of poverty already.'
'Wot I mean,' said Slyme, 'is that no man ough=
tn't
to marry till he's saved up enough so as to 'ave some money in the bank; an'
another thing, I reckon a man oughtn't to get married till 'e's got an 'ous=
e of
'is own. It's easy enough to buy o=
ne in
a building society if you're in reg'lar work.'
At this there was a general laugh.
'Why, you bloody fool,' said Harlow, scornfull=
y,
'most of us is walkin' about 'arf our time.
It's all very well for you to talk; you've got almost a constant job=
on
this firm. If they're doin' anythi=
ng at
all you're one of the few gets a show in.
And another thing,' he added with a sneer, 'we don't all go to the s=
ame
chapel as old Misery,'
'Old Misery' was Ruston & Co.'s manager or
walking foreman. 'Misery' was only=
one
of the nicknames bestowed upon him by the hands: he was also known as 'Nimr=
od'
and 'Pontius Pilate'.
'And even if it's not possible,' Harlow contin=
ued,
winking at the others, 'what's a man to do during the years he's savin' up?=
'
'Well, he must conquer hisself,' said Slyme,
getting red.
'Conquer hisself is right!' said Harlow and the
others laughed again.
'Of course if a man tried to conquer hisself by
his own strength,' replied Slyme, ''e would be sure to fail, but when you've
got the Grace of God in you it's different.'
'Chuck it, fer Christ's sake!' said Harlow in a
tone of disgust. 'We've only just 'ad our dinner!'
'And wot about drink?' demanded old Joe Philpo=
t,
suddenly.
''Ear, 'ear,' cried Harlow. 'That's the bleedin' talk.
I wouldn't mind 'avin 'arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for
it.'
Joe Philpot--or as he was usually called, 'Old
Joe'--was in the habit of indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very old, being only a littl=
e over
fifty, but he looked much older. H=
e had
lost his wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for his t=
hree
children had died in their infancy.
Slyme's reference to drink had roused Philpot's indignation; he felt
that it was directed against himself.
The muddled condition of his brain did not permit him to take up the
cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that although Owen was a tee-totaller
himself, he disliked Slyme.
'There's no need for us to talk about drink or
laziness,' returned Owen, impatiently, 'because they have nothing to do with
the matter. The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of t=
he
majority of those who are not drunkards and who DO work? Why, if all the drunkards and won't-wor=
ks and
unskilled or inefficient workers could be by some miracle transformed into
sober, industrious and skilled workers tomorrow, it would, under the present
conditions, be so much the worse for us, because there isn't enough work for
all NOW and those people by increasing the competition for what work there =
is, would
inevitably cause a reduction of wages and a greater scarcity of
employment. The theories that
drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are the causes of poverty are so many
devices invented and fostered by those who are selfishly interested in main=
taining
the present states of affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from
discovering the real causes of our present condition.'
'Well, if we're all wrong,' said Crass, with a
sneer, 'praps you can tell us what the real cause is?'
'An' praps you think you know how it's to be
altered,' remarked Harlow, winking at the others.
'Yes; I do think I know the cause,' declared O=
wen,
'and I do think I know how it could be altered--'
'It can't never be haltered,' interrupted old
Linden. 'I don't see no sense in a=
ll
this 'ere talk. There's always bee=
n rich
and poor in the world, and there always will be.'
'Wot I always say is there 'ere,' remarked
Philpot, whose principal characteristic--apart from thirst--was a desire to=
see
everyone comfortable, and who hated rows of any kind. 'There ain't no use in the likes of us
trubblin our 'eds or quarrelin about politics.
It don't make a dam bit of difference who you votes for or who gets =
in.
They're hall the same; workin the horicle for their own benefit. You can talk till you're black in the f=
ace,
but you won't never be able to alter it.
It's no use worrying. The
sensible thing is to try and make the best of things as we find 'em: enjoy =
ourselves,
and do the best we can for each other.
Life's too short to quarrel and we'll hall soon be dead!'
At the end of this lengthy speech, the philoso=
phic
Philpot abstractedly grasped a jam-jar and raised it to his lips; but sudde=
nly
remembering that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again
without drinking.
'Let us begin at the beginning,' continued Owe=
n,
taking no notice of these interruptions.
'First of all, what do you mean by Poverty?'
'Why, if you've got no money, of course,' said
Crass impatiently.
The others laughed disdainfully. It seemed to them such a foolish questi=
on.
'Well, that's true enough as far as it goes,'
returned Owen, 'that is, as things are arranged in the world at present.
At this there was another outburst of jeering
laughter.
'Supposing for example that you and Harlow were
shipwrecked on a desolate island, and YOU had saved nothing from the wreck =
but
a bag containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a
bottle of water.'
'Make it beer!' cried Harlow appealingly.
'Who would be the richer man, you or Harlow?'<= o:p>
'But then you see we ain't shipwrecked on no
dissolute island at all,' sneered Crass.
'That's the worst of your arguments.
You can't never get very far without supposing some bloody ridclus t=
hing
or other. Never mind about supposing things wot ain't true; let's 'ave facts
and common sense.'
''Ear, 'ear,' said old Linden. 'That's wot we want--a little common se=
nse.'
'What do YOU mean by poverty, then?' asked Eas=
ton.
'What I call poverty is when people are not ab=
le
to secure for themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries,
comforts, pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres,
pictures, music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, =
good
and pleasant food.'
Everybody laughed.
It was so ridiculous. The i=
dea of
the likes of THEM wanting or having such things! Any doubts that any of them had enterta=
ined
as to Owen's sanity disappeared. T=
he man
was as mad as a March hare.
'If a man is only able to provide himself and =
his
family with the bare necessaries of existence, that man's family is living =
in
poverty. Since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just=
as
well be a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is=
deprived. What we call civilization--the accumula=
tion
of knowledge which has come down to us from our forefathers--is the fruit of
thousands of years of human thought and toil.
It is not the result of the labour of the ancestors of any separate
class of people who exist today, and therefore it is by right the common
heritage of all. Every little chil=
d that
is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or full, whether he =
is
physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much he may excel or fa=
ll
short of his fellows in other respects, in one thing at least he is their
equal--he is one of the heirs of all the ages that have gone before.'
Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was =
not
sane after all. He certainly must =
be a
clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this. It sounded almost like
something out of a book, and most of them could not understand one half of =
it.
'Why is it,' continued Owen, 'that we are not =
only
deprived of our inheritance--we are not only deprived of nearly all the
benefits of civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to
obtain even the bare necessaries of existence?'
No one answered.
'All these things,' Owen proceeded, 'are produ=
ced
by those who work. We do our full share of the work, therefore we should ha=
ve a
full share of the things that are made by work.'
The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the over-population t=
heory,
but decided not to mention it. Cra=
ss,
who could not have given an intelligent answer to save his life, for once h=
ad
sufficient sense to remain silent. He
did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping machine and bringing the
hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned the idea; after all, he thou=
ght,
what was the use of arguing with such a fool as Owen?
Sawkins pretended to be asleep.
Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very seri=
ous.
'As things are now,' went on Owen, 'instead of
enjoying the advantages of civilization we are really worse off than slaves,
for if we were slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that=
we
always had food and--'
'Oh, I don't see that,' roughly interrupted old
Linden, who had been listening with evident anger and impatience. 'You can speak for yourself, but I can =
tell
yer I don't put MYSELF down as a slave.'
'Nor me neither,' said Crass sturdily. 'Let them call their selves slaves as w=
ants
to.'
At this moment a footstep was heard in the pas=
sage
leading to the kitchen. Old Misery=
! or
perhaps the bloke himself! Crass
hurriedly pulled out his watch.
'Jesus Christ!' he gasped. 'It's four minutes past one!'
Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of st=
eps
and began wandering about the room with them.
Sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and,
snatching a piece of sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously
rubbing down the scullery door.
Easton threw down the copy of the Obscurer and
scrambled hastily to his feet.
The boy crammed the Chronicles of Crime into h=
is
trousers pocket.
Crass rushed over to the bucket and began stir=
ring
up the stale whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was
simply appalling.
Consternation reigned.
They looked like a gang of malefactors suddenly
interrupted in the commission of a crime.
The door opened.
It was only Bundy returning from his mission to the Bookie.
Mr Hu=
nter,
as he was called to his face and as he was known to his brethren at the Shi=
ning
Light Chapel, where he was superintendant of the Sunday School, or 'Misery'=
or
'Nimrod'; as he was named behind his back by the workmen over whom he
tyrannized, was the general or walking foreman or 'manager' of the firm who=
se
card is herewith presented to the reader:
RUSHTON &
CO. MU=
GSBOROUGH ------- Builders, Decorators, and Ge=
neral
Contractors
FUNERALS FURNISHED
Estimates given for General Repairs to House Property First-class Work only at M=
oderate
Charges
There=
were
a number of sub-foremen or 'coddies', but Hunter was THE foreman.
He was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loo=
sely
on the angles of his round-shouldered, bony form. His long, thin legs, about which the ba=
ggy
trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed and terminat=
ed
in large, flat feet. His arms were=
very
long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and
knotted. When he removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did to wipe away =
with
a red handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle riding, it was s=
een
that his forehead was high, flat and narrow.
His nose was a large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of ea=
ch
nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the
dropping moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was
perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workmen his exhortations =
to
greater exertions. His chin was la=
rge
and extraordinarily long. The eyes=
were
pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-colour=
ed,
almost invisible eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the
nose. His head, covered with thick,
coarse brown hair, was very large at the back; the ears were small and laid=
close
to the head. If one were to make a
full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage it would be found that the outli=
ne
resembled that of the lid of a coffin.
This man had been with Rushton--no one had ever
seen the 'Co.'--for fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the la=
tter
commenced business. Rushton had at=
that
period realized the necessity of having a deputy who could be used to do all
the drudgery and running about so that he himself might be free to attend to
the more pleasant or profitable matters.
Hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point of starting on his
own account, when Rushton offered him a constant job as foreman, two pounds=
a
week, and two and a half per cent of the profits of all work done. On the face of it this appeared a gener=
ous
offer. Hunter closed with it, gave=
up
the idea of starting for himself, and threw himself heart and mind into the
business. When an estimate was to =
be
prepared it was Hunter who measured up the work and laboriously figured out=
the
probably cost. When their tenders =
were
accepted it was he who superintended the work and schemed how to scamp it,
where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where there ou=
ght
to have been cement, sheet zinc where they were supposed to put sheet lead,
boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint where five were paid
for. In fact, scamping the work wa=
s with
this man a kind of mania. It griev=
ed him
to see anything done properly. Eve=
n when
it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force of habit =
on
having it scamped. Then he was alm=
ost
happy, because he felt that he was doing someone down. If there were an architect superintendi=
ng the
work, Misery would square him or bluff him.
If it were not possible to do either, at least he had a try; and in =
the
intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye was =
ever
on the look out for fresh jobs. Hi=
s long
red nose was thrust into every estate agent's office in the town in the
endeavour to smell out what properties had recently changed hands or been l=
et,
in order that he might interview the new owners and secure the order for
whatever alterations or repairs might be required. He it was who entered into unholy compa=
cts
with numerous charwomen and nurses of the sick, who in return for a small
commission would let him know when some poor sufferer was passing away and
would recommend Rushton & Co. to the bereaved and distracted
relatives. By these means often--a=
fter first
carefully inquiring into the financial position of the stricken family--Mis=
ery
would contrive to wriggle his unsavoury carcass into the house of sorrow,
seeking, even in the chamber of death, to further the interests of Rushton
& Co. and to earn his miserable two and a half per cent.
It was to make possible the attainment of this
object that Misery slaved and drove and schemed and cheated. It was for this that the workers' wages=
were
cut down to the lowest possible point and their offspring went ill clad, ill
shod and ill fed, and were driven forth to labour while they were yet child=
ren,
because their fathers were unable to earn enough to support their homes.
Fifteen years!
Hunter realized now that Rushton had had
considerably the best of the bargain. In
the first place, it will be seen that the latter had bought over one who mi=
ght
have proved a dangerous competitor, and now, after fifteen years, the busin=
ess
that had been so laboriously built up, mainly by Hunter's energy, industry =
and
unscrupulous cunning, belonged to Rushton & Co. Hunter was but an employee, liable to
dismissal like any other workman, the only difference being that he was
entitled to a week's notice instead of an hour's notice, and was but little
better off financially than when he started for the firm.
Fifteen years!
Hunter knew now that he had been used, but he =
also
knew that it was too late to turn back.
He had not saved enough to make a successful start on his own account
even if he had felt mentally and physically capable of beginning all over
again, and if Rushton were to discharge him right now he was too old to get=
a
job as a journeyman. Further, in h=
is
zeal for Rushton & Co. and his anxiety to earn his commission, he had o=
ften
done things that had roused the animosity of rival firms to such an extent =
that
it was highly improbable that any of them would employ him, and even if they
would, Misery's heart failed him at the thought of having to meet on an equ=
al
footing those workmen whom he had tyrannized over and oppressed. It was for these reasons that Hunter wa=
s as
terrified of Rushton as the hands were of himself.
Over the men stood Misery, ever threatening th=
em
with dismissal and their wives and children with hunger. Behind Misery was Rushton, ever bullyin=
g and
goading him on to greater excesses and efforts for the furtherance of the g=
ood
cause--which was to enable the head of the firm to accumulate money.
Mr Hunter, at the moment when the reader first
makes his acquaintance on the afternoon of the day when the incidents recor=
ded
in the first chapter took place, was executing a kind of strategic movement=
in
the direction of the house where Crass and his mates were working. He kept to one side of the road because=
by so
doing he could not be perceived by those within the house until the instant=
of
his arrival. When he was within about a hundred yards of the gate he dismou=
nted
from his bicycle, there being a sharp rise in the road just there, and as he
toiled up, pushing the bicycle in front, his breath showing in white clouds=
in
the frosty air, he observed a number of men hanging about. Some of them he
knew; they had worked for him at various times, but were now out of a job.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There were five men altogether; three o=
f them
were standing in a group, the other two stood each by himself, being appare=
ntly
strangers to each other and the first three. The three men who stood togeth=
er
were nearest to Hunter and as the latter approached, one of them advanced to
meet him.
'Good afternoon, sir.'
Hunter replied by an inarticulate grunt, witho=
ut
stopping; the man followed.
'Any chance of a job, sir?'
'Full up,' replied Hunter, still without
stopping. The man still followed, =
like a
beggar soliciting charity.
'Be any use calling in a day or so, sir?'
'Don't think so,' Hunter replied. 'Can if you like; but we're full up.'
'Thank you, sir,' said the man, and turned bac=
k to
his friends.
By this time Hunter was within a few yards of =
one
of the other two men, who also came to speak to him. This man felt there was no hope of gett=
ing a
job; still, there was no harm in asking. Besides, he was getting desperate. It was over a month now since he had fi=
nished
up for his last employer. It had b=
een a
very slow summer altogether. Sometimes a fortnight for one firm; then perha=
ps a
week doing nothing; then three weeks or a month for another firm, then out
again, and so on. And now it was November. Last winter they had got into debt; tha=
t was
nothing unusual, but owing to the bad summer they had not been able, as in
other years, to pay off the debts accumulated in winter. It was doubtful, t=
oo,
whether they would be able to get credit again this winter. In fact this morning when his wife sent=
their
little girl to the grocer's for some butter the latter had refused to let t=
he
child have it without the money. So
although he felt it to be useless he accosted Hunter.
This time Hunter stopped: he was winded by his
climb up the hill.
'Good afternoon, sir.' Hunter did not return t=
he
salutation; he had not the breath to spare, but the man was not hurt; he was
used to being treated like that.
'Any chance of a job, sir?'
Hunter did not reply at once. He was short of breath and he was think=
ing of
a plan that was ever recurring to his mind, and which he had lately been
hankering to put into execution. It
seemed to him that the long waited for opportunity had come. Just now Rushton & Co. were almost =
the
only firm in Mugsborough who had any work.
There were dozens of good workmen out.
Yes, this was the time. If =
this
man agreed he would give him a start.
Hunter knew the man was a good workman, he had worked for Rushton &a=
mp;
Co. before. To make room for him o=
ld
Linden and some other full-price man could be got rid of; it would not be
difficult to find some excuse.
'Well,' Hunter said at last in a doubtful,
hesitating kind of way, 'I'm afraid not, Newman. We're about full up.'
He ceased speaking and remained waiting for the
other to say something more. He di=
d not
look at the man, but stooped down, fidgeting with the mechanism of the bicy=
cle
as if adjusting it.
'Things have been so bad this summer,' Newman =
went
on. 'I've had rather a rough time =
of
it. I would be very glad of a job =
even
if it was only for a week or so.'
There was a pause.
After a while, Hunter raised his eyes to the other's face, but
immediately let them fall again.
'Well,' said he, 'I might--perhaps--be able to=
let
you have a day or two. You can com=
e here
to this job,' and he nodded his head in the direction of the house where the
men were working. 'Tomorrow at sev=
en. Of
course you know the figure?' he added as Newman was about to thank him. 'Six and a half.'
Hunter spoke as if the reduction were already =
an
accomplished fact. The man was more likely to agree, if he thought that oth=
ers
were already working at the reduced rate.
Newman was taken by surprise and hesitated.
'Well,' he said, 'if you like to start you can
come here at seven in the morning.' Then
as Newman still hesitated he added impatiently, 'Are you coming or not?'
'Yes, sir,' said Newman.
'All right,' said Hunter, affably. 'I'll tell Crass to have a kit ready for
you.'
He nodded in a friendly way to the man, who we=
nt
off feeling like a criminal.
As Hunter resumed his march, well pleased with
himself, the fifth man, who had been waiting all this time, came to meet
him. As he approached, Hunter reco=
gnized
him as one who had started work for Rushton & Co early in the summer, b=
ut
who had left suddenly of his own accord, having taken offence at some bully=
ing
remark of Hunter's.
Hunter was glad to see this man. He guessed that the fellow must be very=
hard
pressed to come again and ask for work after what had happened.
'Any chance of a job, sir?'
Hunter appeared to reflect.
'I believe I have room for one,' he said at
length. 'But you're such an uncert=
ain
kind of chap. You don't seem to ca=
re
much whether you work or not. You'=
re too
independent, you know; one can't say two words to you but you must needs cl=
ear
off.'
The man made no answer.
'We can't tolerate that kind of thing, you kno=
w,'
Hunter added. 'If we were to encou=
rage
men of your stamp we should never know where we are.'
So saying, Hunter moved away and again proceed=
ed on
his journey.
When he arrived within about three yards of the
gate he noiselessly laid his machine against the garden fence. The high evergreens that grew inside st=
ill
concealed him from the observation of anyone who might be looking out of the
windows of the house. Then he care=
fully
crept along till he came to the gate post, and bending down, he cautiously
peeped round to see if he could detect anyone idling, or talking, or smokin=
g. There was no one in sight except old Ja=
ck
Linden, who was rubbing down the lobby doors with pumice-stone and water.
Hunter noiselessly opened the gate and crept quietly along the grass border=
of
the garden path. His idea was to r=
each
the front door without being seen, so that Linden could not give notice of =
his
approach to those within. In this =
he
succeeded and passed silently into the house.
He did not speak to Linden; to do so would have proclaimed his prese=
nce
to the rest. He crawled stealthily=
over
the house but was disappointed in his quest, for everyone he saw was hard at
work. Upstairs he noticed that the=
door
of one of the rooms was closed.
Old Joe Philpot had been working in this room =
all
day, washing off the old whitewash from the ceiling and removing the old pa=
pers
from the walls with a broad bladed, square topped knife called a stripper.
Although it was only a small room, Joe had had to tear into the work pretty
hard all the time, for the ceiling seemed to have had two or three coats of
whitewash without ever having been washed off, and there were several thick=
nesses
of paper on the walls. The difficu=
lty of
removing these papers was increased by the fact that there was a dado which=
had
been varnished. In order to get th=
is off
it had been necessary to soak it several times with strong soda water, and
although Joe was as careful as possible he had not been able to avoid getti=
ng
some of this stuff on his fingers. The
result was that his nails were all burnt and discoloured and the flesh round
them cracked and bleeding. However=
, he
had got it all off at last, and he was not sorry, for his right arm and
shoulder were aching from the prolonged strain and in the palm of the right
hand there was a blister as large as a shilling, caused by the handle of the
stripping knife.
All the old paper being off, Joe washed down t=
he
walls with water, and having swept the paper into a heap in the middle of t=
he
floor, he mixed with a small trowel some cement on a small board and procee=
ded
to stop up the cracks and holes in the walls and ceiling. After a while, feeling very tired, it
occurred to him that he deserved a spell and a smoke for five minutes. He closed the door and placed a pair of=
steps
against it. There were two windows=
in
the room almost opposite each other; these he opened wide in order that the
smoke and smell of his pipe might be carried away. Having taken these precautions against
surprise, he ascended to the top of the step ladder that he had laid against
the door and sat down at ease. Wit=
hin
easy reach was the top of a cupboard where he had concealed a pint of beer =
in a
bottle. To this he now applied
himself. Having taken a long pull =
at the
bottle, he tenderly replaced it on the top of the cupboard and proceeded to
'hinjoy' a quiet smoke, remarking to himself:
'This is where we get some of our own back.'
He held, however, his trowel in one hand, ready
for immediate action in case of interruption.
Philpot was about fifty-five years old. He wore no white jacket, only an old pa=
tched
apron; his trousers were old, very soiled with paint and ragged at the bott=
oms
of the legs where they fell over the much-patched, broken and down-at-heel
boots. The part of his waistcoat n=
ot
protected by his apron was covered with spots of dried paint. He wore a coloured shirt and a 'dickey'=
which
was very soiled and covered with splashes of paint, and one side of it was
projecting from the opening of the waistcoat.
His head was covered with an old cap, heavy and shining with paint.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was very thin and stooped slightly.
Although he was really only fifty-five, he looked much older, for he was
prematurely aged.
He had not been getting his own back for quite
five minutes when Hunter softly turned the handle of the lock. Philpot immediately put out his pipe and
descending from his perch opened the door.
When Hunter entered Philpot closed it again and, mounting the steps,
went on stripping the wall just above.
Nimrod looked at him suspiciously, wondering why the door had been
closed. He looked all round the ro=
om but
could see nothing to complain of. =
He
sniffed the air to try if he could detect the odour of tobacco, and if he h=
ad
not been suffering a cold in the head there is no doubt that he would have
perceived it. However, as it was he could smell nothing but all the same he=
was
not quite satisfied, although he remembered that Crass always gave Philpot a
good character.
'I don't like to have men working on a job like
this with the door shut,' he said at length.
'It always gives me the idear that the man's 'avin a mike. You can do what you're doin' just as we=
ll
with the door open.'
Philpot, muttering something about it being all
the same to him--shut or open--got down from the steps and opened the
door. Hunter went out again without
making any further remark and once more began crawling over the house.
Owen was working by himself in a room on the s=
ame
floor as Philpot. He was at the window, burning off with a paraffin torch-l=
amp
those parts of the old paintwork that were blistered and cracked.
In this work the flame of the lamp is directed
against the old paint, which becomes soft and is removed with a chisel knif=
e,
or a scraper called a shavehook. T=
he
door was ajar and he had opened the top sash of the window for the purpose =
of
letting in some fresh air, because the atmosphere of the room was foul with=
the
fumes of the lamp and the smell of the burning paint, besides being heavy w=
ith
moisture. The ceiling had only just been water washed and the walls had just
been stripped. The old paper, satu=
rated
with water, was piled up in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Presently, as he was working he began to feel
conscious of some other presence in the room; he looked round. The door was open about six inches and =
in the
opening appeared a long, pale face with a huge chin, surmounted by a bowler=
hat
and ornamented with a large red nose, a drooping moustache and two small,
glittering eyes set very close together.
For some seconds this apparition regarded Owen intently, then it was
silently withdrawn, and he was again alone.
He had been so surprised and startled that he had nearly dropped the
lamp, and now that the ghastly countenance was gone, Owen felt the blood su=
rge
into his own cheeks. He trembled w=
ith
suppressed fury and longed to be able to go out there on the landing and hu=
rl
the lamp into Hunter's face.
Meanwhile, on the landing outside Owen's door,
Hunter stood thinking. Someone must be got rid of to make room for the cheap
man tomorrow. He had hoped to catch somebody doing something that would have
served as an excuse for instant dismissal, but there was now no hope of that
happening. What was to be done?
Hunter crawled downstairs again.
Jack Linden was about sixty-seven years old, b=
ut
like Philpot, and as is usual with working men, he appeared older, because =
he
had had to work very hard all his life, frequently without proper food and
clothing. His life had been passed=
in
the midst of a civilization which he had never been permitted to enjoy the
benefits of. But of course he knew
nothing about all this. He had nev=
er
expected or wished to be allowed to enjoy such things; he had always been of
opinion that they were never intended for the likes of him. He called himself a Conservative and wa=
s very
patriotic.
At the time when the Boer War commenced, Linden
was an enthusiastic jingo: his enthusiasm had been somewhat damped when his
youngest son, a reservist, had to go to the front, where he died of fever a=
nd
exposure. When this soldier son went away, he left his wife and two childre=
n,
aged respectively four and five years at that time, in his father's care. After he died they stayed on with the o=
ld people. The young woman earned a little occasio=
nally
by doing needlework, but was really dependent on her father-in-law. Notwithstanding his poverty, he was gla=
d to
have them in the house, because of late years his wife had been getting very
feeble, and, since the shock occasioned by the news of the death of her son,
needed someone constantly with her.
Linden was still working at the vestibule doors
when the manager came downstairs. =
Misery
stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. At last he said loudly:
'How much longer are you going to be messing a=
bout
those doors? Why don't you get them
under colour? You were fooling abo=
ut
there when I was here this morning. Do
you think it'll pay to have you playing about there hour after hour with a =
bit
of pumice stone? Get the work done=
! Or if you don't want to, I'll very soon=
find
someone else who does! I've been
noticing your style of doing things for some time past and I want you to
understand that you can't play the fool with me. There's plenty of better m=
en
than you walking about. If you can=
't do
more than you've been doing lately you can clear out; we can do without you
even when we're busy.'
Old Jack trembled.
He tried to answer, but was unable to speak. If he had been a slave and had failed to
satisfy his master, the latter might have tied him up somewhere and thrashed
him. Hunter could not do that; he =
could
only take his food away. Old Jack =
was
frightened--it was not only HIS food that might be taken away. At last, with a great effort, for the w=
ords
seemed to stick in his throat, he said:
'I must clean the work down, sir, before I go =
on
painting.'
'I'm not talking about what you're doing, but =
the
time it takes you to do it!' shouted Hunter.
'And I don't want any back answers or argument about it. You must move yourself a bit quicker or=
leave
it alone altogether.'
Linden did not answer: he went on with his wor=
k,
his hand trembling to such an extent that he was scarcely able to hold the
pumice stone.
Hunter shouted so loud that his voice filled a=
ll
the house. Everyone heard and was
afraid. Who would be the next? they
thought.
Finding that Linden made no further answer, Mi=
sery
again began walking about the house.
As he looked at them the men did their work in=
a
nervous, clumsy, hasty sort of way. They
made all sorts of mistakes and messes. Payne, the foreman carpenter, was
putting some new boards on a part of the drawing-room floor: he was in such=
a
state of panic that, while driving a nail, he accidentally struck the thumb=
of
his left hand a severe blow with his hammer.
Bundy was also working in the drawing-room putting some white-glazed
tiles in the fireplace. Whilst cut=
ting
one of these in half in order to fit it into its place, he inflicted a deep
gash on one of his fingers. He was
afraid to leave off to bind it up while Hunter was there, and consequently =
as
he worked the white tiles became all smeared and spattered with blood. Easton, who was working with Harlow on a
plank, washing off the old distemper from the hall ceiling, was so upset th=
at
he was scarcely able to stand on t=
he
plank, and presently the brush fell from his trembling hand with a crash up=
on
the floor.
Everyone was afraid. They knew that it was impossible to get=
a job
for any other firm. They knew that=
this
man had the power to deprive them of the means of earning a living; that he
possessed the power to deprive their children of bread.
Owen, listening to Hunter over the banisters
upstairs, felt that he would like to take him by the throat with one hand a=
nd
smash his face in with the other.
And then?
Why then he would be sent to gaol, or at the b=
est
he would lose his employment: his food and that of his family would be taken
away. That was why he only ground =
his
teeth and cursed and beat the wall with his clenched fist. So! and so! and so!
If it were not for them!
Owen's imagination ran riot.
First he would seize him by the collar with his
left hand, dig his knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall =
and
then, with his right fist, smash! smash! smash! until Hunter's face was all=
cut
and covered with blood.
But then, what about those at home? Was it not braver and more manly to end=
ure in
silence?
Owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, pan=
ting
and exhausted.
Downstairs, Misery was still going to and fro =
in
the house and walking up and down in it.
Presently he stopped to look at Sawkins' work. This man was painting=
the
woodwork of the back staircase. Al=
though
the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, Misery had given orders t=
hat
it was not to be cleaned before being painted.
'Just dust it down and slobber the colour on,'=
he
had said. Consequently, when Crass made the paint, he had put into it an ex=
tra
large quantity of dryers. To a cer=
tain
extent this destroyed the 'body' of the colour: it did not cover well; it w=
ould
require two coats. When Hunter per=
ceived
this he was furious. He was sure it
could be made to do with one coat with a little care; he believed Sawkins w=
as
doing it like this on purpose. Rea=
lly,
these men seemed to have no conscience.
Two coats! and he had estimated for only three=
.
'Crass!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Come here!'
'Yes, sir.'
Crass came hurrying along.
'What's the meaning of this? Didn't I tell you to make this do with =
one
coat? Look at it!'
'It's like this, sir,' said Crass. 'If it had been washed down--'
'Washed down be damned,' shouted Hunter. 'The reason is that the colour ain't th=
ick
enough. Take the paint and put a l=
ittle
more body in it and we'll soon see whether it can be done or not. I can make it cover if you can't.'
Crass took the paint, and, superintended by
Hunter, made it thicker. Misery then seized the brush and prepared to
demonstrate the possibility of finishing the work with one coat. Crass and Sawkins looked on in silence.=
Just as Misery was about to commence he fancie=
d he
heard someone whispering somewhere. He
laid down the brush and crawled stealthily upstairs to see who it was. Directly his back was turned Crass seiz=
ed a
bottle of oil that was standing near and, tipping about half a pint of it i=
nto
the paint, stirred it up quickly. =
Misery
returned almost immediately: he had not caught anyone; it must have been
fancy. He took up the brush and be=
gan to
paint. The result was worse than
Sawkins!
He messed and fooled about for some time, but
could not make it come right. At l=
ast he
gave it up.
'I suppose it'll have to have two coats after
all,' he said, mournfully. 'But it=
's a
thousand pities.'
He almost wept.
The firm would be ruined if things went on like
this.
'You'd better go on with it,' he said as he la=
id
down the brush.
He began to walk about the house again. He wanted to go away now, but he did no=
t want
them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept ar=
ound
the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away.
No one saw him go.
For some time the only sounds that broke the
silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked. The musical ringing of Bundy's trowel, =
the
noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pa=
ir
of steps.
No one dared to speak.
At last Philpot could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty.
He had kept the door of his room open since Hu=
nter
arrived.
He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gon=
e: he
looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room. Phi=
lpot
made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention. Owen looked round and Philpot began to =
make
signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the oth=
er
over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the
while. This Owen interpreted to be=
an
inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed.
He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did=
not
know.
Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and pee=
ped
furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly. 'Was it gorn or not?' he wondered.
He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen's room,
glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage
murderer. 'Do you think it's gorn?=
' he
asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen's door.
'I don't know,' replied Owen in a low tone.
Philpot wondered.
He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him wi=
th
the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not.
At last an idea came. He would go downstairs to get some more
cement. Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the roo=
m in
which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again.=
'Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he as=
ked
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 brin=
g up
for you?'
'No, thanks,' replied Owen.
Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, w=
hich
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 bott=
le and
let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there. If Misery sees him 'e c=
an
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 thro=
ugh
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 gon=
e,
nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on working and no=
w that
they were relieved of the embarrassment that Misery's presence inspired, th=
ey
made better progress. A few of the=
m lit
their pipes and smoked as they worked.
One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had rec=
eived,
and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a p=
ipe;
it might steady his nerves. As a r=
ule he
did not smoke when working; it was contrary to orders.
As Philpot was returning to work again he paus=
ed
for a moment to whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompan=
ied
him upstairs.
On reaching Philpot's room the latter placed t=
he
step-ladder near the cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed i=
t 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 chim= ney, 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.<= o:p>
Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He felt like a beaten dog.
He was more indignant on poor old Linden's acc=
ount
than on his own, and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful
degradation.
All his life it had been the same: incessant w=
ork
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 liv=
ed
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 h=
is
life also?
It would be better for the boy to die now.
As Owen thought of his child's future there sp=
rung
up within him a feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fell=
ow
workmen.
THEY WERE THE ENEMY. Those who not only quietly submitted li=
ke so
many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and opposed a=
nd
ridiculed any suggestion to alter it.
THEY WERE THE REAL OPPRESSORS--the men who spo=
ke
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 t=
hem
was good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into
existence.
He hated and despised them because they calmly=
saw
their children condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberat=
ely
refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than those =
they
had themselves.
It was because they were indifferent to the fa=
te
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 s=
hare
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 contemp=
t,
and subjected to every possible indignity.
Nearly everything they produced was taken away from them and enjoyed=
by
the people who did nothing. And th=
en the
workers bowed down and grovelled before those who had robbed them of the fr=
uits
of their labour and were childishly grateful to them for leaving anything at
all.
No wonder the rich despised them and looked up=
on them
as dirt. They WERE despicable. They WERE dirt. They admitted it and gloried in it.
While these thoughts were seething in Owen's m=
ind,
his fellow workmen were still patiently toiling on downstairs. Most of them had by this time dismissed
Hunter from their thoughts. They d=
id 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 o=
wn
back whenever you get a chance.
Presently Harlow began to sing. He had a good voice and it was a good s=
ong,
but his mates just then did not appreciate either one of the other. His singing was the signal for an outbu=
rst 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 paral=
ysed
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 kne=
w it
was of no use. He silently put asi=
de 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 m=
an
during his absence. He then rode a=
way,
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 h=
ome,
but all the same, Thank God it was nearly five o'clock!
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 jo=
b,
then on again for a month perhaps, and so on.
William Easton was a man of medium height, abo=
ut
twenty-three years old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. He wore a stand-up collar with a colour=
ed tie
and his clothes, though shabby, were clean and neat.
He was married: his wife was a young woman who=
se
acquaintance he had made when he happened to be employed with others painti=
ng
the outside of the house where she was a general servant. They had 'walked out' for about fifteen
months. Easton had been in no hurr=
y to
marry, for he knew that, taking good times with bad, his wages did no avera=
ge a
pound a week. At the end of that t=
ime,
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 'o=
ut'
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 wh=
ere
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 fe=
ar
that what had befallen Jack Linden might also happen to himself at any
time. He would have to be very car=
eful
not to offend Crass in any way. He=
was
afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was. Easton knew that Cr=
ass
could get him the sack at any time, and would not scruple to do so if he wa=
nted
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 l=
ittle
real ability he pretended to know everything, and the vague references he w=
as
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.
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 th=
is
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 accordingl=
y,
though there were a few whose known abilities placed them to a certain exte=
nt
above the reach of his malice. Fra=
nk
Owen was one of these.
There were others who by the judicious adminis=
tration
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 da=
y or
even an hour might bring forth.
By this time he had arrived at his home; it wa=
s 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 l=
ed
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 Christm=
as
numbers of illustrated papers. The=
re 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 acros=
s,
with the legs stained red to look like mahogany. Against one wall was an old couch cover=
ed
with faded cretonne, four chairs to match standing backs to wall in differe=
nt
parts of the room. The table was c=
overed
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 cha=
irs,
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 H=
oly
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, an=
d 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 gu=
ide
and that Jesus may be her very own Saviour.
Oct. 12. 19--'
Mrs Starvem was Ruth's former mistress, and th=
is
had been her parting gift when Ruth left to get married. It was supposed to be a keepsake, but a=
s 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 wh=
en
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.<= o:p>
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 t=
he
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 sma=
ll
range with an oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece painted black. On the mantelshelf was a small round al=
arm
clock and some brightly polished tin canisters.
At the other end of the room, facing the fireplace, was a small dres=
ser
on the shelves of which were neatly arranged a number of plates and
dishes. The walls were papered wit=
h oak
paper. On one wall, between two co=
loured
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 ceili=
ng,
were stretched several cords upon which were drying a number of linen or ca=
lico
undergarments, a coloured shirt, and Easton's white apron and jacket. On the back of a chair at one side of t=
he
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 a=
nd 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,' s=
aid
Easton.
'I think it's his teeth,' replied the mother.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> '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 mor=
ning
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 i=
ts
body, the little fists clenched, and face flushed. Then after a few seconds it became plac=
id:
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 d=
on't
seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago.'
'No, he's not quite so fat,' admitted Ruth.
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 t=
o 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 la=
st.
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 t=
he
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 an=
d 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 ex=
cept
bread and butter and that piece of cheese, so I cut some bread and butter a=
nd
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 wa=
s 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 indig=
nant,
and sorry for poor old Linden, but their sympathy for him was soon forgotte=
n 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 ho=
ur
for breakfast and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day--forty-t=
wo
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. Tomor=
row
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,' sa=
id
Ruth, 'because there's other things to pay.'
'What other things?'
'We owe the baker eight shillings for the brea=
d 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 a=
ll
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 si=
de of
the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the infant with =
the
other.
'Except the furniture people, the biggest thin=
g we
owe is the rent,' she said when Easton was ready to begin.
'It seems to me,' said he, as, after having cl=
eared
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 t=
hings
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 muc=
h 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 shilli=
ngs
last spring? Well, I've been payin=
g 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 shill=
ings
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 t=
here'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 d=
idn't
want to upset you before you had your tea.'
Easton drew the first letter from its envelope=
.
CORPORATION OF
MUGSBOROUGH Gen=
eral
District and Special Rates FINAL NOT=
ICE
MR W.
EASTON,
I ha=
ve to
remind you that the amount due from you as under, in respect of the above Rates, has not be=
en
paid, and to request that you will
forward the same within Fourteen Days from this date. You
are hereby informed that after this notice no further call will be made, or intimation given, before legal
proceedings are taken to enforce
payment. =
By order of the Council. =
JAMES LEAH.
Collector, No. 2 District.
District Rate .......................... £- 13 11 Special Rate
........................... 10 2 =
=
£1 4 1
The second communication was dated from the of=
fice
of the Assistant Overseer of the Poor.
It was also a Final Notice and was worded in almost exactly the same=
way
as the other, the principal difference being that it was 'By order of the
Overseers' instead of 'the Council'. It demanded the sum of £1 1s 5-1/2d for
Poor Rate within fourteen days, and threatened legal proceedings in default=
.
Easton laid this down and began to read the th=
ird
letter--
J. DIDLUM &=
; CO
LTD. Complete House Furnishers QUALITY STREET,
MUGSBOROUGH
MR W.
EASTON,
SIR:=
We have to remind you that three month=
ly
payments of four shillings each (=
12/-
in all) became due on the first of this month, and we must request you to let us have this a=
mount
BY RETURN OF POST.
Unde=
r the
terms of your agreement you guaranteed that the money should be paid on the Saturday of every
fourth week. To prevent unpleasantness, we must request you fo=
r the
future to forward the full amount
punctually upon that day.
Yours truly, J.
DIDLUM & CO. LTD
He read these communications several times in
silence and finally with an oath threw them down on the table.
'How much do we still owe for the oilcloth and=
the
furniture?' he asked.
'I don't know exactly. It was seven pound odd, and we've had t=
he
things about six months. We paid o=
ne
pound down and three or four instalments.
I'll get the card if you like.'
'No; never mind.
Say we've paid one pound twelve; so we still owe about six pound.'
He added this amount to the list.
'I think it's a great pity we ever had the thi=
ngs
at all,' he said, peevishly. 'It w=
ould
have been better to have gone without until we could pay cash for them: but=
you
would have your way, of course. Now
we'll have this bloody debt dragging on us for years, and before the dam st=
uff
is paid for it'll be worn out.'
The woman did not reply at once. She was bending down over the cradle
arranging the coverings which the restless movements of the child had
disordered. She was crying silentl=
y,
unnoticed by her husband.
For months past--in fact ever since the child =
was
born--she had been existing without sufficient food. If Easton was unemployed they had to st=
int
themselves so as to avoid getting further into debt than was absolutely
necessary. When he was working the=
y had
to go short in order to pay what they owed; but of what there was Easton
himself, without knowing it, always had the greater share. If he was at work she would pack into h=
is
dinner basket overnight the best there was in the house. When he was out of work she often prete=
nded,
as she gave him his meals, that she had had hers while he was out. And all the time the baby was draining =
her
life away and her work was never done.
She felt very weak and weary as she crouched
there, crying furtively and trying not to let him see.
At last she said, without looking round:
'You know quite well that you were just as muc=
h in
favour of getting them as I was. I=
f we
hadn't got the oilcloth there would have been illness in the house because =
of
the way the wind used to come up between the floorboards. Even now of a windy day the oilcloth mo=
ves up
and down.'
'Well, I'm sure I don't know,' said Easton, as=
he
looked alternatively at the list of debts and the three letters. 'I give you nearly every farthing I ear=
n and
I never interfere about anything, because I think it's your part to attend =
to
the house, but it seems to me you don't manage things properly.'
The woman suddenly burst into a passion of
weeping, laying her head on the seat of the chair that was standing near the
cradle.
Easton started up in surprise.
'Why, what's the matter?' he said.
Then as he looked down upon the quivering form=
of
the sobbing woman, he was ashamed. He
knelt down by her, embracing her and apologizing, protesting that he had not
meant to hurt her like that.
'I always do the best I can with the money,' R=
uth
sobbed. 'I never spend a farthing =
on
myself, but you don't seem to understand how hard it is. I don't care nothing about having to go
without things myself, but I can't bear it when you speak to me like you do
lately. You seem to blame me for
everything. You usen't to speak to=
me
like that before I--before--Oh, I am so tired--I am so tired, I wish I could
lie down somewhere and sleep and never wake up any more.'
She turned away from him, half kneeling, half
sitting on the floor, her arms folded on the seat of the chair, and her hea=
d resting
upon them. She was crying in a heartbroken helpless way.
'I'm sorry I spoke to you like that,' said Eas=
ton,
awkwardly. 'I didn't mean what I
said. It's all my fault. I leave things too much to you, and it'=
s more
than you can be expected to manage. I'll
help you to think things out in future; only forgive me, I'm very sorry.
She suffered him to draw her to him, laying her
head on his shoulder as he kissed and fondled her, protesting that he would
rather be poor and hungry with her than share riches with anyone else.
The child in the cradle--who had been twisting=
and
turning restlessly all this time--now began to cry loudly. The mother took it from the cradle and =
began
to hush and soothe it, walking about the room and rocking it in her arms. The child, however, continued to scream=
, so
she sat down to nurse it: for a little while the infant refused to drink,
struggling and kicking in its mother's arms, then for a few minutes it was
quite, taking the milk in a half-hearted, fretful way. Then it began to scr=
eam
and twist and struggle.
They both looked at it in a helpless manner. Whatever could be the matter with it? It must be those teeth.
Then suddenly as they were soothing and patting
him, the child vomited all over its own and its mother's clothing a mass of
undigested food. Mingled with the curdled milk were fragments of egg, little
bits of bacon, bread and particles of potato.
Having rid his stomach of this unnatural burde=
n,
the unfortunate baby began to cry afresh, his face very pale, his lips
colourless, and his eyes red-rimmed and running with water.
Easton walked about with him while Ruth cleane=
d up
the mess and got ready some fresh clothing.
They both agreed that it was the coming teeth that had upset the poor
child's digestion. It would be a g=
ood
job when they were through.
This work finished, Easton, who was still
convinced in his own mind that with the aid of a little common sense and
judicious management their affairs might be arranged more satisfactorily, s=
aid:
'We may as well make a list of all the things =
we
must pay and buy tomorrow. The gre=
at
thing is to think out exactly what you are going to do before you spend
anything; that saves you from getting things you don't really need and prev=
ents
you forgetting the things you MUST have. Now, first of all, the rent; two
weeks, twelve shillings.'
He took a fresh piece of paper and wrote this =
item
down.
'What else is there that we must pay or buy
tomorrow?'
'Well, you know I promised the baker and the g=
rocer
that I would begin to pay them directly you got a job, and if I don't keep =
my
word they won't let us have anything another time, so you'd better put down=
two
shillings each for them.
'I've got that,' said Easton.
'Two and seven for the butcher. We must pay that. I'm ashamed to pass the shop, because w=
hen I
got the meat I promised to pay him the next week, and it's nearly three wee=
ks
ago now.'
'I've put that down. What else?'
'A hundred of coal: one and six.'
'Next?'
'The instalment for the furniture and floor-cl=
oth,
twelve shillings.'
'Next?'
'We owe the milkman four weeks; we'd better pay
one week on account; that's one and two.'
'Next?'
'The greengrocer; one shilling on account.'
'Anything else?'
'We shall want a piece of meat of some kind; w=
e've
had none for nearly three weeks. Y=
ou'd
better say one and six for that.'
'That's down.'
'One and nine for bread; that's one loaf a day=
.'
'But I've got two shillings down for bread
already,' said Easton.
'Yes, I know, dear, but that's to go towards
paying off what we owe, and what you have down for the grocer and milkman's=
the
same.'
'Well, go on, for Christ's sake, and let's get=
it
down,' said Easton, irritably.
'We can't say less than three shillings for
groceries.'
Easton looked carefully at his list. This time he felt sure that the item was
already down; but finding he was mistaken he said nothing and added the amo=
unt.
'Well, I've got that. What else?'
'Milk, one and two.'
'Next?'
'Vegetables, eightpence.'
'Yes.'
'Paraffin oil and firewood, sixpence.'
Again the financier scrutinized the list. He was positive that it was down
already. However, he could not fin=
d it,
so the sixpence was added to the column of figures.
'Then there's your boots; you can't go about w=
ith
them old things in this weather much longer, and they won't stand mending
again. You remember the old man sa=
id
they were not worth it when you had that patch put on a few weeks ago.'
'Yes. I was
thinking of buying a new pair tomorrow.
My socks was wet through tonight.
If it's raining some morning when I'm going out and I have to work a=
ll
day with wet feet I shall be laid up.'
'At that second-hand shop down in High Street I
saw when I was out this afternoon a very good pair just your size, for two
shillings.'
Easton did not reply at once. He did not much fancy wearing the cast-=
off
boots of some stranger, who for all he knew might have suffered from some
disease, but then remembering that his old ones were literally falling off =
his
feet he realized that he had practically no choice.
'If you're quite sure they'll fit you'd better=
get
them. It's better to do that than =
for me
to catch cold and be laid up for God knows how long.'
So the two shillings were added to the list.
'Is there anything else?'
'How much does it all come to now?' asked Ruth=
.
Easton added it all up. When he had finished he remained starin=
g at
the figures in consternation for a long time without speaking.
'Jesus Christ!' he ejaculated at last.
'What's it come to?' asked Ruth.
'Forty-four and tenpence.'
'I knew we wouldn't have enough,' said Ruth,
wearily. 'Now if you think I manag=
e so
badly, p'raps you can tell me which of these things we ought to leave out.'=
'We'd be all right if it wasn't for the debts,'
said Easton, doggedly.
'When you're not working, we must either get i=
nto
debt or starve.'
Easton made no answer.
'What'll we do about the rates?' asked Ruth.
'I'm sure I don't know: there's nothing left to
pawn except my black coat and vest. You
might get something on that.'
'It'll have to be paid somehow,' said Ruth, 'or
you'll be taken off to jail for a month, the same as Mrs Newman's husband w=
as
last winter.'
'Well, you'd better take the coat and vest and=
see
what you can get on 'em tomorrow.'
'Yes,' said Ruth; 'and there's that brown silk
dress of mine--you know, the one I wore when we was married--I might get
something on that, because we won't get enough on the coat and vest. I don't like parting with the dress, al=
though
I never wear it; but we'll be sure to be able to get it out again, won't we=
?'
'Of course,' said Easton.
They remained silent for some time, Easton sta=
ring
at the list of debts and the letters.
She was wondering if he still thought she managed badly, and what he
would do about it. She knew she had
always done her best. At last she =
said,
wistfully, trying to speak plainly for there seemed to be a lump in her thr=
oat:
'And what about tomorrow? Would you like to spend the money yourself, or sh=
all
I manage as I've done before, or will you tell me what to do?'
'I don't know, dear,' said Easton,
sheepishly. 'I think you'd better =
do as
you think best.'
'Oh, I'll manage all right, dear, you'll see,'
replied Ruth, who seemed to think it a sort of honour to be allowed to star=
ve
herself and wear shabby clothes.
The baby, who had been for some time quietly
sitting upon his mother's lap, looking wonderingly at the fire--his teeth
appeared to trouble him less since he got rid of the eggs and bacon and
potatoes--now began to nod and doze, which Easton perceiving, suggested that
the infant should not be allowed to go to sleep with an empty stomach, beca=
use
it would probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night. He therefore w=
oke
him up as much as possible and mashed a little of the bread and toasted che=
ese
with a little warm milk. Then taki=
ng the
baby from Ruth he began to try to induce it to eat. As soon, however, as the child understo=
od his
object, it began to scream at the top of its voice, closing its lips firmly=
and
turning its head rapidly from side to side every time the spoon approached =
its
mouth. It made such a dreadful noi=
se
that Easton at last gave in. He be=
gan to
walk about the room with it, and presently the child sobbed itself to sleep.
After putting the baby into its cradle Ruth set about preparing Easton's
breakfast and packing it into his basket.
This did not take very long, there being only bread and butter--or, =
to
be more correct, margarine.
Then she poured what tea was left in the tea-p=
ot
into a small saucepan and placed it on the top of the oven, but away from t=
he
fire, cut two more slices of bread and spread on them all the margarine that
was left; then put them on a plate on the table, covering them with a sauce=
r to
prevent them getting hard and dry during the night. Near the plate she placed a clean cup a=
nd
saucer and the milk and sugar.
In the morning Easton would light the fire and
warm up the tea in the saucepan so as to have a cup of tea before going
out. If Ruth was awake and he was =
not
pressed for time, he generally took a cup of tea to her in bed.
Nothing now remained to be done but to put some
coal and wood ready in the fender so that there would be no unnecessary del=
ay
in the morning.
The baby was still sleeping and Ruth did not l=
ike
to wake him up yet to dress him for the night.
Easton was sitting by the fire smoking, so everything being done, Ru=
th
sat down at the table and began sewing. Presently she spoke:
'I wish you'd let me try to let that back room
upstairs: the woman next door has got hers let unfurnished to an elderly wo=
man
and her husband for two shillings a week.
If we could get someone like that it would be better than having an
empty room in the house.'
'And we'd always have them messing about down
here, cooking and washing and one thing and another,' objected Easton; 'the=
y'd
be more trouble than they way worth.'
'Well, we might try and furnish it. There's Mrs Crass across the road has g=
ot two
lodgers in one room. They pay her =
twelve
shillings a week each; board, lodging and washing. That's one pound four she has coming in
reglar every week. If we could do =
the
same we'd very soon be out of debt.'
'What's the good of talking? You'd never be able to do the work even=
if we
had the furniture.'
'Oh, the work's nothing,' replied Ruth, 'and as
for the furniture, we've got plenty of spare bedclothes, and we could easily
manage without a washstand in our room for a bit, so the only thing we real=
ly
want is a small bedstead and mattress; we could get them very cheap
second-hand.'
'There ought to be a chest of drawers,' said
Easton doubtfully.
'I don't think so,' replied Ruth. 'There's a cupboard in the room and who=
ever
took it would be sure to have a box.'
'Well, if you think you can do the work I've no
objection,' said Easton. 'It'll be=
a
nuisance having a stranger in the way all the time, but I suppose we must do
something of the sort or else we'll have to give up the house and take a co=
uple
of rooms somewhere. That would be =
worse
than having lodgers ourselves.
'Let's go and have a look at the room,' he add=
ed,
getting up and taking the lamp from the wall.
They had to go up two flights of stairs before
arriving at the top landing, where there were two doors, one leading into t=
he
front room--their bedroom--and the other into the empty back room. These two doors were at right angles to=
each
other. The wallpaper in the back r=
oom
was damaged and soiled in several places.
'There's nearly a whole roll of this paper on =
the
top of the cupboard,' said Ruth. '=
You
could easily mend all those places. We
could hang up a few almanacks on the walls; our washstand could go there by=
the
window; a chair just there, and the bed along that wall behind the door.
Easton reached down the roll of paper. It was the same pattern as that on the
wall. The latter was a good deal f=
aded,
of course, but it would not matter much if the patches showed a little. They returned to the kitchen.
'Do you think you know anyone who would take i=
t?'
asked Ruth. Easton smoked thoughtf=
ully.
'No,' he said at length. 'But I'll mention it to one or two of t=
he
chaps on the job; they might know of someone.'
'And I'll get Mrs Crass to ask her lodgers: p'=
raps
they might have a friend what would like to live near them.'
So it was settled; and as the fire was nearly =
out
and it was getting late, they prepared to retire for the night. The baby was still sleeping so Easton l=
ifted
it, cradle and all, and carried it up the narrow staircase into the front
bedroom, Ruth leading the way, carrying the lamp and some clothes for the
child. So that the infant might be
within easy reach of its mother during the night, two chairs were arranged
close to her side of the bed and the cradle placed on them.
'Now we've forgot the clock,' said Easton,
pausing. He was half undressed and=
had
already removed his slippers.
'I'll slip down and get it,' said Ruth.
'Never mind, I'll go,' said Easton, beginning =
to put
his slippers on again.
'No, you get into bed. I've not started undressing yet. I'll get it,' replied Ruth who was alre=
ady on
her way down.
'I don't know as it was worth the trouble of g=
oing
down,' said Ruth when she returned with the clock. 'It stopped three or four times today.'=
'Well, I hope it don't stop in the night,' Eas=
ton
said. 'It would be a bit of all ri=
ght
not knowing what time it was in the morning.
I suppose the next thing will be that we'll have to buy a new clock.=
'
He woke several times during the night and str=
uck
a match to see if it was yet time to get up.
At half past two the clock was still going and he again fell
asleep. The next time he work up t=
he
ticking had ceased. He wondered what time it was? It was still very dark, but that was no=
thing
to go by, because it was always dark at six now. He was wide awake: it must be nearly ti=
me to
get up. It would never do to be la=
te; he
might get the sack.
He got up and dressed himself. Ruth was asleep, so he crept quietly
downstairs, lit the fire and heated the tea.
When it was ready he went softly upstairs again. Ruth was still sleeping, so he decided =
not to
disturb her. Returning to the kitc=
hen,
he poured out and drank a cup of tea, put on his boots, overcoat and hat and
taking his basket went out of the house.
The rain was still falling and it was very cold
and dark. There was no one else in=
the
street. Easton shivered as he walk=
ed
along wondering what time it could be.
He remembered there was a clock over the front of a jeweller's shop a
little way down the main road. Whe=
n he
arrived at this place he found that the clock being so high up he could not=
see
the figures on the face distinctly, because it was still very dark. He stood staring for a few minutes vain=
ly
trying to see what time it was when suddenly the light of a bull's-eye lant=
ern
was flashed into his eyes.
'You're about very early,' said a voice, the o=
wner
of which Easton could not see. The=
light
blinded him.
'What time is it?' said Easton. 'I've got to get to work at seven and o=
ur
clock stopped during the night.'
'Where are you working?'
'At "The Cave" in Elmore Road. You know, near the old toll gate.'
'What are you doing there and who are you work=
ing
for?' the policeman demanded.
Easton explained.
'Well,' said the constable, 'it's very strange
that you should be wandering about at this hour. It's only about three-quarters of an ho=
ur's
walk from here to Elmore Road. You=
say you've
got to get there at seven, and it's only a quarter to four now. Where do you live? What's your name?' Easton gave his name and address and be=
gan
repeating the story about the clock having stopped.
'What you say may be all right or it may not,'
interrupted the policeman. 'I'm no=
t sure
but that I ought to take you to the station. All I know about you is that I
find you loitering outside this shop. What have you got in that basket?'
'Only my breakfast,' Easton said, opening the
basket and displaying its contents.
'I'm inclined to believe what you say,' said t=
he
policeman, after a pause. 'But to =
make
quite sure I'll go home with you. =
It's
on my beat, and I don't want to run you in if you're what you say you are, =
but
I should advise you to buy a decent clock, or you'll be getting yourself in=
to
trouble.'
When they arrived at the house Easton opened t=
he
door, and after making some entries in his note-book the officer went away,
much to the relief of Easton, who went upstairs, set the hands of the clock
right and started it going again. =
He
then removed his overcoat and lay down on the bed in his clothes, covering
himself with the quilt. After a while he fell asleep, and when he awoke the
clock was still ticking.
The time was exactly seven o'clock.
Frank=
Owen
was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of consumption when the =
boy
was only five years old. After tha=
t his
mother earned a scanty living as a needle-woman. When Frank was thirteen he went to work=
for a
master decorator who was a man of a type that has now almost disappeared, b=
eing
not merely an employer but a craftsman of a high order.
He was an old man when Frank Owen went to work=
for
him. At one time he had had a good
business in the town, and used to boast that he had always done good work, =
had
found pleasure in doing it and had been well paid for it. But of late years the number of his cus=
tomers
had dwindled considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which cared
nothing about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness and profit=
. From this man and by laborious study and
practice in his spare time, aided by a certain measure of natural ability, =
the
boy acquired a knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining and
signwriting.
Frank's mother died when he was twenty-four, a=
nd a
year afterwards he married the daughter of a fellow workman. In those days trade was fairly good and
although there was not much demand for the more artistic kinds of work, sti=
ll
the fact that he was capable of doing them, if required, made it comparativ=
ely
easy for him to obtain employment. Owen
and his wife were very happy. They=
had
one child--a boy--and for some years all went well. But gradually this state of things alte=
red:
broadly speaking, the change came slowly and imperceptibly, although there =
were
occasional sudden fluctuations.
Even in summer he could not always find work: =
and
in winter it was almost impossible to get a job of any sort. At last, about twelve months before the=
date
that this story opens, he determined to leave his wife and child at home an=
d go
to try his fortune in London. When=
he
got employment he would send for them.
It was a vain hope. He found London, if anything, worse tha=
n his
native town. Wherever he went he w=
as
confronted with the legend: 'No hands wanted'.
He walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold all his clothes =
save
those he stood in, and stayed in London for six months, sometimes starving =
and
only occasionally obtaining a few days or weeks work.
At the end of that time he was forced to give
in. The privations he had endured,=
the
strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the city combined to defeat
him. Symptoms of the disease that =
had
killed his father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated
entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of his fo=
rmer
self.
That was six months ago, and since then he had
worked for Rushton & Co. Occasionally when they had no work in hand, he=
was
'stood off' until something came in.
Ever since his return from London, Owen had be=
en
gradually abandoning himself to hopelessness.
Every day he felt that the disease he suffered from was obtaining a
stronger grip on him. The doctor t=
old
him to 'take plenty of nourishing food', and prescribed costly medicines wh=
ich
Owen had not the money to buy.
Then there was his wife. Naturally delicate, she needed many thi=
ngs
that he was unable to procure for her.
And the boy--what hope was there for him? Often as Owen moodily thought of their
circumstances and prospects he told himself that it would be far better if =
they
could all three die now, together.
He was tired of suffering himself, tired of
impotently watching the sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought=
of
what was in store for the child.
Of this nature were his reflections as he walk=
ed
homewards on the evening of the day when old Linden was dismissed. There was no reason to believe or hope =
that
the existing state of things would be altered for a long time to come.
Thousands of people like himself dragged out a
wretched existence on the very verge of starvation, and for the greater num=
ber
of people life was one long struggle against poverty. Yet practically none of these people kn=
ew or
even troubled themselves to inquire why they were in that condition; and for
anyone else to try to explain to them was a ridiculous waste of time, for t=
hey
did not want to know.
The remedy was so simple, the evil so great an=
d so
glaringly evident that the only possible explanation of its continued exist=
ence
was that the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of
reasoning. If these people were not
mentally deficient they would of their own accord have swept this silly sys=
tem
away long ago. It would not have b=
een
necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong.
Why, even those who were successful or wealthy
could not be sure that they would not eventually die of want. In every workhouse might be found peopl=
e who
had at one time occupied good positions; and their downfall was not in every
case their own fault.
No matter how prosperous a man might be, he co=
uld
not be certain that his children would never want for bread. There were thousands living in misery on
starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people.
As Owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled =
with
these thoughts, he was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet throu=
gh
to the skin. He was without an overcoat, it was pawned in London, and he had
not yet been able to redeem it. His
boots were leaky and sodden with mud and rain.
He was nearly home now. At the corner of the street in which he=
lived
there was a newsagent's shop and on a board outside the door was displayed a
placard:
TERRIBLE DOMESTIC
TRAGEDY DOUB=
LE
MURDER AND SUICIDE
He went in to buy a copy of the paper. He was a frequent customer here, and as=
he
entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name.
'Dreadful weather,' he remarked as he handed O=
wen
the paper. 'It makes things pretty=
bad
in your line, I suppose?'
'Yes,' responded Owen, 'there's a lot of men i=
dle,
but fortunately I happen to be working inside.'
'You're one of the lucky ones, then,' said the
other. 'You know, there'll be a jo=
b here
for some of 'em as soon as the weather gets a little better. All the outside of this block is going =
to be
done up. That's a pretty big job, isn't it?'
'Yes,' returned Owen. 'Who's going to do it?'
'Makehaste and Sloggit. You know, they've got a place over at
Windley.'
'Yes, I know the firm,' said Owen, grimly. He had worked for them once or twice hi=
mself.
'The foreman was in here today,' the shopkeeper
went on. 'He said they're going to=
make
a start Monday morning if it's fine.'
'Well, I hope it will be,' said Owen, 'because
things are very quiet just now.'
Wishing the other 'Good night', Owen again
proceeded homewards.
Half-way down the street he paused irresolutel=
y:
he was thinking of the news he had just heard and of Jack Linden.
As soon as it became generally known that this
work was about to be started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it wou=
ld
be a case of first come, first served.
If he saw Jack tonight the old man might be in time to secure a job.=
Owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a l=
ong
way to Linden's place, nearly twenty minutes' walk. Still, he would like to let him know, b=
ecause
unless he was one of the first to apply, Linden would not stand such a good
chance as a younger man. Owen said=
to
himself that if he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching col=
d.
Standing about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one kept
moving it was all right.
He turned back and set off in the direction of
Linden's house: although he was but a few yards from his own home, he decid=
ed
not to go in because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go
out again.
As he hurried along he presently noticed a sma=
ll
dark object on the doorstep of an untenanted house. He stopped to examine it more closely a=
nd
perceived that it was a small black kitten.
The tiny creature came towards him and began walking about his feet,
looking into his face and crying piteously.
He stooped down and stroked it, shuddering as his hands came in cont=
act
with its emaciated body. Its fur w=
as
saturated with rain and every joint of its backbone was distinctly percepti=
ble
to the touch. As he caressed it, t=
he
starving creature mewed pathetically.
Owen decided to take it home to the boy, and a=
s he
picked it up and put it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr.
This incident served to turn his thoughts into
another channel. If, as so many p=
eople
pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving God, how was it that t=
his
helpless creature that He had made was condemned to suffer? It had never done any harm, and was in =
no
sense responsible for the fact that it existed.
Was God unaware of the miseries of His creatures? If so, then He was not all-knowing. Was God aware of their sufferings, but =
unable
to help them? Then He was not
all-powerful. Had He the power but=
not
the will to make His creatures happy?
Then He was not good. No; i=
t was
impossible to believe in the existence of an individual, infinite God.. In fact, no one did so believe; and lea=
st of
all those who pretended for various reasons to be the disciples and followe=
rs
of Christ. The anti-Christs who we=
nt
about singing hymns, making long prayers and crying Lord, Lord, but never d=
oing
the things which He said, who were known by their words to be unbelievers a=
nd
infidels, unfaithful to the Master they pretended to serve, their lives bei=
ng
passed in deliberate and systematic disregard of His teachings and
Commandments. It was not necessary=
to
call in the evidence of science, or to refer to the supposed inconsistencie=
s,
impossibilities, contradictions and absurdities contained in the Bible, in
order to prove there was no truth in the Christian religion. All that was necessary was to look at t=
he
conduct of the individuals who were its votaries.
Jack =
Linden
lived in a small cottage in Windley. He
had occupied this house ever since his marriage, over thirty years ago.
His home and garden were his hobby: he was alw=
ays
doing something; painting, whitewashing, papering and so forth. The result was that although the house =
itself
was not of much account he had managed to get it into very good order, and =
as a
result it was very clean and comfortable.
Another result of his industry was that--seeing
the improved appearance of the place--the landlord had on two occasions rai=
sed
the rent. When Linden first took t=
he
house the rent was six shillings a week.
Five years after, it was raised to seven shillings, and after the la=
pse
of another five years it had been increased to eight shillings.
During the thirty years of his tenancy he had =
paid
altogether nearly six hundred pounds in rent, more than double the amount of
the present value of the house. Ja=
ck did
not complain of this--in fact he was very well satisfied. He often said that Mr Sweater was a ver=
y good
landlord, because on several occasions when, being out of work, he had been=
a
few weeks behind with his rent the agent acting for the benevolent Mr Sweat=
er
had allowed Linden to pay off the arrears by instalments. As old Jack was in the habit of remarki=
ng,
many a landlord would have sold up their furniture and turned them into the
street.
As the reader is already aware, Linden's house=
hold
consisted of his wife, his two grandchildren and his daughter-in-law, the w=
idow
and children of his youngest son, a reservist, who died while serving in the
South African War. This man had be=
en a
plasterer, and just before the war he was working for Rushton & Co.
They had just finished their tea when Owen kno=
cked
at their front door. The young woman went to see who was there.
'Is Mr Linden in?'
'Yes. Who
is it?'
'My name's Owen.'
Old Jack, however, had already recognized Owen=
's
voice, and came to the door, wondering what he wanted.
'As I was going home I heard that Makehaste and
Sloggit are going to start a large job on Monday, so I thought I'd run over=
and
let you know.'
'Are they?' said Linden. 'I'll go and see them in the morning. But I'm afraid I won't stand much chanc=
e,
because a lot of their regular hands are waiting for a job; but I'll go and=
see
'em all the same.'
'Well, you know, it's a big job. All the outside of that block at the co=
rner
of Kerk Street and Lord Street. Th=
ey're
almost sure to want a few extra hands.'
'Yes, there's something in that,' said
Linden. 'Anyhow, I'm much obliged =
to you
for letting me know; but come in out of the rain. You must be wet through.'
'No; I won't stay,' responded Owen. 'I don't want to stand about any longer=
than
I can help in these wet clothes.'
'But it won't take you a minit to drink a cup =
of
tea,' Linden insisted. 'I won't ask you to stop longer than that.'
Owen entered; the old man closed the door and =
led the
way into the kitchen. At one side =
of the
fire, Linden's wife, a frail-looking old lady with white hair, was seated i=
n a
large armchair, knitting. Linden sat down in a similar chair on the other s=
ide. The two grandchildren, a boy and girl a=
bout
seven and eight years, respectively, were still seated at the table.
Standing by the side of the dresser at one end=
of
the room was a treadle sewing machine, and on one end of the dresser was a a
pile of sewing: ladies' blouses in process of making. This was another instance of the goodne=
ss of
Mr Sweater, from whom Linden's daughter-in-law obtained the work. It was not much, because she was only a=
ble to
do it in her spare time, but then, as she often remarked, every little help=
ed.
The floor was covered with linoleum: there wer=
e a
number of framed pictures on the walls, and on the high mantelshelf were a
number of brightly polished tins and copper utensils. The room had that indescribably homelik=
e,
cosy air that is found only in those houses in which the inhabitants have d=
welt
for a very long time.
The younger woman was already pouring out a cu=
p of
tea.
Old Mrs Linden, who had never seen Owen before,
although she had heard of him, belonged to the Church of England and was
intensely religious. She looked curiously at the Atheist as he entered the
room. He had taken off his hat and=
she
was surprised to find that he was not repulsive to look at, rather the
contrary. But then she remembered =
that
Satan often appears as an angel of light.
Appearances are deceitful. =
She
wished that John had not asked him into the house and hoped that no evil
consequences would follow. As she =
looked
at him, she was horrified to perceive a small black head with a pair of
glistening green eyes peeping out of the breast of his coat, and immediately
afterwards the kitten, catching sight of the cups and saucers on the table,
began to mew frantically and scrambled suddenly out of its shelter, inflict=
ing
a severe scratch on Owen's restraining hands as it jumped to the floor.
It clambered up the tablecloth and began rushi=
ng
all over the table, darting madly from one plate to another, seeking someth=
ing
to eat.
The children screamed with delight. Their grandmother was filled with a fee=
ling
of superstitious alarm. Linden and=
the
young woman stood staring with astonishment at the unexpected visitor.
Before the kitten had time to do any damage, O=
wen
caught hold of it and, despite its struggles, lifted it off the table.
'I found it in the street as I was coming alon=
g,'
he said. 'It seems to be starving.=
'
'Poor little thing. I'll give it something.' exclaimed the =
young
woman.
She put some milk and bread into a saucer for =
it
and the kitten ate ravenously, almost upsetting the saucer in its eagerness,
much to the amusement of the two children, who stood by watching it admirin=
gly.
Their mother now handed Owen a cup of tea. Linden insisted on his sitting down and=
then
began to talk about Hunter.
'You know I HAD to spend some time on them doo=
rs
to make 'em look anything at all; but it wasn't the time I took, or even the
smoking what made 'im go on like that.
He knows very well the time it takes. The real reason is that he thi=
nks
I was gettin' too much money. Work=
is
done so rough nowadays that chaps like Sawkins is good enough for most of i=
t. Hunter shoved me off just because I was
getting the top money, and you'll see I won't be the only one.'
'I'm afraid you're right,' returned Owen. 'Did you see Rushton when you went for =
your
money?'
'Yes,' replied Linden. 'I hurried up as fast as I could, but H=
unter
was there first. He passed me on h=
is
bike before I got half-way, so I suppose he told his tale before I came.
'Ah!
They're a bad lot, them two,' said the old woman, shaking her head
sagely. 'But it'll all come 'ome t=
o 'em,
you'll see. They'll never prosper.=
The Lord will punish them.'
Owen did not feel very confident of that. Most of the people he knew who had pros=
pered
were very similar in character to the two worthies in question. However, he did not want to argue with =
this
poor old woman.
'When Tom was called up to go to the war,' said
the young woman, bitterly, 'Mr Rushton shook hands with him and promised to
give him a job when he came back. =
But
now that poor Tom's gone and they know that me and the children's got no on=
e to
look to but Father, they do THIS.'
Although at the mention of her dead son's name=
old
Mrs Linden was evidently distressed, she was still mindful of the Atheist's
presence, and hastened to rebuke her daughter-in-law.
'You shouldn't say we've got no one to look to,
Mary,' she said. 'We're not as them who are without God and without hope in=
the
world. The Lord is our shepherd. H=
e careth
for the widow and the fatherless.'
Owen was very doubtful about this also. He had seen so many badly cared-for chi=
ldren
about the streets lately, and what he remembered of his own sorrowful child=
hood
was all evidence to the contrary.
An awkward silence succeeded. Owen did not wish to continue this
conversation: he was afraid that he might say something that would hurt the=
old
woman. Besides, he was anxious to =
get
away; he began to feel cold in his wet clothes.
As he put his empty cup on the table he said:<= o:p>
'Well, I must be going. They'll be thinking I'm lost, at home.'=
The kitten had finished all the bread and milk=
and
was gravely washing its face with one of its forepaws, to the great admirat=
ion
of the two children, who were sitting on the floor beside it. It was an artful-looking kitten, all bl=
ack,
with a very large head and a very small body.
It reminded Owen of a tadpole.
'Do you like cats?' he asked, addressing the
children.
'Yes,' said the boy. 'Give it to us, will you, mister?'
'Oh, do leave it 'ere, mister,' exclaimed the
little girl. 'I'll look after it.'=
'So will I,' said the boy.
'But haven't you one of your own?' asked Owen.=
'Yes; we've got a big one.'
'Well, if you have one already and I give you
this, then you'd have two cats, and I'd have none. That wouldn't be fair, would it?'
'Well, you can 'ave a lend of our cat for a li= ttle while if you give us this kitten,' said the boy, after a moment's thought.<= o:p>
'Why would you rather have the kitten?'
'Because it would play: our cat don't want to
play, it's too old.'
'Perhaps you're too rough with it,' returned O=
wen.
'No, it ain't that; it's just because it's old=
.'
'You know cats is just the same as people,'
explained the little girl, wisely. 'When
they're grown up I suppose they've got their troubles to think about.'
Owen wondered how long it would be before her
troubles commenced. As he gazed at=
these
two little orphans he thought of his own child, and of the rough and thorny=
way
they would all three have to travel if they were so unfortunate as to outli=
ve
their childhood.
'Can we 'ave it, mister?' repeated the boy.
Owen would have liked to grant the children's
request, but he wanted the kitten himself.
Therefore he was relieved when their grandmother exclaimed:
'We don't want no more cats 'ere: we've got one
already; that's quite enough.'
She was not yet quite satisfied in her mind th=
at
the creature was not an incarnation of the Devil, but whether it was or not=
she
did not want it, or anything else of Owen's, in this house. She wished he would go, and take his ki=
tten
or his familiar or whatever it was, with him. No good could come of his bei=
ng
there. Was it not written in the W=
ord:
'If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema
Maran-atha.' She did not know exac=
tly
what Anathema Maran-atha meant, but there could be no doubt that it was
something very unpleasant. It was a
terrible thing that this blasphemer who--as she had heard--did not believe
there was a Hell and said that the Bible was not the Word of God, should be
here in the house sitting on one of their chairs, drinking from one of their
cups, and talking to their children.
The children stood by wistfully when Owen put =
the
kitten under his coat and rose to go away.
As Linden prepared to accompany him to the fro=
nt
door, Owen, happening to notice a timepiece standing on a small table in the
recess at one side of the fireplace, exclaimed:
'That's a very nice clock.'
'Yes, it's all right, ain't it?' said old Jack,
with a touch of pride. 'Poor Tom made that: not the clock itself, but just =
the
case.'
It was the case that had attracted Owen's
attention. It stood about two feet=
high
and was made of fretwork in the form of an Indian mosque, with a pointed do=
me
and pinnacles. It was a very beaut=
iful
thing and must have cost many hours of patient labour.
'Yes,' said the old woman, in a trembling, bro=
ken
voice, and looking at Owen with a pathetic expression. 'Months and months he worked at it, and=
no
one ever guessed who it were for. =
And
then, when my birthday came round, the very first thing I saw when I woke u=
p in
the morning were the clock standing on a chair by the bed with a card:
'To dear mother, from her loving son, Tom. Wishing her many happy
birthdays.'
'But he never had another birthday himself,
because just five months afterwards he were sent out to Africa, and he'd on=
ly
been there five weeks when he died. Five
years ago, come the fifteenth of next month.'
Owen, inwardly regretting that he had
unintentionally broached so painful a subject, tried to think of some suita=
ble
reply, but had to content himself with murmuring some words of admiration of
the work.
As he wished her good night, the old woman,
looking at him, could not help observing that he appeared very frail and il=
l:
his face was very thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright.
Possibly the Lord in His infinite loving kindn=
ess
and mercy was chastening this unhappy castaway in order that He might bring=
him
to Himself. After all, he was not =
altogether
bad: it was certainly very thoughtful of him to come all this way to let Jo=
hn
know about that job. She observed that he had no overcoat, and the storm was
still raging fiercely outside, furious gusts of wind frequently striking the
house and shaking it to its very foundations.
The natural kindliness of her character assert=
ed
itself; her better feelings were aroused, triumphing momentarily over the
bigotry of her religious opinions.
'Why, you ain't got no overcoat!' she
exclaimed. 'You'll be soaked goin'=
'ome
in this rain.' Then, turning to her
husband, she continued: 'There's that old one of yours; you might lend him
that; it would be better than nothing.'
But Owen would not hear of this: he thought, a=
s he
became very conscious of the clammy feel of his saturated clothing, that he
could not get much wetter than he already was.
Linden accompanied him as far as the front door, and Owen once more =
set
out on his way homeward through the storm that howled around like a wild be=
ast
hungry for its prey.
Owen =
and
his family occupied the top floor of a house that had once been a large pri=
vate
dwelling but which had been transformed into a series of flats. It was situated in Lord Street, almost =
in the
centre of the town.
At one time this had been a most aristocratic
locality, but most of the former residents had migrated to the newer suburb=
at
the west of the town. Notwithstand=
ing
this fact, Lord Street was still a most respectable neighbourhood, the
inhabitants generally being of a very superior type: shop-walkers, shop
assistants, barber's clerks, boarding house keepers, a coal merchant, and e=
ven
two retired jerry-builders.
There were four other flats in the house in wh=
ich
Owen lived. No. 1 (the basement) w=
as
occupied by an estate agent's clerk. No.
2--on a level with the street--was the habitat of the family of Mr Trafaim,=
a
cadaverous-looking gentleman who wore a top hat, boasted of his French desc=
ent,
and was a shop-walker at Sweater's Emporium.
No. 3 was tenanted by an insurance agent, and in No. 4 dwelt a
tallyman's traveller.
Lord Street--like most other similar
neighbourhoods--supplied a striking answer to those futile theorists who pr=
ate
of the equality of mankind, for the inhabitants instinctively formed themse=
lves
into groups, the more superior types drawing together, separating themselves
from the inferior, and rising naturally to the top, while the others gather=
ed
themselves into distinct classes, grading downwards, or else isolated
themselves altogether; being refused admission to the circles they desired =
to
enter, and in their turn refusing to associate with their inferiors.
The most exclusive set consisted of the famili=
es
of the coal merchant, the two retired jerry-builders and Mr Trafaim, whose
superiority was demonstrated by the fact that, to say nothing of his French
extraction, he wore--in addition to the top hat aforesaid--a frock coat and=
a
pair of lavender trousers every day. The
coal merchant and the jerry builders also wore top hats, lavender trousers =
and
frock coats, but only on Sundays and other special occasions. The estate agent's clerk and the insura=
nce
agent, though excluded from the higher circle, belonged to another select
coterie from which they excluded in their turn all persons of inferior rank,
such as shop assistants or barbers.
The only individual who was received with equal
cordiality by all ranks, was the tallyman's traveller. But whatever differences existed amongs=
t them
regarding each other's social standing they were unanimous on one point at
least: they were indignant at Owen's presumption in coming to live in such a
refined locality.
This low fellow, this common workman, with his
paint-bespattered clothing, his broken boots, and his generally shabby
appearance, was a disgrace to the street; and as for his wife she was not m=
uch
better, because although whenever she came out she was always neatly dresse=
d,
yet most of the neighbours knew perfectly well that she had been wearing the
same white straw hat all the time she had been there. In fact, the only tolerable one of the =
family
was the boy, and they were forced to admit that he was always very well
dressed; so well indeed as to occasion some surprise, until they found out =
that
all the boy's clothes were home-made.
Then their surprise was changed into a somewhat grudging admiration =
of
the skill displayed, mingled with contempt for the poverty which made its
exercise necessary.
The indignation of the neighbours was increased
when it became known that Owen and his wife were not Christians: then indeed
everyone agreed that the landlord ought to be ashamed of himself for letting
the top flat to such people.
But although the hearts of these disciples of =
the
meek and lowly Jewish carpenter were filled with uncharitableness, they were
powerless to do much harm. The lan=
dlord
regarded their opinion with indifference.
All he cared about was the money: although he also was a sincere
Christian, he would not have hesitated to let the top flat to Satan himself,
provided he was certain of receiving the rent regularly.
The only one upon whom the Christians were abl=
e to
inflict any suffering was the child. At
first when he used to go out into the street to play, the other children,
acting on their parents' instructions, refused to associate with him, or
taunted him with his parents' poverty.
Occasionally he came home heartbroken and in tears because he had be=
en
excluded from some game.
At first, sometimes the mothers of some of the
better-class children used to come out with a comical assumption of superio=
rity
and dignity and compel their children to leave off playing with Frankie and
some other poorly dressed children who used to play in that street. These females were usually overdressed =
and
wore a lot of jewellery. Most of t=
hem
fancied they were ladies, and if they had only had the sense to keep their
mouths shut, other people might possibly have shared the same delusion.
But this was now a rare occurrence, because the
parents of the other children found it a matter of considerable difficulty =
to
prevent their youngsters from associating with those of inferior rank, for =
when
left to themselves the children disregarded all such distinctions. Frequent=
ly
in that street was to be seen the appalling spectacle of the ten-year-old s=
on
of the refined and fashionable Trafaim dragging along a cart constructed of=
a
sugar box and an old pair of perambulator wheels with no tyres, in which
reposed the plebeian Frankie Owen, armed with a whip, and the dowdy daughte=
r of
a barber's clerk: while the nine-year-old heir of the coal merchant rushed =
up
behind...
Owen's wife and little son were waiting for hi=
m in
the living room. This room was about twelve feet square and the ceiling--wh=
ich
was low and irregularly shaped, showing in places the formation of the roof=
--had
been decorated by Owen with painted ornaments.
There were three or four chairs, and an oblong
table, covered with a clean white tablecloth, set ready for tea. In the recess at the right of fireplace=
--an
ordinary open grate--were a number of shelves filled with a miscellaneous
collection of books, most of which had been bought second-hand.
There were also a number of new books, mostly
cheap editions in paper covers.
Over the back of a chair at one side of the fi=
re,
was hanging an old suit of Owen's, and some underclothing, which his wife h=
ad
placed there to air, knowing that he would be wet through by the time he
arrived home...
The woman was half-sitting, half lying, on a c=
ouch
by the other side of the fire. She=
was
very thin, and her pale face bore the traces of much physical and mental
suffering. She was sewing, a task =
which
her reclining position rendered somewhat difficult. Although she was really only twenty-eig=
ht
years of age, she appeared older.
The boy, who was sitting on the hearthrug play= ing with some toys, bore a strong resemblance to his mother. He also, appeared very fragile and in h= is childish face was reproduced much of the delicate prettiness which she had = once possessed. His feminine appearance was increased by the fact that his yellow hair hung in long curls on his shoulders. The pride with which his mother regarded this long hair was by no me= ans shared by Frankie himself, for he was always entreating her to cut it off.<= o:p>
Presently the boy stood up and walking gravely
over to the window, looked down into the street, scanning the pavement for =
as
far as he could see: he had been doing this at intervals for the last hour.=
'I wonder wherever he's got to,' he said, as he
returned to the fire.
'I'm sure I don't know,' returned his mother.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Perhaps he's had to work overtime.'
'You know, I've been thinking lately,' observed
Frankie, after a pause, 'that it's a great mistake for Dad to go out workin=
g at
all. I believe that's the very rea=
son
why we're so poor.'
'Nearly everyone who works is more or less poo=
r,
dear, but if Dad didn't go out to work we'd be even poorer than we are
now. We should have nothing to eat=
.'
'But Dad says that the people who do nothing g=
et
lots of everything.'
'Yes, and it's quite true that most of the peo=
ple
who never do any work get lots of everything, but where do they get it
from? And how do they get it?'
'I'm sure I don't know,' replied Frankie, shak=
ing
his head in a puzzled fashion.
'Supposing Dad didn't go to work, or that he h=
ad
no work to go to, or that he was ill and not able to do any work, then we'd
have no money to buy anything. How
should we get on then?'
'I'm sure I don't know,' repeated Frankie, loo=
king
round the room in a thoughtful manner, 'The chairs that's left aren't good
enough to sell, and we can't sell the beds, or your sofa, but you might paw=
n my
velvet suit.'
'But even if all the things were good enough to
sell, the money we'd get for them wouldn't last very long, and what should =
we
do then?'
'Well, I suppose we'd have to go without, that=
's
all, the same as we did when Dad was in London.'
'But how do the people who never do any work
manage to get lots of money then?' added Frankie.
'Oh, there's lots of different ways. For instance, you remember when Dad was=
in
London, and we had no food in the house, I had to sell the easy chair.'
Frankie nodded.
'Yes,' he said, 'I remember you wrote a note and I took it to the sh=
op,
and afterwards old Didlum came up here and bought it, and then his cart came
and a man took it away.'
'And do you remember how much he gave us for i=
t?'
'Five shillings,' replied Frankie, promptly. He was well acquainted with the details=
of
the transaction, having often heard his father and mother discuss it.
'And when we saw it in his shop window a littl=
e while
afterwards, what price was marked on it?'
'Fifteen shillings.'
Well, that's one way of getting money without
working.
Frankie played with his toys in silence for so=
me
minutes. At last he said:
'What other ways?'
'Some people who have some money already get m=
ore
in this way: they find some people who have no money and say to them,
"Come and work for us." =
Then
the people who have the money pay the workers just enough wages to keep them
alive whilst they are at work. The=
n,
when the things that the working people have been making are finished, the
workers are sent away, and as they still have no money, they are soon
starving. In the meantime the peop=
le who
had the money take all the things that the workers have made and sell them =
for
a great deal more money than they gave to the workers for making them. That's another way of getting lots of m=
oney
without doing any useful work.'
'But is there no way to get rich without doing
such things as that?'
'It's not possible for anyone to become rich
without cheating other people.'
'What about our schoolmaster then? He doesn't do any work.'
'Don't you think it's useful and and also very
hard work teaching all those boys every day?
I don't think I should like to have to do it.'
'Yes, I suppose what he does is some use,' said
Frankie thoughtfully. 'And it must be rather hard too, I should think. I've noticed he looks a bit worried
sometimes, and sometimes he gets into a fine old wax when the boys don't pay
proper attention.'
The child again went over to the window, and
pulling back the edge of the blind looked down the deserted rain washed str=
eet.
'What about the vicar?' he remarked as he
returned.
Although Frankie did not go to church or Sunday
School, the day school that he had attended was that attached to the parish
church, and the vicar was in the habit of looking in occasionally.
'Ah, he really is one of those who live without
doing any necessary work, and of all the people who do nothing, the vicar is
one of the very worst.'
Frankie looked up at his mother with some
surprise, not because he entertained any very high opinion of clergymen in
general, for, having been an attentive listener to many conversations betwe=
en
his parents, he had of course assimilated their opinions as far as his infa=
nt
understanding permitted, but because at the school the scholars were taught=
to
regard the gentleman in question with the most profound reverence and respe=
ct.
'Why, Mum?' he asked.
'For this reason, dearie. You know that all the beautiful things =
which
the people who do nothing have are made by the people who work, don't you?'=
'Yes.'
'And you know that those who work have to eat =
the
very worst food, and wear the very worst clothes, and live in the very worst
homes.'
'Yes,' said Frankie.
'And sometimes they have nothing to eat at all,
and no clothes to wear except rags, and even no homes to live in.'
'Yes,' repeated the child.
'Well, the vicar goes about telling the Idlers
that it's quite right for them to do nothing, and that God meant them to ha=
ve
nearly everything that is made by those who work. In fact, he tells them that God made th=
e poor
for the use of the rich. Then he g=
oes to
the workers and tells them that God meant them to work very hard and to give
all the good things they make to those who do nothing, and that they should=
be
very thankful to God and to the idlers for being allowed to have even the v=
ery
worst food to eat and the rags, and broken boots to wear. He also tells them
that they mustn't grumble, or be discontented because they're poor in this
world, but that they must wait till they're dead, and then God will reward =
them
by letting them go to a place called Heaven.'
Frankie laughed.
'And what about the Idlers?' he asked.
'The vicar says that if they believe everythin=
g he
tells them and give him some of the money they make out of the workers, then
God will let them into heaven also.'
'Well, that's not fair doos, is it, Mum?' said
Frankie with some indignation.
'It wouldn't be if it were true, but then you =
see
it's not true, it can't be true.'
'Why can't it, Mum?'
'Oh, for many reasons: to begin with, the vicar
doesn't believe it himself: he only pretends to. For instance, he pretends to believe the
Bible, but if we read the Bible we find that Jesus said that God is our fat=
her
and that all the people in the world are His children, all brothers and
sisters. But the vicar says that
although Jesus said "brothers and sisters" He really ought to have
said "masters and servants".
Again, Jesus said that His disciples should not think of tomorrow, or
save up a lot of money for themselves, but they should be unselfish and help
those who are in need. Jesus said =
that
His disciples must not think about their own future needs at all, because G=
od
will provide for them if they only do as He commands. But the vicar says that is all nonsense=
.
'Jesus also said that if anyone tried to do His disciples harm, they must never resist, but forgive those who injured them = and pray God to forgive them also. But= the vicar says this is all nonsense too. He says that the world would never be able to go on if we did as Jesus taught. The vicar teaches that the way to deal = with those that injure us is to have them put into prison, or--if they belong to some other country--to take guns and knives and murder them, and burn their houses. So you see the vicar doesn= 't really believe or do any of the things that Jesus said: he only pretends.'<= o:p>
'But why does he pretend, and go about talking
like that, Mum? What does he do it=
for?'
'Because he wishes to live without working
himself, dear.'
'And don't the people know he's only pretendin=
g?'
'Some of them do.
Most of the idlers know that what the vicar says is not true, but th=
ey
pretend to believe it, and give him money for saying it, because they want =
him
to go on telling it to the workers so that they will go on working and keep
quiet and be afraid to think for themselves.'
'And what about the workers? Do they believe it?
'Most of them do, because when they were little
children like you, their mothers taught them to believe, without thinking,
whatever the vicar said, and that God made them for the use of the idlers.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When they went to school, they were tau=
ght
the same thing: and now that they're grown up they really believe it, and t=
hey
go to work and give nearly everything they make to the idlers, and have nex=
t to
nothing left for themselves and their children.
That's the reason why the workers' children have very bad clothes to
wear and sometimes no food to eat; and that's how it is that the idlers and
their children have more clothes than they need and more food than they can
eat. Some of them have so much foo=
d that
they are not able to eat it. They =
just
waste it or throw it away.'
'When I'm grown up into a man,' said Frankie, =
with
a flushed face, 'I'm going to be one of the workers, and when we've made a =
lot
of things, I shall stand up and tell the others what to do. If any of the idlers come to take our t=
hings
away, they'll get something they won't like.'
In a state of suppressed excitement and scarce=
ly
conscious of what he was doing, the boy began gathering up the toys and
throwing them violently one by one into the box.
'I'll teach 'em to come taking our things away=
,'
he exclaimed, relapsing momentarily into his street style of speaking.
'First of all we'll all stand quietly on one
side. Then when the idlers come in=
and
start touching our things, we'll go up to 'em and say, "'Ere, watcher
doin' of? Just you put it down, wi=
ll
yer?" And if they don't put i=
t down
at once, it'll be the worse for 'em, I can tell you.'
All the toys being collected, Frankie picked up
the box and placed it noisily in its accustomed corner of the room.
'I should think the workers will be jolly glad
when they see me coming to tell them what to do, shouldn't you, Mum?'
'I don't know dear; you see so many people have
tried to tell them, but they won't listen, they don't want to hear. They think it's quite right that they s=
hould
work very hard all their lives, and quite right that most of the things they
help to make should be taken away from them by the people who do nothing. The workers think that their children a=
re not
as good as the children of the idlers, and they teach their children that as
soon as ever they are old enough they must be satisfied to work very hard a=
nd
to have only very bad good and clothes and homes.'
'Then I should think the workers ought to be j=
olly
ashamed of themselves, Mum, don't you?'
'Well, in one sense they ought, but you must
remember that that's what they've always been taught themselves. First, their mothers and fathers told t=
hem
so; then, their schoolteachers told them so; and then, when they went to
church, the vicar and the Sunday School teacher told them the same thing. So you can't be surprised that they now
really believe that God made them and their children to make things for the=
use
of the people who do nothing.'
'But you'd think their own sense would tell
them! How can it be right for the =
people
who do nothing to have the very best and
most of everything thats made, and the very ones who make everything=
to
have hardly any. Why even I know b=
etter
than that, and I'm only six and a half years old.'
'But then you're different, dearie, you've been
taught to think about it, and Dad and I have explained it to you, often.'
'Yes, I know,' replied Frankie confidently.
'So you might, but you wouldn't if you'd been
brought up in the same way as most of the workers. They've been taught that it's very wick=
ed to
use their own judgement, or to think.
And their children are being taught so now. Do you remember what you told me the ot=
her
day, when you came home from school, about the Scripture lesson?'
'About St Thomas?'
'Yes. What
did the teacher say St Thomas was?'
'She said he was a bad example; and she said I=
was
worse than him because I asked too many foolish questions. She always gets in a wax if I talk too =
much.'
'Well, why did she call St Thomas a bad exampl=
e?'
'Because he wouldn't believe what he was told.=
'
'Exactly: well, when you told Dad about it what
did he say?'
'Dad told me that really St Thomas was the only
sensible man in the whole crowd of Apostles.
That is,' added Frankie, correcting himself, 'if there ever was such=
a
man at all.'
'But did Dad say that there never was such a m=
an?'
'No; he said HE didn't believe there ever was,=
but
he told me to just listen to what the teacher said about such things, and t=
hen
to think about it in my own mind, and wait till I'm grown up and then I can=
use
my own judgement.'
'Well, now, that's what YOU were told, but all=
the
other children's mothers and fathers tell them to believe, without thinking,
whatever the teacher says. So it w=
ill be
no wonder if those children are not able to think for themselves when they'=
re
grown up, will it?'
'Don't you think it will be any use, then, for=
me
to tell them what to do to the Idlers?' asked Frankie, dejectedly.
'Hark!' said his mother, holding up her finger=
.
'Dad!' cried Frankie, rushing to the door and
flinging it open. He ran along the
passage and opened the staircase door before Owen reached the top of the la=
st
flight of stairs.
'Why ever do you come up at such a rate,'
reproachfully exclaimed Owen's wife as he came into the room exhausted from=
the
climb upstairs and sank panting into the nearest chair.
'I al-ways-for-get,' he replied, when he had in
some degree recovered. As he lay back in the chair, his face haggard and of=
a
ghastly whiteness, and with the water dripping from his saturated clothing,
Owen presented a terrible appearance.
Frankie noticed with childish terror the extre=
me
alarm with which his mother looked at his father.
'You're always doing it,' he said with a
whimper. 'How many more times will
Mother have to tell you about it before you take any notice?'
'It's all right, old chap,' said Owen, drawing=
the
child nearer to him and kissing the curly head.
'Listen, and see if you can guess what I've got for you under my coa=
t.'
In the silence the purring of the kitten was
distinctly audible.
'A kitten!' cried the boy, taking it out of its
hiding-place. 'All black, and I be=
lieve
it's half a Persian. Just the very=
thing
I wanted.'
While Frankie amused himself playing with the
kitten, which had been provided with another saucer of bread and milk, Owen
went into the bedroom to put on the dry clothes, and then, those that he had
taken off having been placed with his boots near the fire to dry, he explai=
ned
as they were taking tea the reason of his late homecoming.
'I'm afraid he won't find it very easy to get
another job,' he remarked, referring to Linden.
'Even in the summer nobody will be inclined to take him on. He's too old.'
'It's a dreadful prospect for the two children=
,'
answered his wife.
'Yes,' replied Owen bitterly. 'It's the children who will suffer most=
. As
for Linden and his wife, although of course one can't help feeling sorry for
them, at the same time there's no getting away from the fact that they dese=
rve
to suffer. All their lives they've=
been
working like brutes and living in poverty.
Although they have done more than their fair share of the work, they
have never enjoyed anything like a fair share of the things they have helpe=
d to
produce. And yet, all their lives they have supported and defended the syst=
em
that robbed them, and have resisted and ridiculed every proposal to alter
it. It's wrong to feel sorry for s=
uch
people; they deserve to suffer.'
After tea, as he watched his wife clearing away
the tea things and rearranging the drying clothing by the fire, Owen for the
first time noticed that she looked unusually ill.
'You don't look well tonight, Nora,' he said,
crossing over to her and putting his arm around her.
'I don't feel well,' she replied, resting her =
head
wearily against his shoulder. 'I'v=
e been
very bad all day and I had to lie down nearly all the afternoon. I don't know how I should have managed =
to get
the tea ready if it had not been for Frankie.'
'I set the table for you, didn't I, Mum?' said
Frankie with pride; 'and tidied up the room as well.'
'Yes, darling, you helped me a lot,' she answe=
red,
and Frankie went over to her and kissed her hand.
'Well, you'd better go to bed at once,' said
Owen. 'I can put Frankie to bed
presently and do whatever else is necessary.'
'But there are so many things to attend to.
'I can manage all that.'
'I didn't want to give way to it like this,' t=
he
woman said, 'because I know you must be tired out yourself, but I really do
feel quite done up now.'
'Oh, I'm all right,' replied Owen, who was rea=
lly
so fatigued that he was scarcely able to stand. 'I'll go and draw the blinds down and li=
ght
the other lamp; so say good night to Frankie and come at once.'
'I won't say good night properly, now, Mum,'
remarked the boy, 'because Dad can carry me into your room before he puts me
into bed.'
A little later, as Owen was undressing Frankie,
the latter remarked as he looked affectionately at the kitten, which was
sitting on the hearthrug watching the child's every movement under the
impression that it was part of some game:
'What name do you think we ought to call it, D=
ad?'
'You may give him any name you like,' replied
Owen, absently.
'I know a dog that lives down the road,' said =
the
boy, 'his name is Major. How would=
that
do? Or we might call him Sergeant.=
'
The kitten, observing that he was the subject =
of
their conversation, purred loudly and winked as if to intimate that he did =
not
care what rank was conferred upon him so long as the commisariat department=
was
properly attended to.
'I don't know, though,' continued Frankie,
thoughtfully. 'They're all right n=
ames
for dogs, but I think they're too big for a kitten, don't you, Dad?'
'Yes, p'raps they are,' said Owen.
'Most cats are called Tom or Kitty, but I don't
want a COMMON name for him.'
'Well, can't you call him after someone you kn=
ow?'
'I know; I'll call him after a little girl that
comes to our school; a fine name, Maud!
That'll be a good one, won't it Dad?'
'Yes,' said Owen.
'I say, Dad,' said Frankie, suddenly realizing=
the
awful fact that he was being put to bed.
'You're forgetting all about my story, and you promised that you'd h=
ave
a game of trains with me tonight.'
'I hadn't forgotten, but I was hoping that you
had, because I'm very tired and it's very late, long past your usual bedtim=
e,
you know. You can take the kitten =
to bed
with you tonight and I'll tell you two stories tomorrow, because it's
Saturday.'
'All right, then,' said the boy, contentedly; =
'and
I'll get the railway station built and I'll have the lines chalked on the
floor, and the signals put up before you come home, so that there'll be no =
time
wasted. And I'll put one chair at =
one
end of the room and another chair at the other end, and tie some string acr=
oss
for telegraph wires. That'll be a very good idea, won't it, Dad?' and Owen
agreed.
'But of course I'll come to meet you just the =
same
as other Saturdays, because I'm going to buy a ha'porth of milk for the kit=
ten
out of my penny.'
After the child was in bed, Owen sat alone by =
the
table in the draughty sitting-room, thinking.
Although there was a bright fire, the room was very cold, being so c=
lose
to the roof. The wind roared loudly
round the gables, shaking the house in a way that threatened every moment to
hurl it to the ground. The lamp on=
the
table had a green glass reservoir which was half full of oil. Owen watched this with unconscious
fascination. Every time a gust of =
wind
struck the house the oil in the lamp was agitated and rippled against the g=
lass
like the waves of a miniature sea.
Staring abstractedly at the lamp, he thought of the future.
A few years ago the future had seemed a region=
of
wonderful and mysterious possibilities of good, but tonight the thought bro=
ught
no such illusions, for he knew that the story of the future was to be much =
the
same as the story of the past.
The story of the past would continue to repeat
itself for a few years longer. He =
would
continue to work and they would all three continue to do without most of the
necessaries of life. When there wa=
s no
work they would starve.
For himself he did not care much because he kn=
ew
that at the best--or worst--it would only be a very few years. Even if he were to have proper food and
clothing and be able to take reasonable care of himself, he could not live =
much
longer; but when that time came, what was to become of THEM?
There would be some hope for the boy if he were
more robust and if his character were less gentle and more selfish. Under the present system it was impossi=
ble
for anyone to succeed in life without injuring other people and treating th=
em
and making use of them as one would not like to be treated and made use of
oneself.
In order to succeed in the world it was necess=
ary
to be brutal, selfish and unfeeling: to push others aside and to take advan=
tage
of their misfortunes: to undersell and crush out one's competitors by fair
means or foul: to consider one's own interests first in every case, absolut=
ely
regardless of the wellbeing of others.
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 boo=
ts,
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 clothin=
g to
the fire. Whilst doing this he not=
iced
the newspaper, which he had forgotten, in the coat pocket. He drew it out with an exclamation of
pleasure. Here was something to di=
stract
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, fut=
ile
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 princ=
ipal
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 ot=
her
possessions. But even this resourc=
e 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 t=
he
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 infli=
cted
by the razor that was grasped in his right hand.
No particle of food was found in the house, an=
d 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 mu=
st
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 s=
end
them all to sleep, than to let them continue to suffer.
At the same time he thought it very strange th=
at
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.
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 pre=
text
for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small quantities at differe=
nt
shops until one had sufficient. Th=
en he
remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the colours h=
e frequently
had to use in his work, was one of the most deadly poisons: and there was s=
ome
other stuff that photographers used, which was very easy to procure. Of course, one would have to be very ca=
reful
about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a lot of pain. It would be necessary to find out exact=
ly 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 contai=
ned
some information about this subject. He
went over to the book-shelf and presently found the volume; it was called T=
he
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 c=
ontents. Many different subjects were mentioned =
there
and presently he found the one he sought:
Poisons: chemically, physiologically and
pathologically considered. Corr=
osive
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 ea=
sy
reach of whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied u=
pon
to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. Why, it was not even necessary to buy t=
hem:
one could gather them from the hedges by the road side and in the fields.
The more he thought of it the stranger it seem=
ed
that such a clumsy method as a razor should be so popular. Why almost any other way would be bette=
r 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 o=
ver
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 a=
go,'
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 sta=
ying
with me, and letting me hold you hand for a little while and then 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 yo=
u to
death.'
'I'm afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tig=
htly
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 huskil=
y,
as he tucked the bedclothes round the child's shoulders. 'But don't talk any more, dear; just ho=
ld 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 kit=
ten
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 diff=
iculty
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: beside=
s, I
can wear this old coat that I have on 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 t=
he
place.'
'Yes, all right,' responded Owen. 'Besides,' he added, reassuringly, 'eve=
n if I
do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you know.'
'Well, I hope the weather will be a little bet=
ter
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 t=
he
roof...
'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 h=
is
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 t=
ook
any pride in their work: they did not 'love' it. They had no conception of that lofty id=
eal 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 d=
inner
they wished it was one o'clock on Saturday.
So they went on, day after day, year after yea=
r,
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 noth=
ing
but devour or use and enjoy or waste the things that are produced by the la=
bour
of those others who are not themselves permitted to enjoy a fair share of t=
he
good things they help to create?
Crass poured several lots of colour into sever=
al
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,' Harlo=
w 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 prevent=
ed
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 'olida=
y.'
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 bette=
r go
and make a start on the second floor: this is the colour, and 'ere's a coup=
le
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 wit=
h 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 th=
at
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 w=
ith
that yet. I don't think they've de=
cided
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 starte=
d 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 e=
ight
o'clock.
'There's a bloater I want's cooked,' he said.<= o:p>
'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, b=
ut
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 tw=
o 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 scull=
ery
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, t=
he
result of the unskillful manner in which he did his work, for he had only b=
een
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 wh=
o had
worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for many yea=
rs,
with the usual result, namely, that he and his family lived in a condition =
of
perpetual poverty. Bert, who was t=
heir
only child and not very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so wh=
en
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 painte=
r,
such as she was sure he would become, was at least always able to earn a go=
od
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 ye=
ars,
but the poor woman parted with it willingly in order that the boy should be=
come
a skilled workman. So Bert was
apprenticed--bound for five years--to Rushton & Co.
For the first few months his life had been spe=
nt
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 pai=
nt-pots
brought in by the workmen from finished 'jobs' outside, and occasionally mi=
xing
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 feebl=
e 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: s=
ome
in each hand and some tied together with string and slung over his shoulder=
s.
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 tim=
e went
on, the goal of his childish ambition was reached--he was sent out to work =
with
the men! And he carried the same s=
pirit
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 intensi=
ty
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, 'Yo=
u'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 pan=
try
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 wat=
er
from the tap, got a pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he re=
sted
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 pu=
t his
jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this. He lifted t=
he
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; the=
n 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 t=
he
end of a pointed stick. Bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so t=
hat
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' l=
ike
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 fi=
re,
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; 'i=
s 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. Acc=
ordin'
to 'im, everything's wrong. One da=
y it's
religion, another it's politics, and the next it's something else.'
'Yes, it is a bit thick; too much of it,' agre=
ed
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 j=
ust
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 t=
ime
'e start yappin',' Crass continued as he drew a small piece of printed paper
from his waistcoat pocket. 'Just r=
ead
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 answe= rin' wot I said about machinery bein' the cause of it? 'e never answered me! Started talkin' about something else.'<= o:p>
'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 ther=
e.'
'Yes, I think I will.'
'What 'ouse do you usually use?' asked Crass a=
fter
a pause.
Easton laughed.
'Well, to tell you the truth I've not used anywhere's lately. Been 'avin too many 'ollerdays.'
'That do make a bit of difference, don't it?' =
said
Crass. 'But you'll be all right 'e=
re,
till this job's done. Just watch y=
erself
a bit, and don't get comin' late in the mornin's. Old Nimrod's dead nuts on that.'
'I'll see to that all right,' replied Easton.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'I don't believe in losing time when th=
ere IS
work to do. It's bad enough when y=
ou
can't get it.'
'You know,' Crass went on, confidentially. 'Between me an' you an' the gatepost, a=
s the
sayin' is, I don't think Mr bloody Owen will be 'ere much longer. Nimrod 'ates the sight of 'im.'
Easton had it in his mind to say that Nimrod
seemed to hate the sight of all of them: but he made no remark, and Crass
continued:
''E's 'eard all about the way Owen goes on abo=
ut
politics and religion, an' one thing an' another, an' about the firm scampi=
n'
the work. You know that sort of ta=
lk
don't do, does it?'
'Of course not.'
''Unter would 'ave got rid of 'im long ago, bu= t it wasn't 'im as took 'im on in the first place. It was Rushton 'imself as give 'im a sta= rt. It seems Owen took a lot of samples of 'is work an' showed 'em to the Bloke.'<= o:p>
'Is them the things wot's 'angin' up in the
shop-winder?'
'Yes!' said Crass, contemptuously. 'But 'e's no good on plain work. Of cou=
rse 'e
does a bit of grainin' an' writin'--after a fashion--when there's any to do,
and that ain't often, but on plain work, why, Sawkins is as good as 'im for
most of it, any day!'
'Yes, I suppose 'e is,' replied Easton, feeling rather ashamed of himself for the part he was taking in this conversation.<= o:p>
Although he had for the moment forgotten the
existence of Bert, Crass had instinctively lowered his voice, but the boy--=
who
had left off working to warm his hands by putting them into his trousers po=
ckets--managed,
by listening attentively, to hear every word.
'You know there's plenty of people wouldn't gi=
ve
the firm no more work if they knowed about it,' Crass continued. 'Just fancy sendin' a b--r like that to=
work
in a lady's or gentleman's 'ouse--a bloody Atheist!'
'Yes, it is a bit orf, when you look at it like
that.'
'I know my missis--for one--wouldn't 'ave a fe=
ller
like that in our place. We 'ad a l=
odger
once and she found out that 'e was a freethinker or something, and she clea=
red
'im out, bloody quick, I can tell yer!'
'Oh, by the way,' said Easton, glad of an
opportunity to change the subject, 'you don't happen to know of anyone as w=
ants
a room, do you? We've got one more than we want, so the wife thought that we
might as well let it.'
Crass thought for a moment. 'Can't say as I do,' he answered,
doubtfully. 'Slyme was talking las=
t week
about leaving the place 'e's lodging at, but I don't know whether 'e's got =
another
place to go to. You might ask him. I
don't know of anyone else.'
'I'll speak to 'im,' replied Easton. 'What's the time? it must be nearly on =
it.'
'So it is: just on eight,' exclaimed Crass, and
drawing his whistle he blew a shrill blast upon it to apprise the others of=
the
fact.
'Has anyone seen old Jack Linden since 'e got =
the
push?' inquired Harlow during breakfast.
'I seen 'im Saterdy,' said Slyme.
'Is 'e doin' anything?'
'I don't know: I didn't 'ave time to speak to
'im.'
'No, 'e ain't got nothing,' remarked Philpot.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'I seen 'im Saterdy night, an' 'e told =
me
'e's been walkin' about ever since.'
Philpot did not add that he had 'lent' Linden a
shilling, which he never expected to see again.
''E won't be able to get a job again in a 'urr=
y,'
remarked Easton. ''E's too old.'
'You know, after all, you can't blame Misery f=
or
sackin' 'im,' said Crass after a pause.
''E was too slow for a funeral.'
'I wonder how much YOU'LL be able to do when
you're as old as he is?' said Owen.
'P'raps I won't want to do nothing,' replied C=
rass
with a feeble laugh. 'I'm goin' to live on me means.'
'I should say the best thing old Jack could do
would be to go in the union,' said Harlow.
'Yes: I reckon that's what'll be the end of it=
,'
said Easton in a matter-of-fact tone.
'It's a grand finish, isn't it?' observed
Owen. 'After working hard all one'=
s life
to be treated like a criminal at the end.'
'I don't know what you call bein' treated like
criminals,' exclaimed Crass. 'I re=
ckon
they 'as a bloody fine time of it, an' we've got to find the money.'
'Oh, for God's sake don't start no more arguments,' cried Harlow, addressing Owen. 'We 'ad enough of that last week. You can't expect a boss to employ a man when 'e's too old to work.'<= o:p>
'Of course not,' said Crass.
Philpot said--nothing.
'I don't see no sense in always grumblin',' Cr=
ass
proceeded. 'These things can't be
altered. You can't expect there ca=
n be
plenty of work for everyone with all this 'ere labour-savin' machinery what=
's
been invented.'
'Of course,' said Harlow, 'the people what use=
d to
be employed on the work what's now done by machinery, has to find something
else to do. Some of 'em goes to our trade, for instance: the result is ther=
e's
too many at it, and there ain't enough work to keep 'em all goin'.'
'Yes,' cried Crass, eagerly. 'That's just what I say. Machinery is the real cause of the
poverty. That's what I said the ot=
her
day.'
'Machinery is undoubtedly the cause of
unemployment,' replied Owen, 'but it's not the cause of poverty: that's ano=
ther
matter altogether.'
The others laughed derisively.
'Well, it seems to me to amount to the same
thing,' said Harlow, and nearly everyone agreed.
'It doesn't seem to me to amount to the same
thing,' Owen replied. 'In my opinion, we are all in a state of poverty even
when we have employment--the condition we are reduced to when we're out of =
work
is more properly described as destitution.'
'Poverty,' continued Owen after a short silenc=
e,
'consists in a shortage of the necessaries of life. When those things are so scarce or so d=
ear
that people are unable to obtain sufficient of them to satisfy all their ne=
eds,
those people are in a condition of poverty. If you think that the machinery,
which makes it possible to produce all the necessaries of life in abundance=
, is
the cause of the shortage, it seems to me that there must be something the
matter with your minds.'
'Oh, of course we're all bloody fools except y=
ou,'
snarled Crass. 'When they were servin' out the sense, they give you such a =
'ell
of a lot, there wasn't none left for nobody else.'
'If there wasn't something wrong with your min=
ds,'
continued Owen, 'you would be able to see that we might have "Plenty of
Work" and yet be in a state of destitution. The miserable wretches who toil sixteen=
or
eighteen hours a day--father, mother and even the little children--making m=
atch-boxes,
or shirts or blouses, have "plenty of work", but I for one don't =
envy
them. Perhaps you think that if th=
ere
was no machinery and we all had to work thirteen or fourteen hours a day in
order to obtain a bare living, we should not be in a condition of poverty?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Talk about there being something the ma=
tter
with your minds! If there were not, you wouldn't talk one day about Tariff
Reform as a remedy for unemployment and then the next day admit that Machin=
ery
is the cause of it! Tariff Reform =
won't do
away with the machinery, will it?'
'Tariff Reform is the remedy for bad trade,'
returned Crass.
'In that case Tariff Reform is the remedy for a
disease that does not exist. If you
would only take the trouble to investigate for yourself you would find out =
that
trade was never so good as it is at present: the output--the quantity of
commodities of every kind--produced in and exported from this country is
greater than it has ever been before. The fortunes amassed in business are
larger than ever before: but at the same time--owing, as you have just
admitted--to the continued introduction and extended use of wages-saving
machinery, the number of human beings being employed is steadily
decreasing. I have here,' continued
Owen, taking out his pocket-book, 'some figures which I copied from the Dai=
ly
Mail Year Book for 1907, page 33:
'"It is a very noticeable fact that altho=
ugh
the number of factories and their value have vastly increased in the United
Kingdom, there is an absolute decrease in the number of men and women emplo=
yed
in those factories between 1895 and 1901.
This is doubtless due to the displacement of hand labour by
machinery!"
'Will Tariff Reform deal with that? Are the good, kind capitalists going to
abandon the use of wages-saving machinery if we tax all foreign-made
goods? Does what you call "Fr=
ee
Trade" help us here? Or do you
think that abolishing the House of Lords, or disestablishing the Church, wi=
ll
enable the workers who are displaced to obtain employment? Since it IS true=
--as
you admit--that machinery is the principal cause of unemployment, what are =
you
going to do about it? What's your remedy?'
No one answered, because none of them knew of =
any
remedy: and Crass began to feel sorry that he had re-introduced the subject=
at
all.
'In the near future,' continued Owen, 'it is
probable that horses will be almost entirely superseded by motor cars and
electric trams. As the services of
horses will be no longer required, all but a few of those animals will be
caused to die out: they will no longer be bred to the same extent as
formerly. We can't blame the horse=
s for
allowing themselves to be exterminated.
They have not sufficient intelligence to understand what's being
done. Therefore they will submit t=
amely
to the extinction of the greater number of their kind.
'As we have seen, a great deal of the work whi=
ch
was formerly done by human beings is now being done by machinery. This machinery belongs to a few people:=
it is
worked for the benefit of those few, just the same as were the human beings=
it
displaced. These Few have no longe=
r any
need of the services of so many human workers, so they propose to extermina=
te
them! The unnecessary human beings=
are
to be allowed to starve to death! =
And
they are also to be taught that it is wrong to marry and breed children,
because the Sacred Few do not require so many people to work for them as
before!'
'Yes, and you'll never be able to prevent it,
mate!' shouted Crass.
'Why can't we?'
'Because it can't be done!' cried Crass
fiercely. 'It's impossible!'
'You're always sayin' that everything's all
wrong,' complained Harlow, 'but why the 'ell don't you tell us 'ow they're
goin' to be put right?'
'It doesn't seem to me as if any of you really
wish to know. I believe that even =
if it
were proved that it could be done, most of you would be sorry and would do =
all
you could to prevent it.'
''E don't know 'isself,' sneered Crass. 'Accordin' to 'im, Tariff Reform ain't =
no
bloody good--Free Trade ain't no bloody good, and everybody else is wrong!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But when you arst 'im what ought to be
done--'e's flummoxed.'
Crass did not feel very satisfied with the res=
ult
of this machinery argument, but he consoled himself with the reflection tha=
t he
would be able to flatten out his opponent on another subject. The cutting from the Obscurer which he =
had in
his pocket would take a bit of answering! When you have a thing in print--in
black and white--why there it is, and you can't get away from it! If it wasn't right, a paper like that w=
ould
never have printed it. However, as=
it
was now nearly half past eight, he resolved to defer this triumph till anot=
her
occasion. It was too good a thing =
to be
disposed of in a hurry.
After
breakfast, when they were working together in the drawing-room, Easton,
desiring to do Owen a good turn, thought he would put him on his guard, and
repeated to him in a whisper the substance of the conversation he had held =
with
Crass concerning him.
'Of course, you needn't mention that I told yo=
u,
Frank,' he said, 'but I thought I ought to let you know: you can take it fr=
om
me, Crass ain't no friend of yours.'
'I've know that for a long time, mate,' replied
Owen. 'Thanks for telling me, all =
the
same.'
'The bloody rotter's no friend of mine either,=
or
anyone else's, for that matter,' Easton continued, 'but of course it doesn'=
t do
to fall out with 'im because you never know what he'd go and say to ol'
'Unter.'
'Yes, one has to remember that.'
'Of course we all know what's the matter with =
'im
as far as YOU'RE concerned,' Easton went on.
'He don't like 'avin' anyone on the firm wot knows more about the wo=
rk
than 'e does 'imself--thinks 'e might git worked out of 'is job.'
Owen laughed bitterly.
'He needn't be afraid of ME on THAT account. I wouldn't have his job if it were offe=
red to
me.'
'But 'e don't think so,' replied Easton, 'and
that's why 'e's got 'is knife into you.'
'I believe that what he said about Hunter is t=
rue
enough,' said Owen. 'Every time he comes here he tries to goad me into doin=
g or
saying something that would give him an excuse to tell me to clear out. I might have done it before now if I ha=
d not
guessed what he was after, and been on my guard.'
Meantime, Crass, in the kitchen, had resumed h=
is
seat by the fire with the purpose of finishing his pipe of tobacco. Presently he took out his pocket-book a=
nd
began to write in it with a piece of black-lead pencil. When the pipe was smoked out he knocked=
the
bowl against the grate to get rid of the ash, and placed the pipe in his
waistcoat pocket. Then, having tor=
n out
the leaf on which he had been writing, he got up and went into the pantry,
where Bert was still struggling with the old whitewash.
'Ain't yer nearly finished? I don't want yer to stop in 'ere all da=
y, yer
know.'
'I ain't got much more to do now,' said the
boy. 'Just this bit under the bott=
om
shelf and then I'm done.'
'Yes, and a bloody fine mess you've made, what=
I
can see of it!' growled Crass. 'Lo=
ok at
all this water on the floor!'
Bert looked guiltily at the floor and turned v=
ery
red.
'I'll clean it all up', he stammered. 'As soon as I've got this bit of wall d=
one,
I'll wipe all the mess up with the swab.'
Crass now took a pot of paint and some brushes
and, having put some more fuel on the fire, began in a leisurely way to pai=
nt
some of the woodwork in the kitchen.
Presently Bert came in.
'I've finished there,' he said.
'About time, too.
You'll 'ave to look a bit livelier than you do, you know, or me and =
you
will fall out.'
Bert did not answer.
'Now I've got another job for yer. You're fond of drorin, ain't yer?' cont=
inued
Crass in a jeering tone.
'Yes, a little,' replied the boy, shamefacedly=
.
'Well,' said Crass, giving him the leaf he had torn out of the pocket-book, 'you can go up to the yard and git them things= and put 'em on a truck and dror it up 'ere, and git back as soon as you can. Ju= st look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. I don't want you to make no mistakes.'<= o:p>
Bert took the paper and with some difficulty r=
ead
as follows:
'I can make it out all right.'
'You'd better bring the big truck,' said Crass,
'because I want you to take the venetian blinds with you on it when you tak=
e it
back tonight. They've got to be painted at the shop.'
'All right.'
When the boy had departed Crass took a stroll
through the house to see how the others were getting on. Then he returned to the kitchen and pro=
ceeded
with his work.
Crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rat=
her
above middle height and rather stout. He
had a considerable quantity of curly black hair and wore a short beard of t=
he
same colour. His head was rather l=
arge,
but low, and flat on top. When amo=
ng his
cronies he was in the habit of referring to his obesity as the result of go=
od
nature and a contented mind. Behin=
d his
back other people attributed it to beer, some even going to far as to nickn=
ame
him the 'tank'.
There was no work of a noisy kind being done t=
his
morning. Both the carpenters and t=
he
bricklayers having been taken away, temporarily, to another 'job'. At the same time there was not absolute
silence: occasionally Crass could hear the voices of the other workmen as t=
hey
spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. Now and then Harlow's voice rang throug=
h the
house as he sang snatches of music-hall songs or a verse of a Moody and San=
key
hymn, and occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupt=
ed
the singer with squeals and catcalls.
Once or twice Crass was on the point of telling them to make less ro=
w:
there would be a fine to do if Nimrod came and heard them. Just as he had made up his mind to tell=
them
to stop the noise, it ceased of itself and he heard loud whispers:
'Look out!
Someone's comin'.'
The house became very quiet.
Crass put out his pipe and opened the window a=
nd
the back door to get rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. Then he shifted the pair of steps noisi=
ly,
and proceeded to work more quickly than before.
Most likely it was old Misery.
He worked on for some time in silence, but no =
one
came to the kitchen: whoever it was must have gone upstairs. Crass listened attentively. Who could it
be? He would have liked to go to s=
ee
whom it was, but at the same time, if it were Nimrod, Crass wished to be
discovered at work. He therefore w=
aited
a little longer and presently he heard the sound of voices upstairs but was
unable to recognize them. He was j=
ust
about to go out into the passage to listen, when whoever it was began coming
downstairs. Crass at once resumed =
his
work. The footsteps came along the
passage leading to the kitchen: slow, heavy, ponderous footsteps, but yet t=
he
sound was not such as would be made by a man heavily shod. It was not Misery, evidently.
As the footsteps entered the kitchen, Crass lo=
oked
round and beheld a very tall, obese figure, with a large, fleshy,
coarse-featured, clean-shaven face, and a great double chin, the complexion
being of the colour and appearance of the fat of uncooked bacon. A very large fleshy nose and weak-looki=
ng
pale blue eyes, the slightly inflamed lids being almost destitute of
eye-lashes. He had large fat feet =
cased
in soft calfskin boots, with drab-coloured spats. His overcoat, heavily trimmed with seal=
skin,
reached just below the knees, and although the trousers were very wide they
were filled by the fat legs within, the shape of the calves being distinctly
perceptible. Even as the feet seem=
ed
about to burst the uppers of the boots, so the legs appeared to threaten the
trousers with disruption. This man=
was
so large that his figure completely filled up the doorway, and as he came i=
n he
stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glittering silk hat on his head. One gloved hand was thrust into the poc=
ket of
the overcoat and in the other he carried a small Gladstone bag.
When Crass beheld this being, he touched his c=
ap
respectfully.
'Good morning, sir!'
'Good morning.
They told me upstairs that I should find the foreman here. Are you the foreman?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I see you're getting on with the work here.'<= o:p>
'Ho yes sir, we're beginning to make a bit hov=
a
show now, sir,' replied Crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mo=
uth.
'Mr Rushton isn't here yet, I suppose?'
'No, sir: 'e don't horfun come hon the job hin=
the
mornin, sir; 'e generally comes hafternoons, sir, but Mr 'Unter's halmost s=
ure
to be 'ere presently, sir.'
'It's Mr Rushton I want to see: I arranged to =
meet
him here at ten o'clock; but'--looking at his watch--'I'm rather before my
time.'
'He'll be here presently, I suppose,' added Mr
Sweater. 'I'll just take a look ro=
und
till he comes.'
'Yes, sir,' responded Crass, walking behind him
obsequiously as he went out of the room.
Hoping that the gentleman might give him a
shilling, Crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what
progress had so far been made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered onl=
y by
monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation w=
as
not appreciated and returned to the kitchen.
Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newm=
an's
room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Swea=
ter
the price of a little light refreshment.
'I think,' he remarked, 'that we oughter see-i=
se
this 'ere tuneropperty to touch 'im for an allowance.'
'We won't git nothin' out of 'IM, mate,' retur=
ned
Newman. ''E's a red-'ot teetotalle=
r.'
'That don't matter. 'Ow's 'e to know that we buys beer with
it? We might 'ave tea, or ginger a=
le, or
lime-juice and glycerine for all 'e knows!'
Mr Sweater now began ponderously re-ascending =
the
stairs and presently came into the room where Philpot was. The latter greeted him with respectful
cordiality:
'Good morning, sir.'
'Good morning.
You've begun painting up here, then.'
'Yes, sir, we've made a start on it,' replied
Philpot, affably.
'Is this door wet?' asked Sweater, glancing
apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat.
'Yes, sir,' answered Philpot, and added, as he
looked meaningly at the great man, 'the paint is wet, sir, but the PAINTERS=
is
dry.'
'Confound it!' exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or=
not
hearing the latter part of Philpot's reply.
'I've got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.'
'Oh, that's nothing, sir,' cried Philpot, secr=
etly
delighted. 'I'll get that orf for =
yer in
no time. You wait just 'arf a mo!'=
He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, a=
nd
there was a can of turps in the room.
Moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint
from Sweater's sleeve.
'It's all orf now, sir,' he remarked, as he ru=
bbed
the place with a dry part of the rag.
'The smell of the turps will go away in about a hour's time.'
'Thanks,' said Sweater.
Philpot looked at him wistfully, but Sweater
evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room.
'I see they've put a new piece of skirting her=
e,'
he observed.
'Yes, sir,' said Newman, who came into the room
just then to get the turps. 'The o=
ld
piece was all to bits with dry-rot.'
'I feel as if I 'ad a touch of the dry-rot mes=
elf,
don't you?' said Philpot to Newman, who smiled feebly and cast a sidelong
glance at Sweater, who did not appear to notice the significance of the rem=
ark,
but walked out of the room and began climbing up to the next floor, where
Harlow and Sawkins were working.
'Well, there's a bleeder for yer!' said Philpot
with indignation. 'After all the trouble I took to clean 'is coat! Not a bloody stiver! Well, it takes the=
cake,
don't it?'
'I told you 'ow it would be, didn't I?' replied
Newman.
'P'raps I didn't make it plain enough,' said
Philpot, thoughtfully. 'We must try to get some of our own back somehow, you
know.'
Going out on the landing he called softly
upstairs.
'I say, Harlow.'
'Hallo,' said that individual, looking over the
banisters.
''Ow are yer getting on up there?'
'Oh, all right, you know.'
'Pretty dry job, ain't it?' Philpot continued,
raising his voice a little and winking at Harlow.
'Yes, it is, rather,' replied Harlow with a gr=
in.
'I think this would be a very good time to tak=
e up
the collection, don't you?'
'Yes, it wouldn't be a bad idear.'
'Well, I'll put me cap on the stairs,' said
Philpot, suiting the action to the word.
'You never knows yer luck. =
Things
is gettin' a bit serious on this floor, you know; my mate's fainted away on=
ce
already!'
Philpot now went back to his room to await
developments: but as Sweater made no sign, he returned to the landing and a=
gain
hailed Harlow.
'I always reckon a man can work all the better
after 'e's 'ad a drink: you can seem to get over more of it, like.'
'Oh, that's true enough,' responded Harlow.
Sweater came out of the front bedroom and pass=
ed
into one of the back rooms without any notice of either of the men.
'I'm afraid it's a frost, mate,' Harlow whispe=
red,
and Philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little whil=
e he
came out again and once more accosted Harlow.
'I knowed a case once,' he said in a melancholy
tone, 'where a chap died--of thirst--on a job just like this; and at the
inquest the doctor said as 'arf a pint would 'a saved 'im!'
'It must 'ave been a norrible death,' remarked
Harlow.
''Orrible ain't the work for it, mate,' replied
Philpot, mournfully. 'It was something chronic!'
After this final heartrending appeal to Sweate=
r's
humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their
efforts, they had done their best. They
had placed the matter fully and fairly before him: nothing more could be sa=
id:
the issue now rested entirely with him.
But it was all in vain. Sweater either did not or would not
understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the c=
ap
which Philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floo=
r.
Sweat=
er
reached the hall almost at the same moment that Rushton entered by the front
door. They greeted each other in a
friendly way and after a few remarks concerning the work that was being don=
e,
they went into the drawing-room where Owen and Easton were and Rushton said=
:
'What about this room? Have you made up your mind what you're =
going
to have done to it?'
'Yes,' replied Sweater; 'but I'll tell you abo=
ut
that afterwards. What I'm anxious about is the drains. Have you brought the plans?'
'Yes.'
'What's it going to cost?'
'Just wait a minute,' said Rushton, with a sli=
ght
gesture calling Sweater's attention to the presence of the two workmen. Sweater understood.
'You might leave that for a few minutes, will
you?' Rushton continued, addressing Owen and Easton. 'Go and get on with something else for a
little while.'
When they were alone, Rushton closed the door =
and
remarked: 'It's always as well not to let these fellows know more than is
necessary.'
Sweater agreed.
'Now this 'ere drain work is really two separa=
te
jobs,' said Rushton. 'First, the drains of the house: that is, the part of =
the
work that' actually on your ground. When
that's done, there will 'ave to be a pipe carried right along under this
private road to the main road to connect the drains of the house with the t=
own
main. You follow me?'
'Perfectly.
What's it going to cost for the lot?'
'For the drains of the house, £25.0.0. and for=
the
connecting pipe £30.0.0. £55.0.0. =
for
the lot.'
'Um! =
That
the lower you can do it for, eh?'
'That's the lowest. I've figured it out most carefully, the=
time
and materials, and that's practically all I'm charging you.'
The truth of the matter was that Rushton had h=
ad
nothing whatever to do with estimating the cost of this work: he had not the
necessary knowledge to do so. Hunt=
er had
drawn the plans, calculated the cost and prepared the estimate.
'I've been thinking over this business lately,'
said Sweater, looking at Rushton with a cunning leer. 'I don't see why I should have to pay f=
or the
connecting pipe. The Corporation o=
ught
to pay for that. What do you say?'=
Rushton laughed.
'I don't see why not,' he replied.
'I think we could arrange it all right, don't
you?' Sweater went on. 'Anyhow, the work will have to be done, so you'd bet=
ter
let 'em get on with it. £55.0.0. c=
overs
both jobs, you say?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, all right, you get on with it and we'll s=
ee
what can be done with the Corporation later on.'
'I don't suppose we'll find 'em very difficult=
to
deal with,' said Rushton with a grin, and Sweater smiled agreement.
As they were passing through the hall they met
Hunter, who had just arrived. He w=
as
rather surprised to see them, as he knew nothing of their appointment. He wished them 'Good morning' in an awk=
ward
hesitating undertone as if he were doubtful how his greeting would be
received. Sweater nodded slightly,=
but
Rushton ignored him altogether and Nimrod passed on looking and feeling lik=
e a
disreputable cur that had just been kicked.
As Sweater and Rushton walked together about t=
he
house, Hunter hovered about them at a respectable distance, hoping that
presently some notice might be taken of him.
His dismal countenance became even longer than usual when he observed
that they were about to leave the house without appearing even to know that=
he
was there. However, just as they w=
ere
going out, Rushton paused on the threshold and called him:
'Mr Hunter!'
'Yes, sir.'
Nimrod ran to him like a dog taken notice of by
his master: if he had possessed a tail, it is probable that he would have
wagged it. Rushton gave him the plans with an intimation that the work was =
to
be proceeded with.
For some time after they were gone, Hunter cra=
wled
silently about the house, in and out of the rooms, up and down the
corridors and the staircases. After a while he went into the room whe=
re
Newman was and stood quietly watching him for about ten minutes as he
worked. The man was painting the
skirting, and just then he came to a part that was split in several places,=
so
he took his knife and began to fill the cracks with putty. He was so nervous under Hunter's scruti=
ny
that his hand trembled to such an extent that it took him about twice as lo=
ng
as it should have done, and Hunter told him so with brutal directness.
'Never mind about puttying up such little crac=
ks
as them!' he shouted. 'Fill 'em up with the paint. We can't afford to pay you for messing=
about
like that!'
Newman made no reply.
Misery found no excuse for bullying anyone els=
e,
because they were all tearing into it for all they were worth. As he wandered up and down the house li=
ke an
evil spirit, he was followed by the furtively unfriendly glances of the men,
who cursed him in their hearts as he passed.
He sneaked into the drawing-room and after
standing with a malignant expression, silently watching Owen and Easton, he
came out again without having uttered a word.
Although he frequently acted in this manner, y=
et
somehow today the circumstance worried Owen considerably. He wondered uneasily what it meant, and=
began
to feel vaguely apprehensive. Hunt=
er's
silence seemed more menacing than his speech.
Bert
arrived at the shop and with as little delay as possible loaded up the hand=
cart
with all the things he had been sent for and started on the return
journey. He got on all right in the
town, because the roads were level and smooth, being paved with wood
blocks. If it had only been like t=
hat
all the way it would have been easy enough, although he was a small boy for
such a large truck, and such a heavy load.
While the wood road lasted the principal trouble he experienced was =
the
difficulty of seeing where he was going, the handcart being so high and him=
self
so short. The pair of steps on the=
cart
of course made it all the worse in that respect. However, by taking great care he manage=
d to
get through the town all right, although he narrowly escaped colliding with
several vehicles, including two or three motor cars and an electric tram,
besides nearly knocking over an old woman who was carrying a large bundle of
washing. From time to time he saw =
other
small boys of his acquaintance, some of them former schoolmates. Some of th=
ese
passed by carrying heavy loads of groceries in baskets, and others with woo=
den
trays full of joints of meat.
Unfortunately, the wood paving ceased at the v=
ery
place where the ground began to rise.
Bert now found himself at the beginning of a long stretch of macadam=
ized
road which rose slightly and persistently throughout its whole length. Bert had pushed a cart up this road many
times before and consequently knew the best method of tackling it. Experien=
ce
had taught him that a full frontal attack on this hill was liable to failur=
e,
so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of making diagonal movements,
crossing the road repeatedly from right to left and left to right, after the
fashion of a sailing ship tacking against the wind, and halting about every
twenty yards to rest and take breath.
The distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by his powers of
endurance as by the various objects by the wayside--the lamp-posts, for
instance. During each rest he used=
to
look ahead and select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next
stopping-place, and when he start again he used to make the most strenuous =
and
desperate efforts to reach it.
Generally the goal he selected was too distant,
for he usually overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to gi=
ve
in he ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and
feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure.
On the present occasion, during one of these
rests, it flashed upon him that he was being a very long time: he would hav=
e to
buck up or he would get into a row: he was not even half-way up the road ye=
t!
Selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to
reach it before resting again.
The cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece=
at
the end, forming the handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and,
placing his chest against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before
him.
It seemed to get heavier and heavier every foo=
t of
the way. His whole body, but espec=
ially
the thighs and calves of his legs, pained terribly, but still he strained a=
nd
struggled and said to himself that he would not give in until he reached the
lamp-post.
Finding that the handle hurt his chest, he low=
ered
it to his waist, but that being even more painful he raised it again to his
chest, and struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart bea=
ting
wildly.
The cart became heavier and heavier. After a while it seemed to the boy as if
there were someone at the front of it trying to push him back down the
hill. This was such a funny idea t=
hat
for a moment he felt inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as =
soon
as it came and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold =
out
long enough to reach the lamp-post, after all.
Clenching his teeth, he made a tremendous effort and staggered forwa=
rd
two or three more steps and then--the cart stopped. He struggled with it despairingly for a=
few
seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone out of him: his legs felt so
weak that he nearly collapsed on to the ground, and the cart began to move
backwards down the hill. He was ju=
st
able to stick to it and guide it so that it ran into and rested against the
kerb, and then he stood holding it in a half-dazed way, very pale, saturated
with perspiration, and trembling. =
His
legs in particular shook so much that he felt that unless he could sit down=
for
a little, he would FALL down.
He lowered the handle very carefully so as not=
to
spill the whitewash out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the
cart, then, sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wh=
eel.
A little way down the road was a church with a
clock in the tower. It was five mi=
nutes
to ten by this clock. Bert said to
himself that when it was ten he would make another start.
Whilst he was resting he thought of many things. Just behind that church wa= s a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with other boys to catch effets. If it were not for the car= t he would go across now, to see whether there were any there still. He remembered that he had been very eag= er to leave school and go to work, but they used to be fine old times after all.<= o:p>
Then he thought of the day when his mother took
him to Mr Rushton's office to 'bind' him.
He remembered that day very vividly: it was almost a year ago. How nervous he had been! His hand had trembled so that he was sc=
arcely
able to hold the pen. And even whe=
n it
was all over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. His mother had been very nervous in the
office also, and when they got home she cried a lot and called him her poor
little fatherless boy, and said she hoped he would be good and try to
learn. And then he cried as well, =
and
promised her that he would do his best.
He reflected with pride that he was keeping his promise about being a
good boy and trying to learn: in fact, he knew a great deal about the trade
already--he could paint back doors as well as anybody! and railings as
well. Owen had taught him lots of =
things
and had promised to do some patterns of graining for him so that he might
practise copying them at home in the evenings. Owen was a fine chap. Bert resolved that he would tell him wh=
at
Crass had been saying to Easton. J=
ust
fancy, the cheek of a rotter like Crass, trying to get Owen the sack! It would be more like it if Crass was t=
o be
sacked himself, so that Owen could be the foreman.
One minute to ten.
With a heavy heart Bert watched the clock. His legs were still aching very badly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He could not see the hands of the clock
moving, but they were creeping on all the same.
Now, the minute hand was over the edge of the number, and he began to
deliberate whether he might not rest for another five minutes? But he had been such a long time alread=
y on
his errand that he dismissed the thought.
The minute hand was now upright and it was time to go on.
Just as he was about to get up a harsh voice
behind him said:
'How much longer are you going to sit there?'<= o:p>
Bert started up guiltily, and found himself
confronted by Mr Rushton, who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst
close by towered the colossal figure of the obese Sweater, the expression on
his greasy countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such=
as
appalling example of juvenile depravity.
'What do you mean by sich conduct?' demanded
Rushton, indignantly. 'The idear of sitting there like that when most likely
the men are waiting for them things?'
Crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made=
no
reply.
'You've been there a long time,' continued
Rushton, 'I've been watchin' you all the time I've been comin' down the roa=
d.'
Bert tried to speak to explain why he had been
resting, but his mouth and his tongue had become quite parched from terror =
and
he was unable to articulate a single word.
'You know, that's not the way to get on in lif=
e,
my boy,' observed Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head
reproachfully.
'Get along with you at once!' Rushton said,
roughly. 'I'm surprised at yer!
This was quite true. Rushton was not merely angry, but aston=
ished
at the audacity of the boy. That a=
nyone
in his employment should dare to have the impertinence to sit down in his t=
ime
was incredible.
The boy lifted the handle of the cart and once
more began to push it up the hill. It
seemed heavier now that ever, but he managed to get on somehow. He kept glancing back after Rushton and
Sweater, who presently turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran t=
he
cart to the kerb again to have a breathe.
He couldn't have kept up much further without a spell even if they h=
ad
still been watching him, but he didn't rest for more than about half a minu=
te
this time, because he was afraid they might be peeping round the corner at =
him.
After this he gave up the lamp-post system and
halted for a minute or so at regular short intervals. In this way, he at length reached the t=
op of
the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that the journey =
was
practically over.
Just before he arrived at the gate of the hous=
e,
he saw Hunter sneak out and mount his bicycle and ride away. Bert wheeled his cart up to the front d=
oor
and began carrying in the things. =
Whilst
thus engaged he noticed Philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the
staircase, and called out to him:
'Give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash,
will yer, Joe?'
'Certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagon=
y,'
replied Philpot as he hurried down the stairs.
As they were carrying it in Philpot winked at =
Bert
and whispered:
'Did yer see Pontius Pilate anywheres outside?=
'
''E went away on 'is bike just as I come in at=
the
gate.'
'Did 'e?
Thank Gord for that! I don'=
t wish
'im no 'arm,' said Philpot, fervently, 'but I 'opes 'e gets runned over wit=
h a
motor.'
In this wish Bert entirely concurred, and simi=
lar
charitable sentiments were expressed by all the others as soon as they heard
that Misery was gone.
Just before four o'clock that afternoon Bert b=
egan
to load up the truck with the venetian blinds, which had been taken down so=
me
days previously.
'I wonder who'll have the job of paintin' 'em?'
remarked Philpot to Newman.
'P'raps's they'll take a couple of us away from
ere.'
'I shouldn't think so. We're short-'anded 'ere already. Most likely they'll put on a couple of =
fresh
'ands. There's a 'ell of a lot of =
work
in all them blinds, you know: I reckon they'll 'ave to 'ave three or four
coats, the state they're in.'
'Yes. No
doubt that's what will be done,' replied Newman, and added with a mirthless
laugh:
'I don't suppose they'll have much difficulty =
in
getting a couple of chaps.'
'No, you're right, mate. There's plenty of 'em walkin' about as a
week's work would be a Gordsend to.'
'Come to think of it,' continued Newman after a
pause, 'I believe the firm used to give all their blind work to old Latham,=
the
venetian blind maker. Prap's they'=
ll
give 'im this lot to do.'
'Very likely,' replied Philpot, 'I should thin=
k 'e
can do 'em cheaper even than us chaps, and that's all the firm cares about.=
'
How far their conjectures were fulfilled will
appear later.
Shortly after Bert was gone it became so dark =
that
it was necessary to light the candles, and Philpot remarked that although he
hated working under such conditions, yet he was always glad when lighting up
time came, because then knocking off time was not very far behind.
About five minutes to five, just as they were =
all
putting their things away for the night, Nimrod suddenly appeared in the
house. He had come hoping to find =
some
of them ready dressed to go home before the proper time. Having failed in this laudable enterpri=
se, he
stood silently by himself for some seconds in the drawing-room. This was a spacious and lofty apartment=
with
a large semicircular bay window. Round the ceiling was a deep cornice. In the semi-darkness the room appeared =
to be
of even greater proportions than it really was.
After standing thinking in this room for a little while, Hunter turn=
ed
and strode out to the kitchen, where the men were preparing to go home. Owen
was taking off his blouse and apron as the other entered. Hunter addressed him with a malevolent =
snarl:
'You can call at the office tonight as you go
home.'
Owen's heart seemed to stop beating. All the petty annoyances he had endured=
from
Hunter rushed into his memory, together with what Easton had told him that
morning. He stood, still and speec=
hless,
holding his apron in his hand and staring at the manager.
'What for?' he ejaculated at length. 'What's the matter?'
'You'll find out what you're wanted for when y=
ou
get there,' returned Hunter as he went out of the room and away from the ho=
use.
When he was gone a dead silence prevailed. The hands ceased their preparations for
departure and looked at each other and at Owen in astonishment. To stand a man off like that--when the =
job
was not half finished--and for no apparent reason: and of a Monday, too.
'If it comes to that,' Harlow shouted, 'they've
got no bloody right to do it! We're
entitled to an hour's notice.'
'Of course we are!' cried Philpot, his goggle =
eyes
rolling wildly with wrath. 'And I =
should
'ave it too, if it was me. You tak=
e my
tip, Frank: CHARGE UP TO SIX O'CLOCK on yer time sheet and get some of your=
own
back.'
Everyone joined in the outburst of indignant
protest. Everyone, that is, except=
Crass
and Slyme. But then they were not =
exactly
in the kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, an=
d so
it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged significant loo=
ks.
Owen had by this time recovered his
self-possession. He collected all =
his
tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag with the pur=
pose
of taking them with him that night, but on reflection he resolved not to do
so. After all, it was not absolute=
ly
certain that he was going to be 'stood off': possibly they were going to se=
nd
him on some other job.
They kept all together--some walking on the
pavement and some in the road--until they got down town, and then
separated. Crass, Sawkins, Bundy a=
nd
Philpot adjourned to the 'Cricketers' for a drink, Newman went on by himsel=
f,
Slyme accompanied Easton who had arranged with him to come that night to see
the bedroom, and Owen went in the direction of the office.
Rusht=
on
& Co.'s premises were situated in one of the principal streets of
Mugsborough and consisted of a double-fronted shop with plate glass
windows. The shop extended right t=
hrough
to the narrow back street which ran behind it.
The front part of the shop was stocked with wall-hangings, mouldings,
stands showing patterns of embossed wall and ceiling decorations, cases of
brushes, tins of varnish and enamel, and similar things.
The office was at the rear and was separated f=
rom
the rest of the shop by a partition, glazed with muranese obscured glass. This office had two doors, one in the
partition, giving access to the front shop, and the other by the side of the
window and opening on to the back street. The glass of the lower sash of the
back window consisted of one large pane on which was painted 'Rushton &
Co.' in black letters on a white ground.
Owen stood outside this window for two or three
seconds before knocking. There was=
a
bright light in the office. Then he
knocked at the door, which was at once opened from the inside by Hunter, and
Owen went in.
Rushton was seated in an armchair at his desk,
smoking a cigar and reading one of several letters that were lying before
him. At the back was a large unfra=
med
photograph of the size known as half-plate of the interior of some building=
. At another desk, or rather table, at the
other side of the office, a young woman was sitting writing in a large
ledger. There was a typewriting ma=
chine
on the table at her side.
Rushton glanced up carelessly as Owen came in,=
but
took no further notice of him.
'Just wait a minute,' Hunter said to Owen, and=
then,
after conversing in a low tone with Rushton for a few minutes, the foreman =
put
on his hat and went out of the office through the partition door which led =
into
the front shop.
Owen stood waiting for Rushton to speak. He wondered why Hunter had sneaked off =
and
felt inclined to open the door and call him back. One thing he was determined about: he m=
eant
to have some explanation: he would not submit tamely to be dismissed without
any just reason.
When he had finished reading the letter, Rusht=
on
looked up, and, leaning comfortably back in his chair, he blew a cloud of s=
moke
from his cigar, and said in an affable, indulgent tone, such as one might u=
se
to a child:
'You're a bit of a hartist, ain't yer?'
Owen was so surprised at this reception that he
was for the moment unable to reply.
'You know what I mean,' continued Rushton;
'decorating work, something like them samples of yours what's hanging up
there.'
He noticed the embarrassment of Owen's manner,=
and
was gratified. He thought the man =
was
confused at being spoken to by such a superior person as himself.
Mr Rushton was about thirty-five years of age,
with light grey eyes, fair hair and moustache, and his complexion was a whi=
tey
drab. He was tall--about five feet=
ten
inches--and rather clumsily built; not corpulent, but fat--in good
condition. He appeared to be very =
well
fed and well cared for generally. =
His
clothes were well made, of good quality and fitted him perfectly. He was dressed in a grey Norfolk suit, =
dark
brown boots and knitted woollen stockings reaching to the knee.
He was a man who took himself very seriously.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was an air of pomposity and arrog=
ant
importance about him which--considering who and what he was--would have been
entertaining to any observer gifted with a sense of humour.
'Yes,' replied Owen at last. 'I can do a little of that sort of work,
although of course I don't profess to be able to do it as well or as quickl=
y as
a man who does nothing else.'
'Oh, no, of course not, but I think you could
manage this all right. It's that drawing-room at the 'Cave'. Mr Sweater's been speaking to me about
it. It seems that when he was over=
in
Paris some time since he saw a room that took his fancy. The walls and ceiling was not papered, =
but
painted: you know what I mean; sort of panelled out, and decorated with
stencils and hand painting. This '=
ere's
a photer of it: it's done in a sort of JAPANESE fashion.'
He handed the photograph to Owen as he spoke.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It represented a room, the walls and ce=
iling
of which were decorated in a Moorish style.
'At first Mr Sweater thought of getting a firm
from London to do it, but 'e gave up the idear on account of the expense; b=
ut
if you can do it so that it doesn't cost too much, I think I can persuade '=
im
to go in for it. But if it's goin'=
to
cost a lot it won't come off at all. 'E'll just 'ave a frieze put up and 'a=
ve
the room papered in the ordinary way.'
This was not true: Rushton said it in case Owen
might want to be paid extra wages while doing the work. The truth was that Sweater was going to=
have
the room decorated in any case, and intended to get a London firm to do
it. He had consented rather unwill=
ingly
to let Rushton & Co. submit him an estimate, because he thought they wo=
uld
not be able to do the work satisfactorily.
Owen examined the photograph closely.
'Could you do anything like that in that room?=
'
'Yes, I think so,' replied Owen.
'Well, you know, I don't want you to start on =
the
job and not be able to finish it. =
Can
you do it or not?'
Rushton felt sure that Owen could do it, and w=
as
very desirous that he should undertake it, but he did not want him to know
that. He wished to convey the impr=
ession
that he was almost indifferent whether Owen did the work or not. In fact, he wished to seem to be confer=
ring a
favour upon him by procuring him such a nice job as this.
'I'll tell you what I CAN do,' Owen replied. 'I can make you a watercolour sketch--a
design--and if you think it good enough, of course, I can reproduce it on t=
he
ceiling and the walls, and I can let you know, within a little, how long it
will take.'
Rushton appeared to reflect. Owen stood examining the photograph and=
began
to feel an intense desire to do the work.
Rushton shook his head dubiously.
'If I let you spend a lot of time over the
sketches and then Mr Sweater does not approve of your design, where do I co=
me
in?'
'Well, suppose we put it like this: I'll draw =
the
design at home in the evenings--in my own time.
If it's accepted, I'll charge you for the time I've spent upon it. If it's not suitable, I won't charge th=
e time
at all.'
Rushton brightened up considerably. 'All right.
You can do so,' he said with an affectation of good nature, 'but you
mustn't pile it on too thick, in any case, you know, because, as I said bef=
ore,
'e don't want to spend too much money on it.
In fact, if it's going to cost a great deal 'e simply won't 'ave it =
done
at all.'
Rushton knew Owen well enough to be sure that =
no
consideration of time or pains would prevent him from putting the very best
that was in him into this work. He=
knew
that if the man did the room at all there was no likelihood of his scamping=
it
for the sake of getting it done quickly; and for that matter Rushton did not
wish him to hurry over it. All that he wanted to do was to impress upon Owen
from the very first that he must not charge too much time. Any profit that it was possible to make=
out
of the work, Rushton meant to secure for himself. He was a smart man, this
Rushton, he possessed the ideal character: the kind of character that is
necessary for any man who wishes to succeed in business--to get on in
life. In other words, his disposit=
ion
was very similar to that of a pig--he was intensely selfish.
No one had any right to condemn him for this,
because all who live under the present system practise selfishness, more or
less. We must be selfish: the Syst=
em
demands it. We must be selfish or =
we
shall be hungry and ragged and finally die in the gutter. The more selfish we are the better off =
we
shall be. In the 'Battle of Life' =
only
the selfish and cunning are able to survive: all others are beaten down and
trampled under foot. No one can ju=
stly
be blamed for acting selfishly--it is a matter of self-preservation--we must
either injure or be injured. It is=
the
system that deserves to be blamed. What those who wish to perpetuate the sy=
stem
deserve is another question.
'When do you think you'll have the drawings
ready?' inquired Rushton. 'Can you get them done tonight?'
'I'm afraid not,' replied Owen, feeling inclin=
ed
to laugh at the absurdity of the question.
'It will need a little thinking about.'
'When can you have them ready then? This is Monday. Wednesday morning?'
Owen hesitated.
'We don't want to keep 'im waiting too long, y=
ou
know, or 'e may give up the idear altogether.'
'Well, say Friday morning, then,' said Owen,
resolving that he would stay up all night if necessary to get it done.
Rushton shook his head.
'Can't you get it done before that? I'm afraid that if we keeps 'im waiting=
all
that time we may lose the job altogether.'
'I can't get them done any quicker in my spare
time,' returned Owen, flushing. 'I=
f you
like to let me stay home tomorrow and charge the time the same as if I had =
gone
to work at the house, I could go to my ordinary work on Wednesday and let y=
ou
have the drawings on Thursday morning.'
'Oh, all right,' said Rushton as he returned to
the perusal of his letters.
That night, long after his wife and Frankie we=
re
asleep, Owen worked in the sitting-room, searching through old numbers of t=
he
Decorators' Journal and through the illustrations in other books of designs=
for
examples of Moorish work, and making rough sketches in pencil.
He did not attempt to finish anything yet: it =
was
necessary to think first; but he roughed out the general plan, and when at =
last
he did go to bed he could not sleep for a long time. He almost fancied he was in the drawing=
-room
at the 'Cave'. First of all it wou=
ld be
necessary to take down the ugly plaster centre flower with its crevices all
filled up with old whitewash. The =
cornice
was all right; it was fortunately a very simple one, with a deep cove and
without many enrichments. Then, wh=
en the
walls and the ceiling had been properly prepared, the ornamentation would be
proceeded with. The walls, divided=
into
panels and arches containing painted designs and lattice-work; the panels of
the door decorated in a similar manner. The mouldings of the door and window
frames picked out with colours and gold so as to be in character with the o=
ther
work; the cove of the cornice, a dull yellow with a bold ornament in
colour--gold was not advisable in the hollow because of the unequal
distribution of the light, but some of the smaller mouldings of the cornice
should be gold. On the ceiling the=
re
would be one large panel covered with an appropriate design in gold and col=
ours
and surrounded by a wide margin or border.
To separate this margin from the centre panel there would be a narrow
border, and another border--but wider--round the outer edge of the margin,
where the ceiling met the cornice. Both
these borders and the margin would be covered with ornamentation in colour =
and
gold. Great care would be necessar=
y when
deciding what parts were to be gilded because--whilst large masses of gildi=
ng
are apt to look garish and in bad taste--a lot of fine gold lines are
ineffective, especially on a flat surface, where they do not always catch t=
he
light. Process by process he trace=
d the
work, and saw it advancing stage by stage until, finally, the large apartme=
nt
was transformed and glorified. And=
then
in the midst of the pleasure he experienced in the planning of the work the=
re
came the fear that perhaps they would not have it done at all.
The question, what personal advantage would he
gain never once occurred to Owen. =
He
simply wanted to do the work; and he was so fully occupied with thinking and
planning how it was to be done that the question of profit was crowded out.=
But although this question of what profit coul=
d be
made out of the work never occurred to Owen, it would in due course by full=
y considered
by Mr Rushton. In fact, it was the=
only
thing about the work that Mr Rushton would think of at all: how much money
could be made out of it. This is what is meant by the oft-quoted saying, 'T=
he
men work with their hands--the master works with his brains.'
It wi=
ll be
remembered that when the men separated, Owen going to the office to see
Rushton, and the others on their several ways, Easton and Slyme went togeth=
er.
During the day Easton had found an opportunity=
of
speaking to him about the bedroom. Slyme
was about to leave the place where he was at present lodging, and he told
Easton that although he had almost decided on another place he would take a
look at the room. At Easton's sugg=
estion
they arranged that Slyme was to accompany him home that night. As the former remarked, Slyme could com=
e to
see the place, and if he didn't like it as well as the other he was thinkin=
g of
taking, there was no harm done.
Ruth had contrived to furnish the room. Some of the things she had obtained on =
credit
from a second-hand furniture dealer.
Exactly how she had managed, Easton did not know, but it was done.
'This is the house,' said Easton. As they passed through, the gate creaked
loudly on its hinges and then closed of itself rather noisily.
Ruth had just been putting the child to sleep =
and
she stood up as they came in, hastily fastening the bodice of her dress as =
she
did so.
'I've brought a gentleman to see you,' said
Easton.
Although she knew that he was looking out for
someone for the room, Ruth had not expected him to bring anyone home in this
sudden manner, and she could not help wishing that he had told her beforeha=
nd
of his intention. It being Monday,=
she
had been very busy all day and she was conscious that she was rather untidy=
in
her appearance. Her long brown hai=
r was
twisted loosely into a coil behind her head.
She blushed in an embarrassed way as the young man stared at her.
Easton introduced Slyme by name and they shook
hands; and then at Ruth's suggestion Easton took a light to show him the ro=
om,
and while they were gone Ruth hurriedly tidied her hair and dress.
When they came down again Slyme said he thought
the room would suit him very well. What
were the terms?
Did he wish to take the room only--just to lod=
ge?
inquired Ruth, or would he prefer to board as well?
Slyme intimated that he desired the latter
arrangement.
In that case she thought twelve shillings a we=
ek
would be fair. She believed that w=
as
about the usual amount. Of course =
that would
include washing, and if his clothes needed a little mending she would do it=
for
him.
Slyme expressed himself satisfied with these
terms, which were as Ruth had said--about the usual ones. He would take the room, but he was not
leaving his present lodgings until Saturday.
It was therefore agreed that he was to bring his box on Saturday
evening.
When he had gone, Easton and Ruth stood lookin=
g at
each other in silence. Ever since =
this
plan of letting the room first occurred to them they had been very anxious =
to
accomplish it; and yet, now that it was done, they felt dissatisfied and
unhappy, as if they had suddenly experienced some irreparable misfortune. In that moment they remembered nothing =
of the
darker side of their life together. The
hard times and the privations were far off and seemed insignificant beside =
the
fact that this stranger was for the future to share their home. To Ruth especially it seemed that the
happiness of the past twelve months had suddenly come to an end. She shrank with involuntary aversion and
apprehension from the picture that rose before her of the future in which t=
his
intruder appeared the most prominent figure, dominating everything and
interfering with every detail of their home life. Of course they had known all this befor=
e, but
somehow it had never seemed so objectionable as it did now, and as Easton
thought of it he was filled an unreasonable resentment against Slyme, as if=
the
latter had forced himself upon them against their will.
'Damn him!' he thought. 'I wish I'd never brought him here at a=
ll!'
Ruth did not appear to him to be very happy ab=
out
it either.
'Well?' he said at last. 'What do you think of him?'
'Oh, he'll be all right, I suppose.'
'For my part, I wish he wasn't coming,' Easton
continued.
'That's just what I was thinking,' replied Ruth
dejectedly. 'I don't like him at
all. I seemed to turn against him
directly he came in the door.'
'I've a good mind to back out of it, somehow,
tomorrow,' exclaimed Easton after another silence. 'I could tell him we've unexpectedly go=
t some
friends coming to stay with us.'
'Yes,' said Ruth eagerly. 'It would be easy enough to make some e=
xcuse
or other.'
As this way of escape presented itself she fel=
t as
if a weight had been lifted from her mind, but almost in the same instant s=
he
remembered the reasons which had at first led them to think of letting the
room, and she added, disconsolately:
'It's foolish for us to go on like this,
dear. We must let the room and it =
might
just as well be him as anyone else. We
must make the best of it, that's all.'
Easton stood with his back to the fire, staring
gloomily at her.
'Yes, I suppose that's the right way to look at
it,' he replied at length. 'If we =
can't
stand it, we'll give up the house and take a couple of rooms, or a small
flat--if we can get one.'
Ruth agreed, although neither alternative was =
very
inviting. The unwelcome alteration=
in
their circumstances was after all not altogether without its compensations,
because from the moment of arriving at this decision their love for each ot=
her
seemed to be renewed and intensified.
They remembered with acute regret that hitherto they had not always
fully appreciated the happiness of that exclusive companionship of which th=
ere
now remained to them but one week more.
For once the present was esteemed at its proper value, being invested
with some of the glamour which almost always envelops the past.
On
Tuesday--the day after his interview with Rushton--Owen remained at home
working at the drawings. He did no=
t get
them finished, but they were so far advanced that he thought he would be ab=
le
to complete them after tea on Wednesday evening. He did not go to work until after break=
fast
on Wednesday and his continued absence served to confirm the opinion of the
other workmen that he had been discharged. This belief was further strength=
ened
by the fact that a new hand had been sent to the house by Hunter, who came
himself also at about a quarter past seven and very nearly caught Philpot in
the act of smoking.
During breakfast, Philpot, addressing Crass and
referring to Hunter, inquired anxiously:
''Ow's 'is temper this mornin', Bob?'
'As mild as milk,' replied Crass. 'You'd think butter wouldn't melt in 'is
mouth.'
'Seemed quite pleased with 'isself, didn't 'e?'
said Harlow.
'Yes,' remarked Newman. ''E said good morning to me!'
'So 'e did to me!' said Easton. ''E come inter the drorin'-room an' 'e =
ses,
"Oh, you're in 'ere are yer, Easton," 'e ses--just like that, qui=
te
affable like. So I ses, "Yes,
sir." "Well," 'e se=
s,
"get it slobbered over as quick as you can," 'e ses, "'cos we
ain't got much for this job: don't spend a lot of time puttying up. Just smear it over an' let it go!"=
'
''E certinly seemed very pleased about somethi=
ng,'
said Harlow. 'I thought prap's the=
re was
a undertaking job in: one o' them generally puts 'im in a good humour.'
'I believe that nothing would please 'im so mu=
ch
as to see a epidemic break out,' remarked Philpot. 'Small-pox, Hinfluenza, Cholery morbus,=
or
anything like that.'
'Yes: don't you remember 'ow good-tempered 'e =
was
last summer when there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?' observed Har=
low.
'Yes,' said Crass with a chuckle. 'I recollect we 'ad six children's fune=
rals
to do in one week. Ole Misery was =
as
pleased as Punch, because of course as a rule there ain't many boxin'-up jo=
bs
in the summer. It's in winter as
hundertakers reaps their 'arvest.'
'We ain't 'ad very many this winter, though, so
far,' said Harlow.
'Not so many as usual,' admitted Crass, 'but
still, we can't grumble: we've 'ad one nearly every week since the beginnin=
g of
October. That's not so bad, you know.'
Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking
department of Rushton & Co.'s business.
He always had the job of polishing or varnishing the coffin and
assisting to take it home and to 'lift in' the corpse, besides acting as on=
e of
the bearers at the funeral. This w=
ork
was more highly paid for than painting.
'But I don't think there's no funeral job in,'
added Crass after a pause. 'I thin=
k it's
because 'e's glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh ask me.'
'Praps that 'as got something to do with it,' =
said
Harlow. 'But all the same I don't =
call
that a proper way to treat anyone--givin' a man the push in that way just
because 'e 'appened to 'ave a spite against 'im.'
'It's wot I call a bl--dy shame!' cried
Philpot. 'Owen's a chap wots always
ready to do a good turn to anybody, and 'e knows 'is work, although 'e is a=
bit
of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when 'e gets on about Socialism.'
'I suppose Misery didn't say nothin' about 'im
this mornin'?' inquired Easton.
'No,' replied Crass, and added: 'I only 'ope O=
wen
don't think as I never said anything against 'im. 'E looked at me very funny that night a=
fter
Nimrod went away. Owen needn't thi=
nk
nothing like that about ME, because I'm a chap like this--if I couldn't do
nobody no good, I wouldn't never do 'em no 'arm!'
At this some of the others furtively exchanged
significant glances, and Harlow began to smile, but no one said anything.
Philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not he=
lped
himself to any tea, called Bert's attention to the fact and the boy filled
Owen's cup and passed it over to the new hand.
Their conjectures regarding the cause of Hunte=
r's
good humour were all wrong. As the
reader knows, Owen had not been discharged at all, and there was nobody
dead. The real reason was that, ha=
ving
decided to take on another man, Hunter had experienced no difficulty in get=
ting
one at the same reduced rate as that which Newman was working for, there be=
ing
such numbers of men out of employment.
Hitherto the usual rate of pay in Mugsborough had been sevenpence an
hour for skilled painters. The rea=
der
will remember that Newman consented to accept a job at sixpence halfpenny.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So far none of the other workmen knew t=
hat
Newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure whethe=
r he
was the only one or not. The man w=
hom
Hunter had taken on that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep
his own counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out w=
hat
the others were getting.
Just before half past eight Owen arrived and w=
as
immediately assailed with questions as to what had transpired at the
office. Crass listened with
ill-concealed chagrin to Owen's account, but most of the others were genuin=
ely
pleased.
'But what a way to speak to anybody!' observed
Harlow, referring to Hunter's manner on the previous Monday night.
'You know, I reckon if ole Misery 'ad four leg=
s,
'e'd make a very good pig,' said Philpot, solemnly, 'and you can't expect
nothin' from a pig but a grunt.'
During the morning, as Easton and Owen were
working together in the drawing-room, the former remarked:
'Did I tell you I had a room I wanted to let,
Frank?'
'Yes, I think you did.'
'Well, I've let it to Slyme. I think he seems a very decent sort of =
chap,
don't you?'
'Yes, I suppose he is,' replied Owen,
hesitatingly. 'I know nothing agai=
nst
him.'
'Of course, we'd rather 'ave the 'ouse to ours=
elves
if we could afford it, but work is so scarce lately. I've been figuring out exactly what my =
money
has averaged for the last twelve months and how much a week do you think it
comes to?'
'God only knows,' said Owen. 'How much?'
'About eighteen bob.'
'So you see we had to do something,' continued
Easton; 'and I reckon we're lucky to get a respectable sort of chap like Sl=
yme,
religious and teetotal and all that, you know.
Don't you think so?'
'Yes, I suppose you are,' said Owen, who, alth=
ough
he intensely disliked Slyme, knew nothing definite against him.
They worked in silence for some time, and then
Owen said:
'At the present time there are thousands of pe=
ople
so badly off that, compared with them, WE are RICH. Their sufferings are so great that comp=
ared
with them, we may be said to be living in luxury. You know that, don't you?'
'Yes, that's true enough, mate. We really ought to be very thankful: we=
ought
to consider ourselves lucky to 'ave a inside job like this when there's suc=
h a
lot of chaps walkin' about doin' nothing.'
'Yes,' said Owen: 'we're lucky! Although we're in a condition of abject,
miserable poverty we must consider ourselves lucky that we're not actually
starving.'
Owen was painting the door; Easton was doing t=
he
skirting. This work caused no nois=
e, so
they were able to converse without difficulty.
'Do you think it's right for us to tamely make=
up
our minds to live for the rest of our lives under such conditions as that?'=
'No; certainly not,' replied Easton; 'but thin=
gs are
sure to get better presently. Trade
hasn't always been as bad as it is now.
Why, you can remember as well as I can a few years ago there was so =
much
work that we was putting in fourteen and sixteen hours a day. I used to be so done up by the end of t=
he
week that I used to stay in bed nearly all day on Sunday.'
'But don't you think it's worth while trying to
find out whether it's possible to so arrange things that we may be able to =
live
like civilized human beings without being alternately worked to death or
starved?'
'I don't see how we're goin' to alter things,'
answered Easton. 'At the present t=
ime,
from what I hear, work is scarce everywhere.
WE can't MAKE work, can we?'
'Do you think, then, that the affairs of the w=
orld
are something like the wind or the weather--altogether beyond our control?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And that if they're bad we can do nothi=
ng but
just sit down and wait for them to get better?'
'Well, I don't see 'ow we can odds it. If the people wot's got the money won't=
spend
it, the likes of me and you can't make 'em, can we?'
Owen looked curiously at Easton.
'I suppose you're about twenty-six now,' he
said. 'That means that you have ab=
out
another thirty years to live. Of c=
ourse,
if you had proper food and clothes and hadn't to work more than a reasonable
number of hours every day, there is no natural reason why you should not li=
ve
for another fifty or sixty years: but we'll say thirty. Do you mean to say that you are able to
contemplate with indifference the prospect of living for another thirty yea=
rs
under such conditions as those we endure at present?'
Easton made no reply.
'If you were to commit some serious breach of =
the
law, and were sentenced next week to ten years' penal servitude, you'd prob=
ably
think your fate a very pitiable one: yet you appear to submit quite cheerfu=
lly
to this other sentence, which is--that you shall die a premature death after
you have done another thirty years' hard labour.'
Easton continued painting the skirting.
'When there's no work,' Owen went on, taking a=
nother
dip of paint as he spoke and starting on one of the lower panels of the doo=
r,
'when there's no work, you will either starve or get into debt. When--as at present--there is a little =
work,
you will live in a state of semi-starvation.
When times are what you call "good", you will work for twe=
lve
or fourteen hours a day and--if you're VERY lucky--occasionally all night.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The extra money you then earn will go t=
o pay
your debts so that you may be able to get credit again when there's no work=
.'
Easton put some putty in a crack in the skirti=
ng.
'In consequence of living in this manner, you =
will
die at least twenty years sooner than is natural, or, should you have an
unusually strong constitution and live after you cease to be able to work, =
you
will be put into a kind of jail and treated like a criminal for the remaind=
er
of your life.'
Having faced up the cracks, Easton resumed the
painting of the skirting.
'If it were proposed to make a law that all
working men and women were to be put to death--smothered, or hung, or poiso=
ned,
or put into a lethal chamber--as soon as they reached the age of fifty year=
s,
there is not the slightest doubt that you would join in the uproar of prote=
st
that would ensue. Yet you submit t=
amely
to have your life shortened by slow starvation, overwork, lack of proper bo=
ots
and clothing, and though having often to turn out and go to work when you a=
re
so ill that you ought to be in bed receiving medical care.'
Easton made no reply: he knew that all this was
true, but he was not without a large share of the false pride which prompts=
us
to hide our poverty and to pretend that we are much better off than we real=
ly
are. He was at that moment wearing the pair of second-hand boots that Ruth =
had
bought for him, but he had told Harlow--who had passed some remark about
them--that he had had them for years, wearing them only for best. He felt v=
ery
resentful as he listened to the other's talk, and Owen perceived it, but
nevertheless he continued:
'Unless the present system is altered, that is=
all
we have to look forward to; and yet you're one of the upholders of the pres=
ent
system--you help to perpetuate it!'
''Ow do I help to perpetuate it?' demanded Eas=
ton.
'By not trying to find out how to end it--by n=
ot
helping those who are trying to bring a better state of things into
existence. Even if you are indiffe=
rent
to your own fate--as you seem to be--you have no right to be indifferent to
that of the child for whose existence in this world you are responsible.
As Owen opened the door to paint its edge, Bert
came along the passage.
'Look out!' he cried, 'Misery's comin' up the
road. 'E'll be 'ere in a minit.'
It was not often that Easton was glad to hear =
of
the approach of Nimrod, but on this occasion he heard Bert's message with a
sigh of relief.
'I say,' added the boy in a whisper to Owen, '=
if
it comes orf--I mean if you gets the job to do this room--will you ask to '=
ave
me along of you?'
'Yes, all right, sonny,' replied Owen, and Bert
went off to warn the others.
'Unaware that he had been observed, Nimrod sne=
aked
stealthily into the house and began softly crawling about from room to room,
peeping around corners and squinting through the cracks of doors, and looki=
ng
through keyholes. He was almost pl=
eased
to see that everybody was very hard at work, but on going into Newman's room
Misery was not satisfied with the progress made since his last visit. The fact was that Newman had been forge=
tting
himself again this morning. He had=
been
taking a little pains with the work, doing it something like properly, inst=
ead
of scamping and rushing it in the usual way.
The result was that he had not done enough.
'You know, Newman, this kind of thing won't do=
!'
Nimrod howled. 'You must get over =
a bit
more than this or you won't suit me! If
you can't move yourself a bit quicker I shall 'ave to get someone else. You've been in this room since seven o'=
clock
this morning and it's dam near time you was out of it!' Newman muttered something about being nearly
finished now, and Hunter ascended to the next landing--the attics, where the
cheap man--Sawkins, the labourer--was at work.
Harlow had been taken away from the attics to go on with some of the
better work, so Sawkins was now working alone.
He had been slogging into it like a Trojan and had done quite a lot.=
He had painted not only the sashes of t=
he
window, but also a large part of the glass, and when doing the skirting he =
had
included part of the floor, sometimes an inch, sometimes half an inch. The paint was of a dark drab colour and the
surface of the newly painted doors bore a strong resemblance to corduroy cl=
oth,
and from the bottom corners of nearly every panel there was trickling down a
large tear, as if the doors were weeping for the degenerate condition of the
decorative arts. But these tears c=
aused
no throb of pity in the bosom of Misery: neither did the corduroy-like surf=
ace
of the work grate upon his feelings. He
perceived them not. He saw only th=
at
there was a Lot of Work done and his soul was filled with rapture as he
reflected that the man who had accomplished all this was paid only fivepenc=
e an
hour. At the same time it would never do to let Sawkins know that he was
satisfied with the progress made, so he said: 'I don't want you to stand too much over this =
up
'ere, you know, Sawkins. Just mop =
it
over anyhow, and get away from it as quick as you can.' 'All right, sir,' replied Sawkins, wiping the
sweat from his brow as Misery began crawling downstairs again. 'Where's Harlow go to, then?' he demanded of
Philpot. ''E wasn't 'ere just now,=
when
I came up.' ''E's gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,' rep=
lied
Joe, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. ''E'll be back in 'arf a mo.' And indeed at that moment Harlow was ju=
st
coming upstairs again. ''Ere, we can't allow this kind of thing in
workin' hours, you know.' Hunter bellowed.
'There's plenty of time for that in the dinner hour!' Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which
Easton and Owen had been painting. He
stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally comparing the quantity of
work done by the two men in this room with that done by Sawkins in the
attics. Misery was not a painter
himself: he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in=
the
quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain painting.=
'I believe it would pay us a great deal better=
,'
he thought to himself, 'if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like
Sawkins.' And with his mind filled=
with
this reflection he shortly afterwards sneaked stealthily from the house. Owen =
spent
the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the drawing-room making
pencil sketches in his pocket-book and taking measurements. In the evening after leaving off, inste=
ad of
going straight home as usual he went round to the Free Library to see if he
could find anything concerning Moorish decorative work in any of the books
there. Although it was only a smal=
l and
ill-equipped institution he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations =
of
several examples of which he made sketches.
After about an hour spent this way, as he was proceeding homewards he
observed two children--a boy and a girl--whose appearance seemed familiar.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They were standing at the window of a s=
weetstuff
shop examining the wares exposed therein.
As Owen came up the children turned round and they recognized each o=
ther
simultaneously. They were Charley =
and
Elsie Linden. Owen spoke to them a=
s he
drew near and the boy appealed to him for his opinion concerning a dispute =
they
had been having.
'I say, mister.
Which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of everlasting stickj=
aw
torfee, or a prize packet?'
'I'd rather have a prize packet,' replied Owen,
unhesitatingly.
'There! I
told you so!' cried Elsie, triumphantly.
'Well, I don't care. I'd sooner 'ave the torfee,' said Charl=
ey,
doggedly.
'Why, can't you agree which of the two to buy?=
'
'Oh no, it's not that,' replied Elsie. 'We was only just SUPPOSING what we'd b=
uy if
we 'ad a fardin; but we're not really goin' to buy nothing, because we ain't
got no money.'
'Oh, I see,' said Owen. 'But I think I have
some money,' and putting his hand into his pocket he produced two halfpenni=
es
and gave one to each of the children, who immediately went in to buy the to=
ffee
and the prize packet, and when they came out he walked along with them, as =
they
were going in the same direction as he was: indeed, they would have to pass=
by
his house.
'Has your grandfather got anything to do yet?'=
he
inquired as they went along.
'No. =
'E's
still walkin' about, mister,' replied Charley.
When they reached Owen's door he invited them =
to
come up to see the kitten, which they had been inquiring about on the way.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Frankie was delighted with these two
visitors, and whilst they were eating some home-made cakes that Nora gave t=
hem,
he entertained them by displaying the contents of his toy box, and the anti=
cs
of the kitten, which was the best toy of all, for it invented new games all=
the
time: acrobatic performances on the rails of chairs; curtain climbing; runn=
ing
slides up and down the oilcloth; hiding and peeping round corners and under=
the
sofa. The kitten cut so many comic=
al
capers, and in a little while the children began to create such an uproar, =
that
Nora had to interfere lest the people in the flat underneath should be anno=
yed.
However, Elsie and Charley were not able to st=
ay
very long, because their mother would be anxious about them, but they promi=
sed
to come again some other day to play with Frankie.
'I'm going to 'ave a prize next Sunday at our
Sunday School,' said Elsie as they were leaving.
'What are you going to get it for?' asked Nora=
.
''Cause I learned my text properly. I had to learn the whole of the first c=
hapter
of Matthew by heart and I never made one single mistake! So teacher said sh=
e'd
give me a nice book next Sunday.'
'I 'ad one too, the other week, about six mont=
hs
ago, didn't I, Elsie?' said Charley.
'Yes,' replied Elsie and added: 'Do they give
prizes at your Sunday School, Frankie?'
'I don't go to Sunday School.'
'Ain't you never been?' said Charley in a tone=
of
surprise.
'No,' replied Frankie. 'Dad says I have quite enough of school=
all
the week.'
'You ought to come to ours, man!' urged
Charley. 'It's not like being in s=
chool
at all! And we 'as a treat in the
summer, and prizes and sometimes a magic lantern 'tainment. It ain't 'arf all right, I can tell you=
.'
Frankie looked inquiringly at his mother.
'Might I go, Mum?'
'Yes, if you like, dear.'
'But I don't know the way.'
'Oh, it's not far from 'ere,' cried Charley. 'We 'as to pass by your 'ouse when we're
goin', so I'll call for you on Sunday if you like.'
'It's only just round in Duke Street; you know,
the "Shining Light Chapel",' said Elsie. 'It commences at three o'clock.'
'All right,' said Nora. 'I'll have Frankie ready at a quarter to
three. But now you must run home a=
s fast
as you can. Did you like those cak=
es?'
'Yes, thank you very much,' answered Elsie.
'Not 'arf!' said Charley.
'Does your mother make cakes for you sometimes=
?'
'She used to, but she's too busy now, making
blouses and one thing and another,' Elsie answered.
'I suppose she hasn't much time for cooking,' =
said
Nora, 'so I've wrapped up some more of those cakes in this parcel for you to
take home for tomorrow. I think yo=
u can
manage to carry it all right, can't you, Charley?'
'I think I'd better carry it myself,' said
Elsie. 'Charley's SO careless, he'=
s sure
to lose some of them.'
'I ain't no more careless than you are,' cried
Charley, indignantly. 'What about the time you dropped the quarter of butter
you was sent for in the mud?'
'That wasn't carelessness: that was an acciden=
t,
and it wasn't butter at all: it was margarine, so there!'
Eventually it was arranged that they were to c=
arry
the parcel in turns, Elsie to have first innings. Frankie went downstairs to the front do=
or
with them to see them off, and as they went down the street he shouted after
them:
'Mind you remember, next Sunday!'
'All right,' Charley shouted back. 'We shan't forget.'
On Thursday Owen stayed at home until after
breakfast to finish the designs which he had promised to have ready that
morning.
When he took them to the office at nine o'cloc=
k,
the hour at which he had arranged to meet Rushton, the latter had not yet a=
rrived,
and he did not put in an appearance until half an hour later. Like the majority of people who do brain
work, he needed a great deal more rest than those who do only mere physical
labour.
'Oh, you've brought them sketches, I suppose,'=
he
remarked in a surly tone as he came in.
'You know, there was no need for you to wait: you could 'ave left 'em
'ere and gone on to your job.'
He sat down at his desk and looked carelessly =
at
the drawing that Owen handed to him. It
was on a sheet of paper about twenty-four by eighteen inches. The design was drawn with pencil and on=
e half
of it was coloured.
'That's for the ceiling,' said Owen. 'I hadn't time to colour all of it.'
With an affectation of indifference, Rushton l=
aid
the drawing down and took the other which Owen handed to him.
'This is for the large wall. The same design would be adapted for the other walls; and this one shows the door and the panels under the window.'<= o:p>
Rushton expressed no opinion about the merits =
of
the drawings. He examined them
carelessly one after the other, and then, laying them down, he inquired:
'How long would it take you to do this work--i=
f we
get the job?'
'About three weeks: say 150 hours. That is--the decorative work only. Of c=
ourse,
the walls and ceiling would have to be painted first: they will need three
coats of white.'
Rushton scribbled a note on a piece of paper.<= o:p>
'Well,' he said, after a pause, 'you can leave
these 'ere and I'll see Mr Sweater about it and tell 'im what it will cost,=
and
if he decides to have it done I'll let you know.'
He put the drawings aside with the air of a man
who has other matters to attend to, and began to open one of the several
letters that were on his desk. He =
meant
this as an intimation that the audience was at an end and that he desired t=
he
'hand' to retire from the presence. Owen understood this, but he did not
retire, because it was necessary to mention one or two things which Rushton
would have to allow for when preparing the estimate.
'Of course I should want some help,' he said.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'I should need a man occasionally, and =
the
boy most of the time. Then there's=
the
gold leaf--say, fifteen books.'
'Don't you think it would be possible to use g=
old
paint?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'Is there anything else?' inquired Rushton as =
he
finished writing down these items.
'I think that's all, except a few sheets of
cartridge paper for stencils and working drawings. The quantity of paint necessary for the
decorative work will be very small.'
As soon as Owen was gone, Rushton took up the =
designs
and examined them attentively.
'These are all right,' he muttered. 'Good enough for anywhere. If he can paint anything like as well a=
s this
on the walls and ceiling of the room, it will stand all the looking at that
anyone in this town is likely to give it.'
'Let's see,' he continued. 'He said three weeks, but he's so anxio=
us to
do the job that he's most likely under-estimated the time; I'd better allow
four weeks: that means about 200 hours: 200 hours at eight-pence: how much =
is
that? And say he has a painter to =
help
him half the time. 100 hours at
sixpence-ha'penny.'
He consulted a ready reckoner that was on the
desk.
'Time, £9.7.6.
Materials: fifteen books of gold, say a pound. Then there's the cartridge paper and the
colours--say another pound, at the outside.
Boy's time? Well, he gets no
wages as yet, so we needn't mention that at all. Then there's the preparing of the room.=
Three
coats of white paint. I wish Hunte=
r was
here to give me an idea what it will cost.'
As if in answer to his wish, Nimrod entered the
office at that moment, and in reply to Rushton's query said that to give the
walls and ceiling three coats of paint would cost about three pounds five f=
or
time and material. Between them th=
e two
brain workers figured that fifteen pounds would cover the entire cost of the
work--painting and decorating.
'Well, I reckon we can charge Sweater forty-fi=
ve
pounds for it,' said Rushton. 'It =
isn't
like an ordinary job, you know. If=
he
gets a London firm to do it, it'll cost him double that, if not more.'
Having arrived at this decision, Rushton rung =
up
Sweater's Emporium on the telephone, and, finding that Mr Sweater was there=
, he
rolled up the designs and set out for that gentleman's office.
The men work with their hands, and the masters
work with their brains. What a dreadful calamity it would be for the world =
and
for mankind if all these brain workers were to go on strike.
Hunte=
r had
taken on three more painters that morning.
Bundy and two labourers had commenced the work of putting in the new
drains; the carpenters were back again doing some extra work, and there was
also a plumber working on the house; so there was quite a little crowd in t=
he
kitchen at dinner-time. Crass had =
been
waiting for a suitable opportunity to produce the newspaper cutting which it
will be remembered he showed to Easton on Monday morning, but he had waited=
in
vain, for there had been scarcely any 'political' talk at meal-times all the
week, and it was now Thursday. As =
far as
Owen was concerned, his thoughts were so occupied with the designs for the
drawing-room that he had no time for anything else, and most of the others =
were
only too willing to avoid a subject which frequently led to unpleasantness.=
As
a rule Crass himself had no liking for such discussion, but he was so confi=
dent
of being able to 'flatten out' Owen with the cutting from the Obscurer that=
he
had several times tried to lead the conversation into the desired channel, =
but
so far without success.
During dinner--as they called it--various subj=
ects
were discussed. Harlow mentioned that he had found traces of bugs in one of=
the
bedrooms upstairs and this called forth a number of anecdotes of those verm=
in
and of houses infested by them. Ph=
ilpot
remembered working in a house over at Windley; the people who lived in it w=
ere
very dirty and had very little furniture; no bedsteads, the beds consisting=
of
dilapidated mattresses and rags on the floor.
He declared that these ragged mattresses used to wander about the ro=
oms
by themselves. The house was so fu=
ll of
fleas that if one placed a sheet of newspaper on the floor one could hear a=
nd
see them jumping on it. In fact,
directly one went into that house one was covered from head to foot with fl=
eas!
During the few days he worked at that place, he lost several pounds in weig=
ht,
and of evenings as he walked homewards the children and people in the stree=
ts,
observing his ravaged countenance, thought he was suffering from some disea=
se
and used to get out of his way when they saw him coming.
There were several other of these narratives, =
four
or five men talking at the top of their voices at the same time, each one
telling a different story. At firs=
t each
story-teller addressed himself to the company generally, but after a while,
finding it impossible to make himself heard, he would select some particular
individual who seemed disposed to listen and tell him the story. It sometimes happened that in the middl=
e of
the tale the man to whom it was being told would remember a somewhat similar
adventure of his own, which he would immediately proceed to relate without
waiting for the other to finish, and each of them was generally so interest=
ed
in the gruesome details of his own story that he was unconscious of the fact
that the other was telling one at all.
In a contest of this kind the victory usually went to the man with t=
he
loudest voice, but sometimes a man who had a weak voice, scored by repeating
the same tale several times until someone heard it.
Barrington, who seldom spoke and was an ideal
listener, was appropriated by several men in succession, who each told him a
different yarn. There was one man
sitting on an up-ended pail in the far corner of the room and it was evident
from the movements of his lips that he also was relating a story, although
nobody knew what it was about or heard a single word of it, for no one took=
the
slightest notice of him...
When the uproar had subsided Harlow remembered=
the
case of a family whose house got into such a condition that the landlord had
given them notice and the father had committed suicide because the painters=
had
come to turn 'em out of house and home.
There were a man, his wife and daughter--a girl about seventeen--liv=
ing
in the house, and all three of 'em used to drink like hell. As for the woman, she COULD shift it an=
d no
mistake! Several times a day she u=
sed to
send the girl with a jug to the pub at the corner. When the old man was out, one could have
anything one liked to ask for from either of 'em for half a pint of beer, b=
ut
for his part, said Harlow, he could never fancy it. They were both too ugly.
The finale of this tale was received with a bu=
rst
of incredulous laughter by those who heard it.
'Do you 'ear what Harlow says, Bob?' Easton
shouted to Crass.
'No. =
What
was it?'
''E ses 'e once 'ad a chance to 'ave something=
but
'e wouldn't take it on because it was too ugly!'
'If it 'ad bin me, I should 'ave shut me bl--y
eyes,' cried Sawkins. 'I wouldn't pass it for a trifle like that.'
'No,' said Crass amid laughter, 'and you can b=
et
your life 'e didn't lose it neither, although 'e tries to make 'imself out =
to
be so innocent.'
'I always though old Harlow was a bl--y liar,'
remarked Bundy, 'but now we knows 'e is.'
Although everyone pretended to disbelieve him,
Harlow stuck to his version of the story.
'It's not their face you want, you know,' added
Bundy as he helped himself to some more tea.
'I know it wasn't my old woman's face that I w=
as
after last night,' observed Crass; and then he proceeded amid roars of laug=
hter
to give a minutely detailed account of what had taken place between himself=
and
his wife after they had retired for the night.
This story reminded the man on the pail of a v=
ery
strange dream he had had a few weeks previously: 'I dreamt I was walkin' al=
ong
the top of a 'igh cliff or some sich place, and all of a sudden the ground =
give
way under me feet and I began to slip down and down and to save meself from
going over I made a grab at a tuft of grass as was growin' just within reac=
h of
me 'and. And then I thought that s=
ome
feller was 'ittin me on the 'ead with a bl--y great stick, and tryin' to ma=
ke
me let go of the tuft of grass. An=
d then
I woke up to find my old woman shouting out and punchin' me with 'er
fists. She said I was pullin' 'er =
'air!'
While the room was in an uproar with the merri=
ment
induced by these stories, Crass rose from his seat and crossed over to where
his overcoat was hanging on a nail in the wall, and took from the pocket a
piece of card about eight inches by about four inches. One side of it was covered with printin=
g, and
as he returned to his seat Crass called upon the others to listen while he =
read
it aloud. He said it was one of th=
e best
things he had ever seen: it had been given to him by a bloke in the Cricket=
ers
the other night.
Crass was not a very good reader, but he was a=
ble
to read this all right because he had read it so often that he almost knew =
it
by heart. It was entitled 'The Art of Flatulence', and it consisted of a nu=
mber
of rules and definitions. Shouts of
laughter greeted the reading of each paragraph, and when he had ended, the
piece of dirty card was handed round for the benefit of those who wished to
read it for themselves. Several of=
the
men, however, when it was offered to them, refused to take it, and with evi=
dent
disgust suggested that it should be put into the fire. This view did not commend itself to Cra=
ss,
who, after the others had finished with it, put it back in the pocket of his
coat.
Meanwhile, Bundy stood up to help himself to s=
ome
more tea. The cup he was drinking =
from
had a large piece broken out of one side and did not hold much, so he usual=
ly
had to have three or four helpings.
'Anyone else want any' he asked.
Several cups and jars were passed to him. These vessels had been standing on the =
floor,
and the floor was very dirty and covered with dust, so before dipping them =
into
the pail, Bundy--who had been working at the drains all morning--wiped the
bottoms of the jars upon his trousers, on the same place where he was in the
habit of wiping his hands when he happened to get some dirt on them. He filled the jars so full that as he h=
eld
them by the rims and passed them to their owners part of the contents slopp=
ed
over and trickled through his fingers.
By the time he had finished the floor was covered with little pools =
of
tea.
'They say that Gord made everything for some
useful purpose,' remarked Harlow, reverting to the original subject, 'but I
should like to know what the hell's the use of sich things as bugs and fleas
and the like.'
'To teach people to keep theirselves clean, of
course,' said Slyme.
'That's a funny subject, ain't it?' continued
Harlow, ignoring Slyme's answer. '=
They
say as all diseases is caused by little insects. If Gord 'adn't made no cancer germs or
consumption microbes there wouldn't be no cancer or consumption.'
'That's one of the proofs that there ISN'T an
individual God,' said Owen. 'If we=
were
to believe that the universe and everything that lives was deliberately
designed and created by God, then we must also believe that He made his dis=
ease
germs you are speaking of for the purpose of torturing His other creatures.=
'
'You can't tell me a bloody yarn like that,'
interposed Crass, roughly. 'There's a Ruler over us, mate, and so you're li=
kely
to find out.'
'If Gord didn't create the world, 'ow did it c=
ome
'ere?' demanded Slyme.
'I know no more about that than you do,' repli=
ed
Owen. 'That is--I know nothing.
'That's only YOUR opinion,' said Slyme.
'If we care to take the trouble to learn,' Owen
went on, 'we can know a little of how the universe has grown and changed; b=
ut
of the beginning we know nothing.'
'That's just my opinion, matey,' observed
Philpot. 'It's just a bloody myste=
ry,
and that's all about it.'
'I don't pretend to 'ave no 'ead knowledge,' s=
aid
Slyme, 'but 'ead knowledge won't save a man's soul: it's 'EART knowledge as
does that. I knows in my 'eart as my sins is all hunder the Blood, and it's
knowin' that, wot's given 'appiness and the peace which passes all
understanding to me ever since I've been a Christian.'
'Glory, glory, hallelujah!' shouted Bundy, and
nearly everyone laughed.
'"Christian" is right,' sneered
Owen. 'You've got some title to ca=
ll
yourself a Christian, haven't you? As
for the happiness that passes all understanding, it certainly passes MY
understanding how you can be happy when you believe that millions of people=
are
being tortured in Hell; and it also passes my understanding why you are not
ashamed of yourself for being happy under such circumstances.'
'Ah, well, you'll find it all out when you com=
e to
die, mate,' replied Slyme in a threatening tone. 'You'll think and talk different then!'=
'That's just wot gets over ME,' observed
Harlow. 'It don't seem right that after living in misery =
and
poverty all our bloody lives, workin' and slavin' all the hours that Gord
A'mighty sends, that we're to be bloody well set fire and burned in 'ell for
all eternity! It don't seem feasib=
le to
me, you know.'
'It's my belief,' said Philpot, profoundly, 't=
hat
when you're dead, you're done for.
That's the end of you.'
'That's what I say,'
remarked Easton. 'As for all this
religious business, it's just a money-making dodge. It's the parson's trade, just the same =
as
painting is ours, only there's no work attached to it and the pay's a bloody
sight better than ours is.'
'It's their livin', and a bloody good livin' t=
oo,
if you ask me,' said Bundy.
'Yes,' said Harlow; 'they lives on the fat o' =
the
land, and wears the best of everything, and they does nothing for it but ta=
lk a
lot of twaddle two or three times a week.
The rest of the time they spend cadgin' money orf silly old women who
thinks it's a sorter fire insurance.'
'It's an old sayin' and a true one,' chimed in=
the
man on the upturned pail. 'Parsons=
and
publicans is the worst enemies the workin' man ever 'ad. There may be SOME good 'uns, but they'r=
e few
and far between.'
'If I could only get a job like the Harchbisho=
p of
Canterbury,' said Philpot, solemnly, 'I'd leave this firm.'
'So would I,' said Harlow, 'if I was the
Harchbishop of Canterbury, I'd take my pot and brushes down the office and =
shy
'em through the bloody winder and tell ole Misery to go to 'ell.'
'Religion is a thing that don't trouble ME muc=
h,'
remarked Newman; 'and as for what happens to you after death, it's a thing I
believe in leavin' till you comes to it--there's no sense in meetin' trouble
'arfway. All the things they tells=
us
may be true or they may not, but it takes me all my time to look after THIS
world. I don't believe I've been to
church more than arf a dozen times since I've been married--that's over fif=
teen
years ago now--and then it's been when the kids 'ave been christened. The old woman goes sometimes and of cou=
rse
the young 'uns goes; you've got to tell 'em something or other, and they mi=
ght
as well learn what they teaches at the Sunday School as anything else.'
A general murmur of approval greeted this. It seemed to be the almost unanimous op=
inion,
that, whether it were true or not, 'religion' was a nice thing to teach
children.
'I've not been even once since I was married,'
said Harlow, 'and I sometimes wish to Christ I 'adn't gorn then.'
'I don't see as it matters a dam wot a man
believes,' said Philpot, 'as long as you don't do no 'arm to nobody. If you see a poor b--r wot's down on 'is
luck, give 'im a 'elpin' 'and. Eve=
n if
you ain't got no money you can say a kind word.
If a man does 'is work and looks arter 'is 'ome and 'is young 'uns, =
and
does a good turn to a fellow creature when 'e can, I reckon 'e stands as mu=
ch
chance of getting into 'eaven--if there IS sich a place--as some of there '=
ere
Bible-busters, whether 'e ever goes to church or chapel or not.'
These sentiments were echoed by everyone with =
the
solitary exception of Slyme, who said that Philpot would find out his mista=
ke
after he was dead, when he would have to stand before the Great White Throne
for judgement!
'And at the Last Day, when yer sees the moon
turned inter Blood, you'll be cryin' hout for the mountings and the rocks to
fall on yer and 'ide yer from the wrath of the Lamb!'
The others laughed derisively.
'I'm a Bush Baptist meself,' remarked the man =
on
the upturned pail. This individual, Dick Wantley by name, was of what is
usually termed a 'rugged' cast of countenance.
He reminded one strongly of an ancient gargoyle, or a dragon.
Most of the hands had by now lit their pipes, =
but
there were a few who preferred chewing their tobacco. As they smoked or chewed they expectora=
ted
upon the floor or into the fire. W=
antley
was one of those who preferred chewing and he had been spitting upon the fl=
oor
to such an extent that he was by this time partly surrounded by a kind of
semicircular moat of dark brown spittle.
'I'm a Bush Baptist!' he shouted across the mo=
at,
'and you all knows wot that is.'
This confession of faith caused a fresh outbur=
st
of hilarity, because of course everyone knew what a Bush Baptist was.
'If 'evven's goin' to be full of sich b--r's as
Hunter,' observed Eaton, 'I think I'd rather go to the other place.'
'If ever ole Misery DOES get into 'eaven,' said
Philpot, ''e won't stop there very long.
I reckon 'e'll be chucked out of it before 'e's been there a week,
because 'e's sure to start pinchin' the jewels out of the other saints'
crowns.'
'Well, if they won't 'ave 'im in 'eaven, I'm s=
ure
I don't know wot's to become of 'im,' said Harlow with pretended concern,
'because I don't believe 'e'd be allowed into 'ell, now.'
'Why not?' demanded Bundy. 'I should think it's just the bloody pl=
ace
for sich b--r's as 'im.'
'So it used to be at one time o' day, but they=
've
changed all that now. They've 'ad a revolution down there: deposed the Devi=
l,
elected a parson as President, and started puttin' the fire out.'
'From what I hears of it,' continued Harlow wh=
en
the laughter had ceased, ''ell is a bloody fine place to live in just now.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There's underground railways and 'lectr=
ic
trams, and at the corner of nearly every street there's a sort of pub where=
you
can buy ice-cream, lemon squash, four ale, and American cold drinks; and yo=
u're
allowed to sit in a refrigerator for two hours for a tanner.'
Although they laughed and made fun of these th=
ings
the reader must not think that they really doubted the truth of the Christi=
an
religion, because--although they had all been brought up by 'Christian' par=
ents
and had been 'educated' in 'Christian' schools--none of them knew enough ab=
out
Christianity to either really believe it or disbelieve it. The imposters who
obtain a comfortable living by pretending to be the ministers and disciples=
of
the Workman of Nazareth are too cunning to encourage their dupes to acquire
anything approaching an intelligent understanding of the subject. They do not want people to know or unde=
rstand
anything: they want them to have Faith--to believe without knowledge,
understanding, or evidence. For ye=
ars
Harlow and his mates--when children--had been 'taught' 'Christianity' in day
school, Sunday School and in church or chapel, and now they knew practically
nothing about it! But they were
'Christians' all the same. They be=
lieved
that the Bible was the word of God, but they didn't know where it came from,
how long it had been in existence, who wrote it, who translated it or how m=
any
different versions there were. Most of them were almost totally unacquainted
with the contents of the book itself. But all the same, they believed it--a=
fter
a fashion.
'But puttin' all jokes aside,' said Philpot, 'I
can't believe there's sich a place as 'ell.
There may be some kind of punishment, but I don't believe it's a real
fire.'
'Nor nobody else, what's got any sense,' repli=
ed
Harlow, contemptuously.
'I believe as THIS world is 'ell,' said Crass,
looking around with a philosophic expression.
This opinion was echoed by most of the others, although Slyme remain=
ed
silent and Owen laughed.
'Wot the bloody 'ell are YOU laughin' at?' Cra=
ss
demanded in an indignant tone.
'I was laughing because you said you think this
world is hell.'
'Well, I don't see nothing to laugh at in that=
,'
said Crass.
'So it IS a 'ell,' said Easton. 'There can't be anywheres much worse th=
an
this.'
''Ear, 'ear,' said the man behind the moat.
'What I was laughing at is this,' said Owen. 'The present system of managing the aff=
airs
of the world is so bad and has produced such dreadful results that you are =
of
the opinion that the earth is a hell: and yet you are a Conservative! You wish to preserve the present system=
--the
system which has made the world into a hell!'
'I thought we shouldn't get through the dinner
hour without politics if Owen was 'ere,' growled Bundy. 'Bloody sickenin' I call it.'
'Don't be 'ard on 'im,' said Philpot. ''E's been very quiet for the last few =
days.'
'We'll 'ave to go through it today, though,'
remarked Harlow despairingly. 'I c=
an see
it comin'.'
'I'M not goin' through it,' said Bundy, 'I'm
orf!' And he accordingly drank the
remainder of his tea, closed his empty dinner basket and, having placed it =
on
the mantelshelf, made for the door.
'I'll leave you to it,' he said as he went
out. The others laughed.
Crass, remembering the cutting from the Obscur=
er
that he had in his pocket, was secretly very pleased at the turn the
conversation was taking. He turned
roughly on Owen:
'The other day, when we was talkin' about the
cause of poverty, you contradicted everybody.
Everyone else was wrong! Bu=
t you
yourself couldn't tell us what's the cause of poverty, could you?'
'I think I could.'
'Oh, of course, you think you know,' sneered
Crass, 'and of course you think your opinion's right and everybody else's is
wrong.'
'Yes,' replied Owen.
Several men expressed their abhorrence of this
intolerant attitude of Owen's, but the latter rejoined:
'Of course I think that my opinions are right =
and
that everyone who differs from me is wrong.
If I didn't think their opinions were wrong I wouldn't differ from
them. If I didn't think my own opi=
nions
right I wouldn't hold them.'
'But there's no need to keep on arguin' about =
it
day after day,' said Crass. 'You'v=
e got
your opinion and I've got mine. Let
everyone enjoy his own opinion, I say.'
A murmur of approbation from the crowd greeted
these sentiments; but Owen rejoined:
'But we can't both be right; if your opinions =
are
right and mine are not, how am I to find out the truth if we never talk abo=
ut
them?'
'Well, wot do you reckon is the cause of pover=
ty,
then?' demanded Easton.
'The present system--competition--capitalism.'=
'It's all very well to talk like that,' snarled
Crass, to whom this statement conveyed no meaning whatever. 'But 'ow do you make it out?'
'Well, I put it like that for the sake of
shortness,' replied Owen. 'Suppose some people were living in a house--'
'More supposin'!' sneered Crass.
'And suppose they were always ill, and suppose
that the house was badly built, the walls so constructed that they drew and
retained moisture, the roof broken and leaky, the drains defective, the doo=
rs
and windows ill-fitting and the rooms badly shaped and draughty. If you were asked to name, in a word, t=
he
cause of the ill-health of the people who lived there you would say--the
house. All the tinkering in the wo=
rld
would not make that house fit to live in; the only thing to do with it woul=
d be
to pull it down and build another. Well,
we're all living in a house called the Money System; and as a result most o=
f us
are suffering from a disease called poverty.
There's so much the matter with the present system that it's no good
tinkering at it. Everything about it is wrong and there's nothing about it
that's right. There's only one thi=
ng to
be done with it and that is to smash it up and have a different system
altogether. We must get out of it.=
'
'It seems to me that that's just what you're
trying to do,' remanded Harlow, sarcastically.
'You seem to be tryin' to get out of answering the question what Eas=
ton
asked you.'
'Yes!' cried Crass, fiercely. 'Why don't you answer the bloody
question? Wot's the cause of pover=
ty?'
'What the 'ell's the matter with the present
system?' demanded Sawkins.
'Ow's it goin' to be altered?' said Newman.
'Wot the bloody 'ell sort of a system do YOU t=
hink
we ought to 'ave?' shouted the man behind the moat.
'It can't never be altered,' said Philpot. 'Human nature's human nature and you ca=
n't
get away from it.'
'Never mind about human nature,' shouted Crass=
. 'Stick to the point. Wot's the cause of
poverty?'
'Oh, b--r the cause of poverty!' said one of t=
he
new hands. 'I've 'ad enough of this
bloody row.' And he stood up and
prepared to go out of the room.
This individual had two patches on the seat of=
his
trousers and the bottoms of the legs of that garment were frayed and
ragged. He had been out of work for
about six weeks previous to having been taken on by Rushton & Co. During most of that time he and his fam=
ily
had been existing in a condition of semi-starvation on the earnings of his =
wife
as a charwoman and on the scraps of food she brought home from the houses w=
here
she worked. But all the same, the
question of what is the cause of poverty had no interest for him.
'There are many causes,' answered Owen, 'but t=
hey
are all part of and inseparable from the system. In order to do away with poverty we must
destroy the causes: to do away with the causes we must destroy the whole
system.'
'What are the causes, then?'
'Well, money, for one thing.'
This extraordinary assertion was greeted with a
roar of merriment, in the midst of which Philpot was heard to say that to
listen to Owen was as good as going to a circus. Money was the cause of poverty!
'I always thought it was the want of it!' said=
the
man with the patches on the seat of his trousers as he passed out of the do=
or.
'Other things,' continued Owen, 'are private
ownership of land, private ownership of railways, tramways, gasworks,
waterworks, private ownership of factories, and the other means of producing
the necessaries and comforts of life.
Competition in business--'
'But 'ow do you make it out?' demanded Crass,
impatiently.
Owen hesitated.
To his mind the thing appeared very clear and simple. The causes of
poverty were so glaringly evident that he marvelled that any rational being
should fail to perceive them; but at the same time he found it very difficu=
lt
to define them himself. He could n=
ot
think of words that would convey his thoughts clearly to these others who
seemed so hostile and unwilling to understand, and who appeared to have mad=
e up
their minds to oppose and reject whatever he said. They did not know what were the causes =
of
poverty and apparently they did not WANT to know.
'Well, I'll try to show you one of the causes,=
' he
said nervously at last.
He picked up a piece of charred wood that had
fallen from the fire and knelt down and began to draw upon the floor. Most of the others regarded him, with l=
ooks
in which an indulgent, contemptuous kind of interest mingled with an air of
superiority and patronage. There w=
as no
doubt, they thought, that Owen was a clever sort of chap: his work proved t=
hat:
but he was certainly a little bit mad.
By this time Owen had drawn a circle about two
feet in diameter. Inside he had drawn two squares, one much larger than the
other. These two squares he filled in solid black with the charcoal.
'Wot's it all about?' asked Crass with a sneer=
.
'Why, can't you see?' said Philpot with a
wink. ''E's goin' to do some
conjurin'! In a minit 'e'll make
something pass out o' one o' them squares into the other and no one won't s=
ee
'ow it's done.'
When he had finished drawing, Owen remained fo=
r a
few minutes awkwardly silent, oppressed by the anticipation of ridicule and=
a
sense of his inability to put his thoughts into plain language. He began to wish that he had not undert=
aken
this task. At last, with an effort=
, he
began to speak in a halting, nervous way:
....... ... ... .. .. . ###
. .
'This circle--or rather the space inside the
circle--is supposed to represent England.'
'Well, I never knowed it was round before,' je=
ered
Crass. 'I've heard as the WORLD is
round--'
'I never said it was the shape--I said it was
supposed to REPRESENT England.'
'Oh, I
see. I thought we'd very soon begin
supposin'.'
'The two black squares,' continued Owen,
'represent the people who live in the country.
The small square represents a few thousand people. The large square
stands for the remainder--about forty millions--that is, the majority.'
'We ain't sich bloody fools as to think that t=
he
largest number is the minority,' interrupted Crass.
'The greater number of the people represented =
by
the large black square work for their living: and in return for their labour
they receive money: some more, some less than others.'
'You don't think they'd be sich bloody fools a=
s to
work for nothing, do you?' said Newman.
'I suppose you think they ought all to get the
same wages!' cried Harlow. 'Do you=
think
it's right that a scavenger should get as much as a painter?'
'I'm not speaking about that at all,' replied
Owen. 'I'm trying to show you what=
I
think is one of the causes of poverty.'
'Shut up, can't you, Harlow,' remonstrated
Philpot, who began to feel interested.
'We can't all talk at once.'
'I know we can't,' replied Harlow in an aggrie=
ved
tone: 'but 'e takes sich a 'ell of a time to say wot 'e's got to say. Nobody else can't get a word in edgeway=
s.'
'In order that these people may live,' continu=
ed
Owen, pointing to the large black square, 'it is first necessary that they
shall have a PLACE to live in--'
'Well! I
should never a thought it!' exclaimed the man on the pail, pretending to be
much impressed. The others laughed=
, and
two or three of them went out of the room, contemptuously remarking to each
other in an audible undertone as they went:
'Bloody rot!'
'Wonder wot the bloody 'ell 'e thinks 'e is? A sort of schoolmaster?'
Owen's nervousness increased as he continued:<= o:p>
'Now, they can't live in the air or in the
sea. These people are land animals,
therefore they must live on the land.'
'Wot do yer mean by animals?' demanded Slyme.<= o:p>
'A human bean ain't a animal!' said Crass
indignantly.
'Yes, we are!' cried Harlow. 'Go into any chemist's shop you like an=
d ask
the bloke, and 'e'll tell you--'
'Oh, blow that!' interrupted Philpot. 'Let's 'ear wot Owen's sayin'.'
'They must live on the land: and that's the be=
ginning
of the trouble; because--under the present system--the majority of the peop=
le
have really no right to be in the country at all! Under the present system the country be=
longs
to a few--those who are here represented by this small black square. If it would pay them to do so, and if t=
hey
felt so disposed, these few people have a perfect right--under the present
system--to order everyone else to clear out!
'But they don't do that, they allow the majori=
ty
to remain in the land on one condition--that is, they must pay rent to the =
few
for the privilege of being permitted to live in the land of their birth.
'The majority work hard and live in poverty in
order that the minority may live in luxury without working at all, and as t=
he
majority are mostly fools, they not only agree to pass their lives in inces=
sant
slavery and want, in order to pay this rent to those who own the country, b=
ut
they say it is quite right that they should have to do so, and are very
grateful to the little minority for allowing them to remain in the country =
at
all.'
Owen paused, and immediately there arose a gre=
at
clamour from his listeners.
'So it IS right, ain't it?' shouted Crass. 'If you 'ad a 'ouse and let it to someo=
ne,
you'd want your rent, wouldn't yer?'
'I suppose,' said Slyme with resentment, for he
had some shares in a local building society, 'after a man's been careful, a=
nd
scraping and saving and going without things he ought to 'ave 'ad all 'is l=
ife,
and managed to buy a few 'ouses to support 'im in 'is old age--they ought a=
ll
to be took away from 'im? Some peo=
ple,'
he added, 'ain't got common honesty.'
Nearly everyone had something to say in
reprobation of the views suggested by Owen.
Harlow, in a brief but powerful speech, bristling with numerous
sanguinary references to the bottomless pit, protested against any interfer=
ence
with the sacred rights of property.
Easton listened with a puzzled expression, and Philpot's goggle eyes
rolled horribly as he glared silently at the circle and the two squares.
'By far the greatest part of the land,' said O=
wen
when the row had ceased, 'is held by people who have absolutely no moral ri=
ght
to it. Possession of much of it was obtained by means of murder and theft
perpetrated by the ancestors of the present holders. In other cases, when some king or prince
wanted to get rid of a mistress of whom he had grown weary, he presented a
tract of our country to some 'nobleman' on condition that he would marry the
female. Vast estates were also bes=
towed
upon the remote ancestors of the present holders in return for real or alle=
ged
services. Listen to this,' he cont=
inued
as he took a small newspaper cutting from his pocket-book.
Crass looked at the piece of paper dolefully.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It reminded him of the one he had in hi=
s own
pocket, which he was beginning to fear that he would not have an opportunit=
y of
producing today after all.
'Ballcartridge Rent Day.
'The hundredth anniversary of the Battle of
Ballcartridge occurred yesterday and in accordance with custom the Duke of
Ballcartridge handed to the authorities the little flag which he annually
presents to the State in virtue of his tenure of the vast tract of this cou=
ntry
which was presented to one of his ancestors--the first Duke--in addition to=
his
salary, for his services at the battle of Ballcartridge.
'The flag--which is the only rent the Duke has=
to
pay for the great estate which brings him in several hundreds of thousands =
of
pounds per annum--is a small tricoloured one with a staff surmounted by an
eagle.
'The Duke of Blankmind also presents the State
with a little coloured silk flag every year in return for being allowed to
retain possession of that part of England which was presented--in addition =
to
his salary--to one of His Grace's very remote ancestors, for his services at
the battle of Commissariat--in the Netherlands.
'The Duke of Southward is another instance,'
continued Owen. 'He "owns&quo=
t;
miles of the country we speak of as "ours". Much of his part consists of confiscated
monastery lands which were stolen from the owners by King Henry VIII and
presented to the ancestors of the present Duke.
'Whether it was right or wrong that these part=
s of
our country should ever have been given to those people--the question wheth=
er
those ancestor persons were really deserving cases or not--is a thing we ne=
ed
not trouble ourselves about now. B=
ut the
present holders are certainly not deserving people. They do not even take the trouble to pr=
etend
they are. They have done nothing a=
nd
they do nothing to justify their possession of these "estates" as
they call them. And in my opinion =
no man
who is in his right mind can really think it's just that these people shoul=
d be
allowed to prey upon their fellow men as they are doing now. Or that it is right that their children
should be allowed to continue to prey upon our children for ever! The thousands of people on those estate=
s work
and live in poverty in order that these three men and their families may en=
joy
leisure and luxury. Just think of =
the
absurdity of it!' continued Owen, pointing to the drawings. 'All those peop=
le
allowing themselves to be overworked and bullied and starved and robbed by =
this
little crowd here!'
Observing signs of a renewal of the storm of
protests, Owen hurriedly concluded:
'Whether it's right or wrong, you can't deny t=
hat
the fact that this small minority possesses nearly all the land of the coun=
try
is one of the principal causes of the poverty of the majority.'
'Well, that seems true enough,' said Easton,
slowly. 'The rent's the biggest it=
em a
workin' man's got to pay. When you=
're
out of work and you can't afford other things, you goes without 'em, but the
rent 'as to be paid whether you're workin' or not.'
'Yes, that's true enough,' said Harlow
impatiently; 'but you gets value for yer money: you can't expect to get a '=
ouse
for nothing.'
'Suppose we admits as it's wrong, just for the
sake of argyment,' said Crass in a jeering tone. 'Wot then?
Wot about it? 'Ow's it agoi=
n' to
be altered.'
'Yes!' cried Harlow triumphantly. 'That's the bloody question! 'Ow's it goin' to be altered? It can't be done!'
There was a general murmur of satisfaction.
'Whether it can be altered or not, whether it's
right or wrong, landlordism is one of the causes of poverty,' Owen
repeated. 'Poverty is not caused b=
y men
and women getting married; it's not caused by machinery; it's not caused by
"over-production"; it's not caused by drink or laziness; and it's=
not
caused by "over-population".
It's caused by Private Monopoly.
That is the present system. They
have monopolized everything that it is possible to monopolize; they have got
the whole earth, the minerals in the earth and the streams that water the
earth. The only reason they have n=
ot
monopolized the daylight and the air is that it is not possible to do it. If it were possible to construct huge
gasometers and to draw together and compress within them the whole of the
atmosphere, it would have been done long ago, and we should have been compe=
lled
to work for them in order to get money to buy air to breathe. And if that seemingly impossible thing =
were
accomplished tomorrow, you would see thousands of people dying for want of
air--or of the money to buy it--even as now thousands are dying for want of=
the
other necessities of life. You would see people going about gasping for bre=
ath,
and telling each other that the likes of them could not expect to have air =
to
breathe unless they had the money to pay for it. Most of you here, for instance, would t=
hink
and say so. Even as you think at p=
resent
that it's right for so few people to own the Earth, the Minerals and the Wa=
ter,
which are all just as necessary as is the air.
In exactly the same spirit as you now say: "It's Their Land,&qu=
ot;
"It's Their Water," "It's Their Coal," "It's Their
Iron," so you would say "It's Their Air," "These are th=
eir
gasometers, and what right have the likes of us to expect them to allow us =
to
breathe for nothing?" And even
while he is doing this the air monopolist will be preaching sermons on the
Brotherhood of Man; he will be dispensing advice on "Christian Duty&qu=
ot;
in the Sunday magazines; he will give utterance to numerous more or less mo=
ral
maxims for the guidance of the young.
And meantime, all around, people will be dying for want of some of t=
he
air that he will have bottled up in his gasometers. And when you are all dragging out a mis=
erable
existence, gasping for breath or dying for want of air, if one of your numb=
er
suggests smashing a hole in the side of one of the gasometers, you will all
fall upon him in the name of law and order, and after doing your best to te=
ar
him limb from limb, you'll drag him, covered with blood, in triumph to the
nearest Police Station and deliver him up to "justice" in the hop=
e of
being given a few half-pounds of air for your trouble.'
'I suppose you think the landlords ought to let
people live in their 'ouses for nothing?' said Crass, breaking the silence =
that
followed.
'Certainly,' remarked Harlow, pretending to be
suddenly converted to Owen's views, 'I reckon the landlord ought to pay the
rent to the tenant!'
'Of course, Landlordism is not the only cause,'
said Owen, ignoring these remarks. 'The wonderful system fosters a great ma=
ny
others. Employers of labour, for instance, are as great a cause of poverty =
as
landlords are.'
This extraordinary statement was received with
astonished silence.
'Do you mean to say that if I'm out of work an= d a master gives me a job, that 'e's doin' me a injury?' said Crass at length.<= o:p>
'No, of course not,' replied Owen.
'Well, what the bloody 'ell DO yer mean, then?=
'
'I mean this: supposing that the owner of a ho=
use
wishes to have it repainted. What =
does
he usually do?'
'As a rule, 'e goes to three or four master
painters and asks 'em to give 'im a price for the job.'
'Yes; and those master painters are so eager to
get the work that they cut the price down to what they think is the lowest
possible point,' answered Owen, 'and the lowest usually gets the job. The successful tenderer has usually cut=
the
price so fine that to make it pay he has to scamp the work, pay low wages, =
and
drive and sweat the men whom he employs.
He wants them to do two days' work for one day's pay. The result is that a job which--if it w=
ere
done properly--would employ say twenty men for two months, is rushed and
scamped in half that time with half that number of men.
'This means that--in one such case as this--ten
men are deprived of one month's employment; and ten other men are deprived =
of
two months' employment; and all because the employers have been cutting each
other's throats to get the work.'
'And we can't 'elp ourselves, you nor me eithe=
r,'
said Harlow. 'Supposing one of us on this job was to make up 'is mind not to
tear into it like we do, but just keep on steady and do a fair day's work: =
wot
would 'appen?'
No one answered; but the same thought was in
everyone's mind. Such a one would =
be
quickly marked by Hunter; and even if the latter failed to notice it would =
not
be long before Crass reported his conduct.
'We can't 'elp ourselves,' said Easton,
gloomily. 'If one man won't do it
there's twenty others ready to take 'is place.'
'We could help ourselves to a certain extent i=
f we
would stand by each other. If, for
instance, we all belonged to the Society,' said Owen.
'I don't believe in the Society,' observed
Crass. 'I can't see as it's right =
that a
inferior man should 'ave the same wages as me.'
'They're a drunken lot of beer-swillers,' rema=
rked
Slyme. 'That's why they always 'as=
their
meetings in public 'ouses.'
Harlow made no comment on this question. He had at one time belonged to the Unio=
n and
he was rather ashamed of having fallen away from it.
'Wot good 'as the Society ever done 'ere?' said
Easton. 'None that I ever 'eard of=
.'
'It might be able to do some good if most of us
belonged to it; but after all, that's another matter. Whether we could help ourselves or not,=
the
fact remains that we don't. But yo=
u must
admit that this competition of the employers is one of the causes of
unemployment and poverty, because it's not only in our line--exactly the sa=
me
thing happens in every other trade and industry. Competing employers are the upper and n=
ether
millstones which grind the workers between them.'
'I suppose you think there oughtn't to be no
employers at all?' sneered Crass. =
'Or
p'raps you think the masters ought to do all the bloody work theirselves, a=
nd
give us the money?'
'I don't see 'ow its goin' to be altered,'
remarked Harlow. 'There MUST be ma=
sters,
and SOMEONE 'as to take charge of the work and do the thinkin'.'
'Whether it can be altered or not,' said Owen,
'Landlordism and Competing Employers are two of the causes of poverty. But of course they're only a small part=
of
the system which produces luxury, refinement and culture for a few, and
condemns the majority to a lifelong struggle with adversity, and many thous=
ands
to degradation, hunger and rags. T=
his is
the system you all uphold and defend, although you don't mind admitting tha=
t it
has made the world into a hell.'
Crass slowly drew the Obscurer cutting from his
waistcoat pocket, but after a moment's thought he replaced it, deciding to
defer its production till a more suitable occasion.
'But you 'aven't told us yet 'ow you makes out
that money causes poverty,' cried Harlow, winking at the others. 'That's what I'M anxious to 'ear about!=
'
'So am I,' remarked the man behind the moat. 'I was just wondering whether I 'adn't =
better
tell ole Misery that I don't want no wages this week.'
'I think I'll tell 'im on Saterday to keep MY
money and get 'imself a few drinks with it,' said Philpot. 'It might cheer 'im up a bit and make '=
im a
little more sociable and friendly like.'
'Money IS the principal cause of poverty,' said
Owen.
''Ow do yer make it out?' cried Sawkins.
But their curiosity had to remain unsatisfied =
for
the time being because Crass announced that it was 'just on it'.
About=
three
o'clock that afternoon, Rushton suddenly appeared and began walking silently
about the house, and listening outside the doors of rooms where the hands w=
ere
working. He did not succeed in cat=
ching
anyone idling or smoking or talking. The
nearest approach to what the men called 'a capture' that he made was, as he
stood outside the door of one of the upper rooms in which Philpot and Harlow
were working, he heard them singing one of Sankey's hymns--'Work! for the n=
ight
is coming'. He listened to two ver=
ses
and several repetitions of the chorus.
Being a 'Christian', he could scarcely object to this, especially as=
by
peeping through the partly open door he
could see that they were suiting the action to the word. When he went into the room they glanced
around to see who it was, and stopped singing. Rushton did not speak, but s=
tood
in the middle of the floor, silently watching them as they worked, for abou=
t a
quarter of an hour. Then, without =
having
uttered a syllable, he turned and went out.
They heard him softly descend the stairs, and
Harlow, turning to Philpot said in a hoarse whisper:
'What do you think of the b--r, standing there
watchin' us like that, as if we was a couple of bloody convicts? If it wasn't that I've got someone else
beside myself to think of, I would 'ave sloshed the bloody sod in the mouth
with this pound brush!'
'Yes; it does make yer feel like that, mate,'
replied Philpot, 'but of course we mustn't give way to it.'
'Several times,' continued Harlow, who was liv=
id
with anger, 'I was on the point of turnin' round and sayin' to 'im, "W=
hat
the bloody 'ell do you mean by standin' there and watchin' me, you bloody,
psalm-singin' swine?" It took=
me
all my time to keep it in, I can tell you.'
Meanwhile, Rushton was still going about the
house, occasionally standing and watching the other men in the same manner =
as
he had watched Philpot and Harlow.
None of the men looked round from their work or
spoke either to Rushton or to each other.
The only sounds heard were the noises made by the saws and hammers of
the carpenters who were fixing the frieze rails and dado rails or repairing
parts of the woodwork in some of the rooms.
Crass placed himself in Rushton's way several
times with the hope of being spoken to, but beyond curtly acknowledging the
'foreman's' servile 'Good hafternoon, sir,' the master took no notice of hi=
m.
After about an hour spent in this manner Rusht=
on
went away, but as no one saw him go, it was not until some considerable time
after his departure that they knew that he was gone.
Owen was secretly very disappointed. 'I thought he had come to tell me about=
the
drawing-room,' he said to himself, 'but I suppose it's not decided yet.'
Just as the 'hands' were beginning to breathe
freely again, Misery arrived, carrying some rolled-up papers in his hand. He also flitted silently from one room =
to
another, peering round corners and listening at doors in the hope of seeing=
or
hearing something which would give him an excuse for making an example of
someone. Disappointed in this, he
presently crawled upstairs to the room where Owen was working and, handing =
to
him the roll of papers he had been carrying, said:
'Mr Sweater had decided to 'ave this work done=
, so
you can start on it as soon as you like.'
It is impossible to describe, without appearin=
g to
exaggerate, the emotions experienced by Owen as he heard this
announcement. For one thing it mea=
nt
that the work at this house would last longer than it would otherwise have
done; and it also meant that he would be paid for the extra time he had spe=
nt
on the drawings, besides having his wages increased--for he was always paid=
an
extra penny an hour when engaged on special work, such as graining or
sign-writing or work of the present kind.
But these considerations did not occur to him at the moment at all, =
for to
him it meant much more. Since his =
first
conversation on the subject with Rushton he had though of little else than =
this
work.
In a sense he had been DOING it ever since.
'You can make a start on it tomorrow morning,'
continued that gentleman. 'I'll te=
ll
Crass to send someone else up 'ere to finish this room.'
'I shan't be able to commence tomorrow, because
the ceiling and walls will have to be painted first.'
'Yes: I know.
You and Easton can do that. One
coat tomorrow, another on Friday and the third on Saturday--that is, unless=
you
can make it do with two coats. Eve=
n if
it has to be the three, you will be able to go on with your decoratin' on
Monday.'
'I won't be able to start on Monday, because I
shall have to make some working drawings first.'
'Workin' drorins!' ejaculated Misery with a
puzzled expression. 'Wot workin'
drorins? You've got them, ain't ye=
r?'
pointing to the roll of papers.
'Yes: but as the same ornaments are repeated
several times, I shall have to make a number of full-sized drawings, with
perforated outlines, to transfer the design to the walls,' said Owen, and he
proceeded to laboriously explain the processes.
Nimrod looked at him suspiciously. 'Is all that really necessary?' he
asked. 'Couldn't you just copy it =
on the
wall, free-hand?'
'No; that wouldn't do. It would take much longer that way.'
This consideration appealed to Misery.
'Ah, well,' he sighed. 'I s'pose you'll 'ave to do it the way =
you
said; but for goodness sake don't spend too much time over it, because we've
took it very cheap. We only took i=
t on
so as you could 'ave a job, not that we expect to make any profit out of it=
.'
'And I shall have to cut some stencils, so I s=
hall
need several sheets of cartridge paper.'
Upon hearing of this addition expense, Misery's
long visage appeared to become several inches longer; but after a moment's
thought he brightened up.
'I'll tell you what!' he exclaimed with a cunn=
ing
leer, 'there's lots of odd rolls of wallpaper down at the shop. Couldn't you manage with some of that?'=
'I'm afraid it wouldn't do,' replied Owen
doubtfully, 'but I'll have a look at it and if possible I'll use it.'
'Yes, do!' said Misery, pleased at the thought=
of
saving something. 'Call at the shop on your way home tonight, and we'll see
what we can find. 'Ow long do you =
think
it'll take you to make the drorins and the stencils?'
'Well, today's Thursday. If you let someone else help Easton to =
get
the room ready, I think I can get them done in time to bring them with me on
Monday morning.'
'Wot do yer mean, "bring them with
you"?' demanded Nimrod.
'I shall have to do them at home, you know.'
'Do 'em at 'ome!
Why can't you do 'em 'ere?'
'Well, there's no table, for one thing.'
'Oh, but we can soon fit you out with a table.=
You
can 'ave a pair of paperhanger's tressels and boards for that matter.'
'I have a lot of sketches and things at home t=
hat
I couldn't very well bring here,' said Owen.
Misery argued about it for a long time, insist=
ing
that the drawings should be made either on the 'job' or at the paint-shop d=
own
at the yard. How, he asked, was he=
to
know at what hour Owen commenced or left off working, if the latter did the=
m at
home?
'I shan't charge any more time than I really
work,' replied Owen. 'I can't poss=
ibly
do them here or at the paint-shop. I
know I should only make a mess of them under such conditions.'
'Well, I s'pose you'll 'ave to 'ave your own w=
ay,'
said Misery, dolefully. 'I'll let =
Harlow
help Easton paint the room out, so as you can get your stencils and things
ready. But for Gord's sake get 'em=
done
as quick as you can. If you could =
manage
to get done by Friday and come down and help Easton on Saturday, it would b=
e so
much the better. And when you do g=
et a
start on the decoratin', I shouldn't take too much care over it, you know, =
if I
was you, because we 'ad to take the job for next to nothing or Mr Sweater w=
ould
never 'ave 'ad it done at all!'
Nimrod now began to crawl about the house,
snarling and grumbling at everyone.
'Now then, you chaps. Rouse yourselves!' he bellowed, 'you se=
em to
think this is a 'orspital. If some=
of
you don't make a better show than this, I'll 'ave to 'ave a Alteration! There's plenty of chaps walkin' about d=
oin'
nothin' who'll be only too glad of a job!'
He went into the scullery, where Crass was mix=
ing
some colour.
'Look 'ere, Crass!' he said. 'I'm not at all satisfied with the way =
you're
gettin' on with the work. You must=
push
the chaps a bit more than you're doin'.
There's not enough being done, by a long way. We shall lose money over this job before
we're finished!'
Crass--whose fat face had turned a ghastly gre=
en
with fright--mumbled something about getting on with it as fast as he could=
.
'Well, you'll 'ave to make 'em move a bit quic=
ker
than this!' Misery howled, 'or there'll 'ave to be a ALTERATION!'
By an 'alteration' Crass understood that he mi=
ght
get the sack, or that someone else might be put in charge of the job, and t=
hat
would of course reduce him to the ranks and do away with his chance of being
kept on longer than the others. He
determined to try to ingratiate himself with Hunter and appease his wrath b=
y sacrificing
someone else. He glanced cautiously into the kitchen and up the passage and
then, lowering his voice, he said:
'They all shapes pretty well, except Newman. I would 'ave told you about 'im before,=
but I
thought I'd give 'im a fair chance. I've
spoke to 'im several times myself about not doin' enough, but it don't seem=
to
make no difference.'
'I've 'ad me eye on 'im meself for some time,'
replied Nimrod in the same tone.
'Anybody would think the work was goin' to be sent to a Exhibition, =
the
way 'e messes about with it, rubbing it with glasspaper and stopping up eve=
ry
little crack! I can't understand w=
here
'e gets all the glasspaper FROM.'
''E brings it 'isself!' said Crass hoarsely. 'I know for a fact that 'e bought two
'a'penny sheets of it, last week out of 'is own money!'
'Oh, 'e did, did 'e?' snarled Misery. 'I'll give 'im glasspaper! I'll 'ave a
Alteration!'
He went into the hall, where he remained alone=
for
a considerable time, brooding. At =
last,
with the manner of one who has resolved on a certain course of action, he t=
urned
and entered the room where Philpot and Harlow were working.
'You both get sevenpence an hour, don't you?' =
he
said.
They both replied to the affirmative.
'I've never worked under price yet,' added Har=
low.
'Nor me neither,' observed Philpot.
'Well, of course you can please yourselves,'
Hunter continued, 'but after this week we've decided not to pay more than s=
ix
and a half. Things is cut so fine nowadays that we can't afford to go on pa=
yin'
sevenpence any longer. You can wor=
k up
till tomorrow night on the old terms, but if you're not willin' to accept s=
ix
and a half you needn't come on Saturday morning. Please yourselves. Take it or leave it.'
Harlow and Philpot were both too much astonish=
ed
to say anything in reply to this cheerful announcement, and Hunter, with the
final remark, 'You can think it over,' left them and went to deliver the sa=
me
ultimatum to all the other full-price men, who took it in the same way as
Philpot and Harlow had done. Crass=
and Owen
were the only two whose wages were not reduced.
It will be remembered that Newman was one of t=
hose
who were already working for the reduced rate.
Misery found him alone in one of the upper rooms, to which he was gi=
ving
the final coat. He was at his old
tricks. The woodwork of the cupboa=
rd be
was doing was in a rather damaged condition, and he was facing up the dents
with white-lead putty before painting it.
He knew quite well that Hunter objected to any but very large holes =
or
cracks being stopped, and yet somehow or
other he could not scamp the work to the extent that he was ordered to; and=
so,
almost by stealth, he was in the habit of doing it--not properly but as wel=
l as
he dared. He even went to the leng=
th of
occasionally buying a few sheets of glasspaper with his own money, as Crass=
had
told Hunter. When the latter came into the room he stood with a sneer on his
face, watching Newman for about five minutes before he spoke. The workman became very nervous and awk=
ward
under this scrutiny.
'You can make out yer time-sheet and come to t=
he
office for yer money at five o'clock,' said Nimrod at last. 'We shan't require your valuable servic=
es no
more after tonight.'
Newman went white.
'Why, what's wrong?' said he. 'What have I done?'
'Oh, it's not wot you've DONE,' replied
Misery. 'It's wot you've not done.=
That's wot's wrong! You've not done enough, that's all!'
Newman stood in the darkening room feeling as =
if
his heart had turned to lead. Ther=
e rose
before his mind the picture of his home and family. He could see them as they were at this =
very
moment, the wife probably just beginning to prepare the evening meal, and t=
he
children setting the cups and saucers and other things on the kitchen table=
--a
noisy work, enlivened with many a frolic and childish dispute. Even the two-year-old baby insisted on
helping, although she always put everything in the wrong place and made all
sorts of funny mistakes. They had all been so happy lately because they knew
that he had work that would last till nearly Christmas--if not longer. And now this had happened--to plunge th=
em
back into the abyss of wretchedness from which they had so recently
escaped. They still owed several w=
eeks'
rent, and were already so much in debt to the baker and the grocer that it =
was
hopeless to expect any further credit.
'My God!' said Newman, realizing the almost ut=
ter
hopelessness of the chance of obtaining another 'job' and unconsciously
speaking aloud. 'My God! How can I=
tell
them? What WILL become of us?'
Having accomplished the objects of his visit,
Hunter shortly afterwards departed, possibly congratulating himself that he=
had
not been hiding his light under a bushel, but that he had set it upon a
candlestick and given light unto all that were within that house.
As soon as they knew that he was gone, the men
began to gather into little groups, but in a little while they nearly all f=
ound
themselves in the kitchen, discussing the reduction. Sawkins and the other 'lightweights' re=
mained
at their work. Some of them got on=
ly
fourpence halfpenny--Sawkins was paid fivepence--so none of these were affe=
cted
by the change. The other two fresh
hands--the journeymen--joined the crowd in the kitchen, being anxious to
conceal the fact that they had agreed to accept the reduced rate before bei=
ng
'taken on'. Owen also was there, h=
aving
heard the news from Philpot.
There was a lot of furious talk. At first several of them spoke of 'chuc= king up', at once; but others were more prudent, for they knew that if they did leave there were dozens of others who would be eager to take their places.<= o:p>
'After all, you know,' said Slyme, who had--st=
owed
away somewhere at the back of his head--an idea of presently starting busin=
ess
on his own account: he was only waiting until he had saved enough money, 'a=
fter
all, there's something in what 'Unter says.
It's very 'ard to get a fair price for work nowadays. Things IS cut very fine.'
'Yes! We know all about that!' shouted
Harlow. 'And who the bloody 'ell i=
s it
cuts 'em? Why, sich b--rs as 'Unte=
r and
Rushton! If this firm 'adn't cut t=
his
job so fine, some other firm would 'ave 'ad it for more money. Rushton's cuttin' it fine didn't MAKE t=
his
job, did it? It would 'ave been done just the same if they 'adn't tendered =
for
it at all! The only difference is =
that
we should 'ave been workin' for some other master.'
'I don't believe the bloody job's cut fine at
all!' said Philpot.
'Rushton is a pal of Sweater's and they're both
members of the Town Council.'
'That may be,' replied Slyme; 'but all the sam=
e I
believe Sweater got several other prices besides Rushton's--friend or no
friend; and you can't blame 'im: it's only business. But pr'aps Rushton got the
preference--Sweater may 'ave told 'im the others' prices.'
'Yes, and a bloody fine lot of prices they was,
too, if the truth was known!' said Bundy.
'There was six other firms after this job to my knowledge--Pushem and
Sloggem, Bluffum and Doemdown, Dodger and Scampit, Snatcham and Graball,
Smeeriton and Leavit, Makehaste and Sloggitt, and Gord only knows 'ow many
more.'
At this moment Newman came into the room. He looked so white and upset that the o=
thers
involuntarily paused in their conversation.
'Well, what do YOU think of it?' asked Harlow.=
'Think of what?' said Newman.
'Why, didn't 'Unter tell you?' cried several
voices, whose owners looked suspiciously at him. They thought--if Hunter had not spoken =
to
Newman, it must be because he was already working under price. There had be=
en a
rumour going about the last few days to that effect.
'Didn't Misery tell you? They're not goin' to pay more than six =
and a
half after this week.'
'That's not what 'e said to me. 'E just told me to knock off. Said I didn't do enough for 'em.'
'Jesus Christ!' exclaimed Crass, pretending to=
be
overcome with surprise.
Newman's account of what had transpired was
listened to in gloomy silence. 'Th=
ose
who--a few minutes previously--had been talking loudly of chucking up the j=
ob
became filled with apprehension that they might be served in the same manne=
r as
he had been. Crass was one of the
loudest in his expression of astonishment and indignation, but he rather
overdid it and only succeeded in confirming the secret suspicion of the oth=
ers
that he had had something to do with Hunter's action.
The result of the discussion was that they dec=
ided
to submit to Misery's terms for the time being, until they could see a chan=
ce
of getting work elsewhere.
As Owen had to go to the office to see the
wallpaper spoken of by Hunter, he accompanied Newman when the latter went to
get his wages. Nimrod was waiting for them, and had the money ready in an
envelope, which he handed to Newman, who took it without speaking and went
away.
Misery had been rummaging amongst the old
wallpapers, and had got out a great heap of odd rolls, which he now submitt=
ed
to Owen, but after examining them the latter said that they were unsuitable=
for
the purpose, so after some argument Misery was compelled to sign an order f=
or
some proper cartridge paper, which Owen obtained at a stationer's on his way
home.
The next morning, when Misery went to the 'Cav=
e',
he was in a fearful rage, and he kicked up a terrible row with Crass. He said that Mr Rushton had been compla=
ining
of the lack of discipline on the job, and he told Crass to tell all the han=
ds
that for the future singing in working hours was strictly forbidden, and an=
yone
caught breaking this rule would be instantly dismissed.
Several times during the following days Nimrod
called at Owen's flat to see how the work was progressing and to impress up=
on
him the necessity of not taking too much trouble over it.
'What=
time
is it now, Mum?' asked Frankie as soon as he had finished dinner on the
following Sunday.
'Two o'clock.'
'Hooray!
Only one more hour and Charley will be here! Oh, I wish it was three o'clock now, do=
n't
you, Mother?'
'No, dear, I don't. You're not dressed yet, you know.'
Frankie made a grimace.
'You're surely not going to make me wear my
velvets, are you, Mum? Can't I go just as I am, in my old clothes?'
The 'velvets' was a brown suit of that material
that Nora had made out of the least worn parts of an old costume of her own=
.
'Of course not: if you went as you are now, yo=
u'd
have everyone staring at you.'
'Well, I suppose I'll have to put up with it,'
said Frankie, resignedly.
'And I think you'd better begin to dress me no=
w,
don't you?'
'Oh, there's plenty of time yet; you'd only ma=
ke
yourself untidy and then I should have the trouble all over again. Play with your toys a little while, and=
when
I've done the washing up I'll get you ready.'
Frankie obeyed, and for about ten minutes his
mother heard him in the next room rummaging in the box where he stored his
collection of 'things'. At the end=
of
that time, however, he returned to the kitchen.
'Is it time to dress me yet, Mum?'
'No, dear, not yet. You needn't be afraid; you'll be ready =
in
plenty of time.'
'But I can't help being afraid; you might forg=
et.'
'Oh, I shan't forget. There's lots of time.'
'Well, you know, I should be much easier in my mind if you would dress me now, because perhaps our clock's wrong, or p'r'a= ps when you begin dressing me you'll find some buttons off or something, and t= hen there'll be a lot of time wasted sewing them on; or p'r'aps you won't be ab= le to find my clean stockings or something and then while you're looking for it Charley might come, and if he sees I'm not ready he mightn't wait for me.'<= o:p>
'Oh, dear!' said Nora, pretending to be alarme=
d at
this appalling list of possibilities. 'I
suppose it will be safer to dress you at once. It's very evident you won't =
let
me have much peace until it is done, but mind when you're dressed you'll ha=
ve
to sit down quietly and wait till he comes, because I don't want the troubl=
e of
dressing you twice.'
'Oh, I don't mind sitting still,' returned
Frankie, loftily. 'That's very eas=
y.
'I don't mind having to take care of my clothe=
s,'
said Frankie as his mother--having washed and dressed him, was putting the
finishing touches to his hair, brushing and combing and curling the long ye=
llow
locks into ringlets round her fingers, 'the only thing I don't like is havi=
ng
my hair done. You know all these c=
urls
are quite unnecessary. I'm sure it would save you a lot of trouble if you
wouldn't mind cutting them off.'
Nora did not answer: somehow or other she was
unwilling to comply with this often-repeated entreaty. It seemed to her that when this hair wa=
s cut
off the child would have become a different individual--more separate and i=
ndependent.
'If you don't want to cut it off for your own
sake, you might do it for my sake, because I think it's the reason some of =
the
big boys don't want to play with me, and some of them shout after me and say
I'm a girl, and sometimes they sneak up behind me and pull it. Only yesterday I had to have a fight wi=
th a
boy for doing it: and even Charley Linden laughs at me, and he's my best
friend--except you and Dad of course.
'Why don't you cut it off, Mum?'
'I am going to cut it as I promised you, after
your next birthday.'
'Then I shall be jolly glad when it comes. Won't you?
Why, what's the matter, Mum? What
are you crying for?' Frankie was so
concerned that he began to cry also, wondering if he had done or said somet=
hing
wrong. He kissed her repeatedly, stroking her face with his hand. What's the
matter, Mother?'
'I was thinking that when you're over seven and
you've had your hair cut short you won't be a baby any more.'
'Why, I'm not a baby now, am I? Here, look at
this!'
He strode over to the wall and, dragging out t=
wo
chairs, he placed them in the middle of the room, back to back, about fifte=
en
inches apart, and before his mother realized what he was doing he had climb=
ed
up and stood with one leg on the back of each chair.
'I should like to see a baby who could do this=
,'
he cried, with his face wet with tears.
'You needn't lift me down. =
I can
get down by myself. Babies can't do
tricks like these or even wipe up the spoons and forks or sweep the
passage. But you needn't cut it of=
f if
you don't want to. I'll bear it as=
long as
you like. Only don't cry any more,
because it makes me miserable. If =
I cry
when I fall down or when you pull my hair when you're combing it you always
tell me to bear it like a man and not be a baby, and now you're crying your=
self
just because I'm not a baby. You o=
ught
to be jolly glad that I'm nearly grown up into a man, because you know I've
promised to build you a house with the money I earn, and then you needn't d=
o no
more work. We'll have a servant the same as the people downstairs, and Dad =
can
stop at home and sit by the fire and read the paper or play with me and Maud
and have pillow fights and tell stories and--'
'It's all right, dearie,' said Nora, kissing
him. 'I'm not crying now, and you
mustn't either, or your eyes will be all red and you won't be able to go wi=
th
Charley at all.'
When she had finished dressing him, Frankie sat
for some time in silence, apparently lost in thought. At last he said:
'Why don't you get a baby, Mother? You could nurse it, and I could have it=
to
play with instead of going out in the street.'
'We can't afford to keep a baby, dear. You know, even as it is, sometimes we h=
ave to
go without things we want because we haven't the money to buy them. Babies need many things that cost lots =
of
money.'
'When I build our house when I'm a man, I'll t=
ake
jolly good care not to have a gas-stove in it.
That's what runs away with all the money; we're always putting penni=
es
in the slot. And that reminds me:
Charley said I'll have to take a ha'penny to put in the mishnery box. Oh, d=
ear,
I'm tired of sitting still. I wish=
he'd
come. What time is it now, Mother?'
Before she could answer both Frankie's anxiety=
and
the painful ordeal of sitting still were terminated by the loud peal at the
bell announcing Charley's arrival, and Frankie, without troubling to observe
the usual formality of looking out of the window to see if it was a runaway
ring, had clattered half-way downstairs before he heard his mother calling =
him
to come back for the halfpenny; then he clattered up again and then down ag=
ain
at such a rate and with so much noise as to rouse the indignation of all the
respectable people in the house.
When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs he
remembered that he had omitted to say goodbye, and as it was too far to go =
up
again he rang the bell and then went into the middle of the road and looked=
up
at the window that Nora opened.
'Goodbye, Mother,' he shouted. 'Tell Dad I forgot to say it before I c=
ame
down.'
The School was not conducted in the chapel its=
elf,
but in a large lecture hall under it. At
one end was a small platform raised about six inches from the floor; on this
was a chair and a small table. A n=
umber
of groups of chairs and benches were arranged at intervals round the sides =
and
in the centre of the room, each group of seats accommodating a separate
class. On the walls--which were pa=
inted
a pale green--were a number of coloured pictures: Moses striking the Rock, =
the
Israelites dancing round the Golden Calf, and so on. As the reader is aware, Frankie had nev=
er
been to a Sunday School of any kind before, and he stood for a moment looki=
ng
in at the door and half afraid to enter.
The lessons had already commenced, but the scholars had not yet sett=
led
down to work.
The scene was one of some disorder: some of the
children talking, laughing or playing, and the teachers alternately threate=
ning
and coaxing them. The girls' and t=
he
very young children's classes were presided over by ladies: the boys' teach=
ers
were men.
The reader already has some slight knowledge o=
f a
few of these people. There was Mr Didlum, Mr Sweater, Mr Rushton and Mr Hun=
ter
and Mrs Starvem (Ruth Easton's former mistress). On this occasion, in addition to the te=
achers
and other officials of the Sunday School, there were also present a conside=
rable
number of prettily dressed ladies and a few gentlemen, who had come in the =
hope
of meeting the Rev. John Starr, the young clergyman who was going to be the=
ir
minister for the next few weeks during the absence of their regular shepher=
d,
Mr Belcher, who was going away for a holiday for the benefit of his
health. Mr Belcher was not sufferi=
ng
from any particular malady, but was merely 'run down', and rumour had it th=
at
this condition had been brought about by the rigorous asceticism of his life
and his intense devotion to the arduous labours of his holy calling.
Mr Starr had conducted the service in the Shin=
ing
Light Chapel that morning, and a great sensation had been produced by the y=
oung
minister's earnest and eloquent address, which was of a very different style
from that of their regular minister.
Although perhaps they had not quite grasped the real significance of=
all
that he had said, most of them had been favourably impressed by the young
clergyman's appearance and manner in the morning: but that might have arisen
from prepossession and force of habit, for they were accustomed, as a matte=
r of
course, to think well of any minister.
There were, however, one or two members of the congregation who were=
not
without some misgivings and doubts as to the soundness of his doctrines.
When Frankie, standing at the door, saw all the
people looking at him he drew back timidly.
'Come on, man,' said Charley. 'You needn't be afraid; it's not like a
weekday school; they can't do nothing to us, not even if we don't behave
ourselves. There's our class over =
in
that corner and that's our teacher, Mr Hunter.
You can sit next to me. Come on!'
Thus encouraged, Frankie followed Charley over=
to
the class, and both sat down. The
teacher was so kind and spoke so gently to the children that in a few minut=
es
Frankie felt quite at home.
When Hunter noticed how well cared for and well
dressed he was he thought the child must belong to well-to-do, respectable
parents. Frankie did not pay much attention to the lesson, for he was too m=
uch
interested in the pictures on the walls and in looking at the other childre=
n. He also noticed a very fat man who was =
not
teaching at all, but drifted aimlessly about he room from one class to
another. After a time he came and =
stood
by the class where Frankie was, and, after nodding to Hunter, remained near,
listening and smiling patronizingly at the children. He was arrayed in a long garment of cos=
tly
black cloth, a sort of frock coat, and by the rotundity of his figure he se=
emed
to be one of those accustomed to sit in the chief places at feasts. This was the Rev. Mr Belcher, minister =
of the
Shining Light Chapel. His short, t=
hick
neck was surrounded by a studless collar, and apparently buttonless, being
fastened in some mysterious way known only to himself, and he showed no shi=
rt
front.
The long garment beforementioned was unbuttoned
and through the opening there protruded a vast expanse of waistcoat and
trousers, distended almost to bursting by the huge globe of flesh they
contained. A gold watch-chain with=
a
locket extended partly across the visible portion of the envelope of the
globe. He had very large feet whic=
h were
carefully encased in soft calfskin boots.
If he had removed the long garment, this individual would have resem=
bled
a balloon: the feet representing the car and the small head that surmounted=
the
globe, the safety valve; as it was it did actually serve the purpose of a
safety valve, the owner being, in consequence of gross overfeeding and lack=
of
natural exercise, afflicted with chronic flatulence, which manifested itsel=
f in
frequent belchings forth through the mouth of the foul gases generated in t=
he
stomach by the decomposition of the foods with which it was generally loade=
d.
But as the Rev. Mr Belcher had never been seen with his coat off, no one ev=
er
noticed the resemblance. It was not
necessary for him to take his coat off: his part in life was not to help to
produce, but to help to devour the produce of the labour of others.
After exchanging a few words and grins with
Hunter, he moved on to another class, and presently Frankie with a feeling =
of
awe noticed that the confused murmuring sound that had hitherto pervaded the
place was hushed. The time allotte=
d for
lessons had expired, and the teachers were quietly distributing hymn-books =
to
the children. Meanwhile the balloon had drifted up to the end of the hall a=
nd
had ascended the platform, where it remained stationary by the side of the
table, occasionally emitting puffs of gas through the safety valve. On the
table were several books, and also a pile of folded cards. These latter were
about six inches by three inches; there was some printing on the outside: o=
ne
of them was lying open on the table, showing the inside, which was ruled and
had money columns.
Presently Mr Belcher reached out a flabby white
hand and, taking up one of the folded cards, he looked around upon the
under-fed, ill-clad children with a large, sweet, benevolent, fatherly smil=
e,
and then in a drawling voice occasionally broken by explosions of flatulenc=
e,
he said:
'My dear children.
This afternoon as I was standing near Brother Hunter's class I heard=
him
telling them of the wanderings of the Children of Israel in the wilderness,=
and
of all the wonderful things that were done for them; and I thought how sad =
it
was that they were so ungrateful.
'Now those ungrateful Israelites had received =
many
things, but we have even more cause to be grateful than they had, for we ha=
ve
received even more abundantly than they did.'
(Here the good man's voice was stilled by a succession of explosions=
.) 'And I am sure,' he resumed, 'that none=
of
you would like to be even as those Israelites, ungrateful for all the good
things you have received. Oh, how
thankful you should be for having been made happy English children. Now, I =
am
sure that you are grateful and that you will all be very glad of an opportu=
nity
of showing your gratitude by doing something in return.
'Doubtless some of you have noticed the unseem=
ly
condition of the interior of our Chapel.
The flooring is broken in countless places. the walls are sadly in n=
eed
of cleansing and distempering, and they also need cementing externally to k=
eep
out the draught. The seats and ben=
ches
and the chairs are also in a most unseemly condition and need varnishing.
'Now, therefore, after much earnest meditation=
and
prayer, it has been decided to open a Subscription List, and although times=
are
very hard just now, we believe we shall succeed in getting enough to have t=
he
work done; so I want each one of you to take one of these cards and go roun=
d to
all your friends to see how much you can collect. It doesn't matter how trifling the amou=
nts
are, because the smallest donations will be thankfully received.
'Now, I hope you will all do your very best. Ask everyone you know; do not refrain f=
rom
asking people because you think that they are too poor to give a donation, =
but
remind them that if they cannot give their thousands they can give the wido=
w's
mite. Ask Everyone! First of all ask those whom you feel ce=
rtain
will give: then ask all those whom you think may possibly give: and, finall=
y,
ask all those whom you feel certain will not give: and you will be surprise=
d to
find that many of these last will donate abundantly.
'If your friends are very poor and unable to g=
ive
a large donation at one time, a good plan would be to arrange to call upon =
them
every Saturday afternoon with your card to collect their donations. And while you are asking others, do not
forget to give what you can yourselves.
Just a little self-denial, and those pennies and half-pennies which =
you
so often spend on sweets and other unnecessary things might be given--as a
donation--to the good cause.'
Here the holy man paused again, and there was a
rumbling, gurgling noise in the interior of the balloon, followed by several
escapes of gas through the safety valve.
The paroxysm over, the apostle of self-denial continued:
'All those who wish to collect donations will =
stay
behind for a few minutes after school, when Brother Hunter--who has kindly
consented to act as secretary to the fund--will issue the cards.
'I would like here to say a few words of thank=
s to
Brother Hunter for the great interest he has displayed in this matter, and =
for
all the trouble he is taking to help us to gather in the donations.'
This tribute was well deserved; Hunter in fact=
had
originated the whole scheme in the hope of securing the job for Rushton &am=
p;
Co., and two-and-a-half per cent of the profits for himself.
Mr Belcher now replaced the collecting card on=
the
table and, taking up one of the hymn-books, gave out the words and afterwar=
ds
conducted the singing, flourishing one fat, flabby white hand in the air and
holding the book in the other.
As the last strains of the music died away, he
closed his eyes and a sweet smile widened his mouth as he stretched forth h=
is
right hand, open, palm down, with the fingers close together, and said:
'Let us pray.'
With much shuffling of feet everyone knelt
down. Hunter's lanky form was
distributed over a very large area; his body lay along one of the benches, =
his
legs and feet sprawled over the floor, and his huge hands clasped the sides=
of
the seat. His eyes were tightly cl=
osed
and an expression of the most intense misery pervaded his long face.
Mrs Starvem, being so fat that she knew if she
once knelt down she would never be able to get up again, compromised by sit=
ting
on the extreme edge of her chair, resting her elbows on the back of the sea=
t in
front of her, and burying her face in her hands. It was a very large face, but her hands=
were
capacious enough to receive it.
In a seat at the back of the hall knelt a
pale-faced, weary-looking little woman about thirty-six years of age, very
shabbily dressed, who had come in during the singing. This was Mrs White, the caretaker, Bert
White's mother. When her husband d=
ied,
the committee of the Chapel, out of charity, gave her this work, for which =
they
paid her six shillings a week. Of
course, they could not offer her full employment; the idea was that she cou=
ld
get other work as well, charing and things of that kind, and do the Chapel =
work
in between. There wasn't much to do: just the heating furnace to light when
necessary; the Chapel, committee rooms, classrooms and Sunday School to swe=
ep
and scrub out occasionally; the hymn-books to collect, etc. Whenever they h=
ad a
tea meeting--which was on an average about twice a week--there were the tre=
stle
tables to fix up, the chairs to arrange, the table to set out, and then,
supervised by Miss Didlum or some other lady, the tea to make. There was rather a lot to do on the days
following these functions: the washing up, the tables and chairs to put awa=
y, the
floor to sweep, and so on; but the extra work was supposed to be compensate=
d by
the cakes and broken victuals generally left over from the feast, which were
much appreciated as a welcome change from the bread and dripping or margari=
ne
that constituted Mrs White's and Bert's usual fare.
There were several advantages attached to the
position: the caretaker became acquainted with the leading members and their
wives, some of who, out of charity, occasionally gave her a day's work as
charwoman, the wages being on about the same generous scale as those she ea=
rned
at the Chapel, sometimes supplemented by a parcel of broken victuals or some
castoff clothing.
An evil-minded, worldly or unconverted person
might possibly sum up the matter thus: these people required this work done:
they employed this woman to do it, taking advantage of her poverty to impose
upon her conditions of price and labour that they would not have liked to
endure themselves. Although she wo=
rked
very hard, early and late, the money they paid her as wages was insufficien=
t to
enable her to provide herself with the bare necessaries of life. Then her employers, being good, kind,
generous, Christian people, came to the rescue and bestowed charity, in the=
form
of cast-off clothing and broken victuals.
Should any such evil-minded, worldly or
unconverted persons happen to read these lines, it is a sufficient answer to
their impious and malicious criticisms to say that no such thoughts ever
entered the simple mind of Mrs White herself: on the contrary, this very
afternoon as she knelt in the Chapel, wearing an old mantle that some years
previously had adorned the obese person of the saintly Mrs Starvem, her hea=
rt
was filled with gratitude towards her generous benefactors.
During the prayer the door was softly opened: a
gentleman in clerical dress entered on tiptoe and knelt down next to Mr
Didlum. He came in very softly, bu=
t all
the same most of those present heard him and lifted their heads or peeped
through their fingers to see who it was, and when they recognized him a sou=
nd
like a sigh swept through the hall.
At the end of the prayer, amid groans and crie=
s of
'Amen', the balloon slowly descended from the platform, and collapsed into =
one
of the seats, and everyone rose up from the floor. When all were seated and the shuffling,
coughing and blowing of noses had ceased Mr Didlum stood up and said:
'Before we sing the closin' 'ymn, the gentleman
hon my left, the Rev. Mr John Starr, will say a few words.'
An expectant murmur rippled through the hall.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The ladies lifted their eyebrows and no=
dded,
smiled and whispered to each other; the gentlemen assumed various attitudes=
and
expressions; the children were very quiet.
Everyone was in a state of suppressed excitement as John Starr rose =
from
his seat and, stepping up on to the platform, stood by the side of the tabl=
e,
facing them.
He was about twenty-six years of age, tall and
slenderly built. His clean-cut,
intellectual face, with its lofty forehead, and his air of refinement and
culture were in striking contrast to the coarse appearance of the other adu=
lts
in the room: the vulgar, ignorant, uncultivated crowd of profit-mongers and
hucksters in front of him. But it was not merely his air of good breeding a=
nd
the general comeliness of his exterior that attracted and held one. There was an indefinable something about
him--an atmosphere of gentleness and love that seemed to radiate from his w=
hole
being, almost compelling confidence and affection from all those with whom =
he
came in contact. As he stood there facing the others with an inexpressibly
winning smile upon his comely face, it seemed impossible that there could be
any fellowship between him and them.
There was nothing in his appearance to give an=
yone
even an inkling of the truth, which was: that he was there for the purpose =
of
bolstering up the characters of the despicable crew of sweaters and
slave-drivers who paid his wages.
He did not give a very long address this
afternoon--only just a Few Words; but they were very precious, original and
illuminating. He told them of cert=
ain
Thoughts that had occurred to his mind on his way there that afternoon; and=
as
they listened, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum, Hunter, and the other disciples
exchanged significant looks and gestures.
Was it not magnificent! Such
power! Such reasoning! In fact, as they afterwards modestly ad=
mitted
to each other, it was so profound that even they experienced great difficul=
ty
in fathoming the speaker's meaning.
As for the ladies, they were motionless and du=
mb
with admiration. They sat with flushed faces, shining eyes and palpitating
hearts, looking hungrily at the dear man as he proceeded:
'Unfortunately, our time this afternoon does n=
ot
permit us to dwell at length upon these Thoughts. Perhaps at some future date we may have=
the
blessed privilege of so doing; but this afternoon I have been asked to say a
Few Words on another subject. The
failing health of your dear minister has for some time past engaged the anx=
ious
attention of the congregation.'
Sympathetic glances were directed towards the
interesting invalid; the ladies murmured, 'Poor dear!' and other expression=
s of
anxious concern.
'Although naturally robust,' continued Starr,
'long, continued Overwork, the loving solicitude for Others that often
prevented him taking even necessary repose, and a too rigorous devotion to =
the
practice of Self-denial have at last brought about the inevitable Breakdown,
and rendered a period of Rest absolutely imperative.'
The orator paused to take breath, and the sile=
nce
that ensued was disturbed only by faint rumblings in the interior of the
ascetic victim of overwork.
'With this laudable object,' proceeded Starr, =
'a
Subscription List was quietly opened about a month ago, and those dear chil=
dren
who had cards and assisted in the good work of collecting donations will be
pleased to hear that altogether a goodly sum was gathered, but as it was not
quite enough, the committee voted a further amount out of the General Fund,=
and
at a special meeting held last Friday evening, your dear Shepherd was prese=
nted
with an illuminated address, and a purse of gold sufficient to defray the
expenses of a month's holiday in the South of France.
'Although, of course, he regrets being separat=
ed
from you even for such a brief period he feels that in going he is choosing=
the
lesser of two evils. It is better =
to go
to the South of France for a month than to continue Working in spite of the
warnings of exhausted nature and perhaps be taken away from you altogether-=
-to
Heaven.'
'God forbid!' fervently ejaculated several
disciples, and a ghastly pallor overspread the features of the object of th=
eir
prayers.
'Even as it is there is a certain amount of
danger. Let us hope and pray for t=
he
best, but if the worst should happen and he is called upon to Ascend, there
will be some satisfaction in knowing that you have done what you could to a=
vert
the dreadful calamity.'
Here, probably as a precaution against the
possibility of an involuntary ascent, a large quantity of gas was permitted=
to
escape through the safety valve of the balloon.
'He sets out on his pilgrimage tomorrow,'
concluded Starr, 'and I am sure he will be followed by the good wishes and
prayers of all the members of his flock.'
The reverend gentleman resumed his seat, and
almost immediately it became evident from the oscillations of the balloon t=
hat
Mr Belcher was desirous of rising to say a Few Words in acknowledgement, bu=
t he
was restrained by the entreaties of those near him, who besought him not to
exhaust himself. He afterwards sai=
d that
he would not have been able to say much even if they had permitted him to
speak, because he felt too full.
'During the absence of our beloved pastor,' sa=
id
Brother Didlum, who now rose to give out the closing hymn, 'his flock will =
not
be left hentirely without a shepherd, for we 'ave arranged with Mr Starr to
come and say a Few Words to us hevery Sunday.'
From the manner in which they constantly refer=
red
to themselves, it might have been thought that they were a flock of sheep
instead of being what they really were--a pack of wolves.
When they heard Brother Didlum's announcement a
murmur of intense rapture rose from the ladies, and Mr Starr rolled his eyes
and smiled sweetly. Brother Didlum=
did
not mention the details of the 'arrangement', to have done so at that time
would have been most unseemly, but the following extract from the accounts =
of
the chapel will not be out of place here: 'Paid to Rev. John Starr for Sund=
ay,
Nov. 14--£4.4.0 per the treasurer.' It
was not a large sum considering the great services rendered by Mr Starr, bu=
t,
small as it was, it is to be feared that many worldly, unconverted persons =
will
think it was far too much to pay for a Few Words, even such wise words as Mr
John Starr's admittedly always were. But
the Labourer is worthy of his hire.
After the 'service' was over, most of the
children, including Charley and Frankie, remained to get collecting cards. =
Mr
Starr was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and a little later, when he ro=
de
away with Mr Belcher and Mr Sweater in the latter's motor car, the ladies
looked hungrily after that conveyance, listening to the melancholy 'pip, pi=
p'
of its hooter and trying to console themselves with the reflection that they
would see him again in a few hours' time at the evening service.
In
accordance with his arrangement with Hunter, Owen commenced the work in the
drawing-room on the Monday morning.
Harlow and Easton were distempering some of the ceilings, and about =
ten
o'clock they went down to the scullery to get some more whitewash. Crass was there as usual, pretending to=
be
very busy mixing colours.
'Well, wot do you think of it?' he said as he
served them with what they required.
'Think of what?' asked Easton.
'Why, hour speshul hartist,' replied Crass wit=
h a
sneer. 'Do you think 'e's goin' to=
get
through with it?'
'Shouldn't like to say,' replied Easton guarde=
dly.
'You know it's one thing to draw on a bit of p=
aper
and colour it with a penny box of paints, and quite another thing to do it =
on a
wall or ceiling,' continued Crass.
'Ain't it?'
'Yes; that's true enough,' said Harlow.
'Do you believe they're 'is own designs?' Crass
went on.
'Be rather 'ard to tell,' remarked Easton,
embarrassed.
Neither Harlow nor Easton shared Crass's
sentiments in this matter, but at the same time they could not afford to of=
fend
him by sticking up for Owen.
'If you was to ast me, quietly,' Crass added, =
'I
should be more inclined to say as 'e copied it all out of some book.'
'That's just about the size of it, mate,' agre=
ed
Harlow.
'It would be a bit of all right if 'e was to m=
ake
a bloody mess of it, wouldn't it?' Crass continued with a malignant leer.
'Not arf!' said Harlow.
When the two men regained the upper landing on
which they were working they exchanged significant glances and laughed
quietly. Hearing these half-suppre=
ssed
sounds of merriment, Philpot, who was working alone in a room close by, put=
his
head out of the doorway.
'Wot's the game?' he inquired in a low voice.<= o:p>
'Ole Crass ain't arf wild about Owen doin' tha=
t room,'
replied Harlow, and repeated the substance of Crass's remarks.
'It is a bit of a take-down for the bleeder, a=
in't
it, 'avin' to play second fiddle,' said Philpot with a delighted grin.
''E's opin' Owen'll make a mess of it,' Easton
whispered.
'Well, 'e'll be disappointed, mate,' answered
Philpot. 'I was workin' along of O=
wen
for Pushem and Sloggem about two year ago, and I seen 'im do a job down at =
the
Royal 'Otel--the smokin'-room ceilin' it was--and I can tell you it looked a
bloody treat!'
'I've heard tell of it,' said Harlow.
'There's no doubt Owen knows 'is work,' remark=
ed
Easton, 'although 'e is a bit orf is onion about Socialism.'
'I don't know so much about that, mate,' retur=
ned
Philpot. 'I agree with a lot that =
'e
ses. I've often thought the same t=
hings
meself, but I can't talk like 'im, 'cause I ain't got no 'ead for it.'
'I agree with some of it too,' said Harlow wit=
h a
laugh, 'but all the same 'e does say some bloody silly things, you must
admit. For instance, that stuff ab=
out
money bein' the cause of poverty.'
'Yes. I can't exactly see that meself,' agreed
Philpot.
'We must tackle 'im about that at dinner-time,'
said Harlow. 'I should rather like=
to
'ear 'ow 'e makes it out.'
'For Gord's sake don't go startin' no argument=
s at
dinner-time,' said Easton. 'Leave =
'im
alone when 'e is quiet.'
'Yes; let's 'ave our dinner in peace, if
possible,' said Philpot. 'Sh!!' he added, hoarsely, suddenly holding up his
hand warningly. They listened intently.
It was evident from the creaking of the stairs that someone was craw=
ling
up them. Philpot instantly
disappeared. Harlow lifted up the =
pail
of whitewash and set it down again noisily.
'I think we'd better 'ave the steps and the pl=
ank
over this side, Easton,' he said in a loud voice.
'Yes. I
think that'll be the best way,' replied Easton.
While they were arranging their scaffold to do=
the
ceiling Crass arrived on the landing. He
made no remark at first, but walked into the room to see how many ceilings =
they
had done.
'You'd better look alive, you chaps, he said a=
s he
went downstairs again. 'If we don'=
t get
these ceilings finished by dinner-time, Nimrod's sure to ramp.'
'All right,' said Harlow, gruffly. 'We'll bloody soon slosh 'em over.'
'Slosh' was a very suitable word; very descrip=
tive
of the manner in which the work was done.
The cornices of the staircase ceilings were enriched with plaster
ornaments. These ceilings were sup=
posed
to have been washed off, but as the men who were put to do that work had not
been allowed sufficient time to do it properly, the crevices of the ornamen=
ts
were still filled up with old whitewash, and by the time Harlow and Easton =
had
'sloshed' a lot more whitewash on to them they were mere formless unsightly
lumps of plaster. The 'hands' who =
did
the 'washing off' were not to blame.
They had been hunted away from the work before it was half done.
While Harlow and Easton were distempering these
ceilings, Philpot and the other hands were proceeding with the painting in
different parts of the inside of the house, and Owen, assisted by Bert, was
getting on with the work in the drawing-room, striking chalk lines and
measuring and setting out the different panels.
There were no 'political' arguments that day at
dinner-time, to the disappointment of Crass, who was still waiting for an
opportunity to produce the Obscurer cutting.
After dinner, when the others had all gone back to their work, Philp=
ot
unobtrusively returned to the kitchen and gathered up the discarded paper
wrappers in which some of the men had brought their food. Spreading one of these open, he shook t=
he
crumbs from the others upon it. In=
this
way and by picking up particles of bread from the floor, he collected a lit=
tle
pile of crumbs and crusts. To thes=
e he
added some fragments that he had left from his own dinner. He then took the parcel upstairs and op=
ening
one of the windows threw the crumbs on to the roof of the portico. He had scarcely closed the window when =
two
starlings fluttered down and began to eat.
Philpot watching them furtively from behind the shutter. The afternoon passed uneventfully. From=
one
till five seemed a very long time to most of the hands, but to Owen and his
mate, who were doing something in which they were able to feel some interest
and pleasure, the time passed so rapidly that they both regretted the appro=
ach
of evening.
'Other days,' remarked Bert, 'I always keeps on
wishin' it was time to go 'ome, but today seems to 'ave gorn like lightnin'=
!'
After leaving off that night, all the men kept
together till they arrived down town, and then separated. Owen went by himself: Easton, Philpot, =
Crass
and Bundy adjourned to the 'Cricketers Arms' to have a drink together before
going home, and Slyme, who was a teetotaler, went by himself, although he w=
as
now lodging with Easton.
'Don't wait for me,' said the latter as he went
off with Crass and the others. 'I =
shall
most likely catch you up before you get there.'
'All right,' replied Slyme.
This evening Slyme did not take the direct road
home. He turned into the main stre=
et,
and, pausing before the window of a toy shop, examined the articles display=
ed
therein attentively. After some mi=
nutes
he appeared to have come to a decision, and entering the shop he purchased a
baby's rattle for fourpence halfpenny.
It was a pretty toy made of white bone and coloured wool, with a num=
ber
of little bells hanging upon it, and a ring of white bone at the end of the
handle.
When he came out of the shop Slyme set out for
home, this time walking rapidly. W=
hen he
entered the house Ruth was sitting by the fire with the baby on her lap.
'Where's Will got to again?' she asked.
'He's gone to 'ave a drink with some of the
chaps. He said he wouldn't be long=
,'
replied Slyme as he put his food basket on the dresser and went upstairs to=
his
room to wash and to change his clothes.
When he came down again, Easton had not yet
arrived.
'Everything's ready, except just to make the t=
ea,'
said Ruth, who was evidently annoyed at the continued absence of Easton, 'so
you may as well have yours now.'
'I'm in no hurry.
I'll wait a little and see if he comes.
He's sure to be here soon.'
'If you're sure you don't mind, I shall be gla=
d if
you will wait,' said Ruth, 'because it will save me making two lots of tea.=
'
They waited for about half an hour, talking at
intervals in a constrained, awkward way about trivial subjects. Then as Easton did not come, Ruth decid=
ed to
serve Slyme without waiting any longer. With this intention she laid the ba=
by
in its cot, but the child resented this arrangement and began to cry, so she
had to hold him under her left arm while she made the tea. Seeing her in this predicament, Slyme
exclaimed, holding out his hands:
'Here, let me hold him while you do that.'
'Will you?' said Ruth, who, in spite of her
instinctive dislike of the man, could not help feeling gratified with this
attention. 'Well, mind you don't l=
et him
fall.'
But the instant Slyme took hold of the child it
began to cry even louder than it did when it was put into the cradle.
'He's always like that with strangers,' apolog=
ized
Ruth as she took him back again.
'Wait a minute,' said Slyme, 'I've got somethi=
ng
upstairs in my pocket that will keep him quiet.
I'd forgotten all about it.'
He went up to his room and presently returned =
with
the rattle. When the baby saw the =
bright
colours and heard the tinkling of the bells he crowed with delight, and rea=
ched
out his hands eagerly towards it and allowed Slyme to take him without a mu=
rmur
of protest. Before Ruth had finish=
ed
making and serving the tea the man and child were on the very best of terms
with each other, so much so indeed that when Ruth had finished and went to =
take
him again, the baby seemed reluctant to part from Slyme, who had been danci=
ng
him in the air and tickling him in the most delightful way.
Ruth, too, began to have a better opinion of
Slyme, and felt inclined to reproach herself for having taken such an
unreasonable dislike of him at first. He
was evidently a very good sort of fellow after all.
The baby had by this time discovered the use of
the bone ring at the end of the handle of the toy and was biting it
energetically.
'It's a very beautiful rattle,' said Ruth. 'Thank you very much for it. It's just the very thing he wanted.'
'I heard you say the other day that he wanted
something of the kind to bite on to help his teeth through,' answered Slyme,
'and when I happened to notice that in the shop I remembered what you said =
and
thought I'd bring it home.'
The baby took the ring out of its mouth and
shaking the rattle frantically in the air laughed and crowed merrily, looki=
ng
at Slyme.
'Dad! Dad! Dad!' he cried, holding out his arm=
s.
Slyme and Ruth burst out laughing.
'That's not your Dad, you silly boy,' she said,
kissing the child as she spoke. 'Y=
our
dad ought to be ashamed of himself for staying out like this. We'll give him dad, dad, dad, when he d=
oes
come home, won't we?'
But the baby only shook the rattle and rang the
bells and laughed and crowed and laughed again, louder than ever.
Viewe=
d from
outside, the 'Cricketers Arms' was a pretentious-looking building with
plate-glass windows and a profusion of gilding.
The pilasters were painted in imitation of different marbles and the
doors grained to represent costly woods.
There were panels containing painted advertisements of wines and spi=
rits
and beer, written in gold, and ornamented with gaudy colours. On the lintel over the principal entran=
ce was
inscribed in small white letters:
'A. Harpy.
Licensed to sell wines, spirits and malt liquor by retail to be cons=
umed
either on or off the premises.'
The bar was arranged in the usual way, being
divided into several compartments. First
there was the 'Saloon Bar': on the glass of the door leading into this was
fixed a printed bill: 'No four ale served in this bar.' Next to the saloon bar was the jug and =
bottle
department, much appreciated by ladies who wished to indulge in a drop of g=
in
on the quiet. There were also two =
small
'private' bars, only capable of holding two or three persons, where nothing
less than fourpennyworth of spirits or glasses of ale at threepence were
served. Finally, the public bar, the largest compartment of all. At each end, separating it from the oth=
er
departments, was a wooden partition, painted and varnished.
Wooden forms fixed across the partitions and
against the walls under the windows provided seating accommodation for the
customers. A large automatic music=
al
instrument--a 'penny in the slot' polyphone--resembling a grandfather's clo=
ck
in shape--stood against one of the partitions and close up to the counter, =
so
that those behind the bar could reach to wind it up. Hanging on the partition near the polyp=
hone
was a board about fifteen inches square, over the surface of which were
distributed a number of small hooks, numbered.
At the bottom of the board was a net made of fine twine, extended by
means of a semi-circular piece of wire.
In this net several india-rubber rings about three inches in diameter
were lying. There was no table in =
the
place but jutting out from the other partition was a hinged flap about three
feet long by twenty inches wide, which could be folded down when not in
use. This was the shove-ha'penny b=
oard. The coins--old French pennies--used in
playing this game were kept behind the bar and might be borrowed on
application. On the partition, just
above the shove-ha'penny board was a neatly printed notice, framed and glaz=
ed:
NOTICE
Gentlemen using this house are requested to refrain from using obsc=
ene
language.
Alongside this notice were a number of
gaudily-coloured bills advertising the local theatre and the music-hall, and
another of a travelling circus and menagerie, then visiting the town and
encamped on a piece of waste ground about half-way on the road to Windley.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The fittings behind the bar, and the co=
unter,
were of polished mahogany, with silvered plate glass at the back of the she=
lves. On the shelves were rows of bottles and
cut-glass decanters, gin, whisky, brandy and wines and liqueurs of different
kinds.
When Crass, Philpot, Easton and Bundy entered,=
the
landlord, a well-fed, prosperous-looking individual in white shirt-sleeves,=
and
a bright maroon fancy waistcoat with a massive gold watch-chain and a diamo=
nd
ring, was conversing in an affable, friendly way with one of his regular
customers, who was sitting on the end of the seat close to the counter, a
shabbily dressed, bleary-eyed, degraded, beer-sodden, trembling wretch, who
spent the greater part of every day, and all his money, in this bar. He was a miserable-looking wreck of a m=
an
about thirty years of age, supposed to be a carpenter, although he never wo=
rked
at that trade now. It was commonly=
said
that some years previously he had married a woman considerably his senior, =
the
landlady of a third-rate lodging-house.
This business was evidently sufficiently prosperous to enable him to
exist without working and to maintain himself in a condition of perpetual
semi-intoxication. This besotted w=
retch
practically lived at the 'Cricketers'.
He came regularly very morning and sometimes earned a pint of beer by
assisting the barman to sweep up the sawdust or clean the windows. He usually remained in the bar until cl=
osing
time every night. He was a very go=
od
customer; not only did he spend whatever money he could get hold of himself,
but he was the cause of others spending money, for he was acquainted with m=
ost
of the other regular customers, who, knowing his impecunious condition, oft=
en
stood him a drink 'for the good of the house'.
The only other occupant of the public
bar--previous to the entrance of Crass and his mates--was a semi-drunken ma=
n,
who appeared to be a house-painter, sitting on the form near the shove-ha'p=
enny
board. He was wearing a battered b=
owler
hat and the usual shabby clothes. =
This
individual had a very thin, pale face, with a large, high-bridged nose, and
bore a striking resemblance to the portraits of the first Duke of
Wellington. He was not a regular
customer here, having dropped in casually about two o'clock and had remained
ever since. He was beginning to sh=
ow the
effects of the drink he had taken during that time.
As Crass and the others came in they were hail=
ed
with enthusiasm by the landlord and the Besotted Wretch, while the semi-dru=
nk
workman regarded them with fishy eyes and stupid curiosity.
'Wot cheer, Bob?' said the landlord, affably,
addressing Crass, and nodding familiarly to the others. ''Ow goes it?'
'All reet me ole dear!' replied Crass,
jovially. ''Ow's yerself?'
'A.1,' replied the 'Old Dear', getting up from=
his
chair in readiness to execute their orders.
'Well, wot's it to be?' inquired Philpot of the
others generally.
'Mine's a pint o' beer,' said Crass.
'Half for me,' said Bundy.
'Half o' beer for me too,' replied Easton.
'That's one pint, two 'arves, and a pint o' po=
rter
for meself,' said Philpot, turning and addressing the Old Dear.
While the landlord was serving these drinks the
Besotted Wretch finished his beer and set the empty glass down on the count=
er,
and Philpot observing this, said to him:
''Ave one along o' me?'
'I don't mind if I do,' replied the other.
When the drinks were served, Philpot, instead =
of
paying for them, winked significantly at the landlord, who nodded silently =
and
unobtrusively made an entry in an account book that was lying on one of the
shelves. Although it was only Mond=
ay and
he had been at work all the previous week, Philpot was already stony
broke. This was accounted for by t=
he
fact that on Saturday he had paid his landlady something on account of the
arrears of board and lodging money that had accumulated while he was out of
work; and he had also paid the Old Dear four shillings for drinks obtained =
on
tick during the last week.
'Well, 'ere's the skin orf yer nose,' said Cra=
ss,
nodding to Philpot, and taking a long pull at the pint glass which the latt=
er
had handed to him.
Similar appropriate and friendly sentiments we=
re
expressed by the others and suitably acknowledged by Philpot, the founder of
the feast.
The Old Dear now put a penny in the slot of the
polyphone, and winding it up started it playing. It was some unfamiliar tun=
e,
but when the Semi-drunk Painter heard it he rose unsteadily to his feet and
began shuffling and dancing about, singing:
=
'Oh, we'll inwite you to the wedding, An' we'll 'ave a glor=
ious
time! Where the boy=
s an' girls
is a-dancing, An'=
we'll
all get drunk on wine.'
''Ere! that's quite enough o' that!' cried the
landlord, roughly. 'We don't want =
that
row 'ere.'
The Semi-drunk stopped, and looking stupidly at
the Old Dear, sank abashed on to the seat again.
'Well, we may as well sit as stand--for a few
minutes,' remarked Crass, suiting the action to the word. The others followed his example.
At frequent intervals the bar was entered by f=
resh
customers, most of them working men on their way home, who ordered and drank
their pint or half-pint of ale or porter and left at once. Bundy began reading the advertisement o=
f the
circus and menageries and a conversation ensued concerning the wonderful
performances of the trained animals. The Old Dear said that some of them ha=
d as
much sense as human beings, and the manner with which he made this statement
implied that he thought it was a testimonial to the sagacity of the
brutes. He further said that he had
heard--a little earlier in the evening--a rumour that one of the wild anima=
ls,
a bear or something, had broken loose and was at present at large. This was what he had heard--he didn't k=
now if
it were true or not. For his own p=
art he
didn't believe it, and his hearers agreed that it was highly improbable. No=
body
ever knew how these silly yarns got about.
Presently the Besotted Wretch got up and, taki=
ng
the india-rubber rings out of the net with a trembling hand, began throwing
them one at a time at the hooks on the board.
The rest of the company watched him with much interest, laughing whe=
n he
made a very bad shot and applauding when he scored.
''E's a bit orf tonight,' remarked Philpot asi=
de
to Easton, 'but as a rule 'e's a fair knockout at it. Throws a splendid ring.'
The Semidrunk regarded the proceedings of the
Besotted Wretch with an expression of profound contempt.
'You can't play for nuts,' he said scornfully.=
'Can't I? =
span>I
can play you, anyway.'
'Right you are!
I'll play you for drinks round!' cried the Semi-drunk.
For a moment the Besotted Wretch hesitated.
'Come on then.
What's it to be? Fifty up?'=
'Anything you like! Fifty or a 'undred or a bloody million!=
'
'Better make it fifty for a start.'
'All right!'
'You play first if you like.'
'All right,' agreed the Semi-drunk, anxious to
distinguish himself. Holding the six rings in his left hand, the man stood =
in
the middle of the floor at a distance of about three yards from the board, =
with
his right foot advanced. Taking on=
e of
the rings between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, and closing h=
is
left eye, he carefully 'sighted' the centre hook, No. 13; then he slowly
extended his arm to its full length in the direction of the board: then ben=
ding
his elbow, he brought his hand back again until it nearly touched his chin,=
and
slowly extended his arm again. He
repeated these movements several times, whilst the others watched with bated
breath. Getting it right at last he
suddenly shot the ring at the board, but it did not go on No. 13; it went o=
ver
the partition into the private bar.
This feat was greeted with a roar of
laughter. The player stared at the=
board
in a dazed way, wondering what had become of the ring. When someone in the next bar threw it o=
ver the
partition again, he realized what had happened and, turning to the company =
with
a sickly smile, remarked:
'I ain't got properly used to this board yet:
that's the reason of it.'
He now began throwing the other rings at the b=
oard
rather wildly, without troubling to take aim.
One struck the partition to the right of the board: one to the left:=
one
underneath: one went over the counter, one on the floor, the other--the
last--hit the board, and amid a shout of applause, caught on the centre hook
No. 13, the highest number it was possible to score with a single throw.
'I shall be all right now that I've got the
range,' observed the Semi-drunk as he made way for his opponent.
'You'll see something now,' whispered Philpot =
to
Easton. 'This bloke is a dandy!'
The Besotted Wretch took up his position and w=
ith
an affectation of carelessness began throwing the rings. It was really a remarkable exhibition, =
for
notwithstanding the fact that his hand trembled like the proverbial aspen l=
eaf,
he succeeded in striking the board almost in the centre every time; but som=
ehow
or other most of them failed to catch on the hooks and fell into the net. When he finished his innings, he had on=
ly
scored 4, two of the rings having caught on the No. 2 hook.
''Ard lines,' remarked Bundy as he finished his
beer and put the glass down on the counter.
'Drink up and 'ave another,' said Easton as he
drained his own glass.
'I don't mind if I do,' replied Crass, pouring
what remained of the pint down his throat.
Philpot's glass had been empty for some time.<= o:p>
'Same again,' said Easton, addressing the Old =
Dear
and putting six pennies on the counter.
By this time the Semi-drunk had again opened f=
ire
on the board, but he seemed to have lost the range, for none of the rings
scored.
They flew all over the place, and he finished =
his
innings without increasing his total.
The Besotted Wretch now sailed in and speedily
piled up 37. Then the Semi-drunk h=
ad
another go, and succeeded in getting 8.
His case appeared hopeless, but his opponent in his next innings see=
med
to go all to pieces. Twice he miss=
ed the
board altogether, and when he did hit it he failed to score, until the very
last throw, when he made 1. Then the Semi-drunk went in again and got 10.
The scores were now:
Besotted Wretch ........................ 42 Semi-drunk
............................. 31
So far it was impossible to foresee the end. It was anybody's game. Crass became so
excited that he absentmindedly opened his mouth and shot his second pint do=
wn
into his stomach with a single gulp, and Bundy also drained his glass and
called upon Philpot and Easton to drink up and have another, which they
accordingly did.
While the Semi-drunk was having his next innin=
gs,
the Besotted Wretch placed a penny on the counter and called for a half a p=
int,
which he drank in the hope of steadying his nerves for a great effort. His opponent meanwhile threw the rings =
at the
board and missed it every time, but all the same he scored, for one ring, a=
fter
striking the partition about a foot above the board, fell down and caught on
the hook.
The other man now began his innings, playing v=
ery
carefully, and nearly every ring scored. As he played, the others uttered
exclamations of admiration and called out the result of every throw.
'One!'
'One again!'
'Miss!
No! Got 'im! Two!'
'Miss!'
'Miss!'
'Four!'
The Semi-drunk accepted his defeat with a good
grace, and after explaining that he was a bit out of practice, placed a
shilling on the counter and invited the company to give their orders. Everyone asked for 'the same again,' bu=
t the
landlord served Easton, Bundy and the Besotted Wretch with pints instead of
half-pints as before, so there was no change out of the shilling.
'You know, there's a great deal in not bein' u=
sed
to the board,' said the Semi-drunk.
'There's no disgrace in bein' beat by a man li=
ke
'im, mate,' said Philpot. ''E's a
champion!'
'Yes, there's no mistake about it. 'E throws a splendid ring!' said Bundy.=
This was the general verdict. The Semi-drunk, though beaten, was not
disgraced: and he was so affected by the good feeling manifested by the com=
pany
that he presently produced a sixpence and insisted on paying for another
half-pint all round.
Crass had gone outside during this conversatio=
n,
but he returned in a few minutes. =
'I
feel a bit easier now,' he remarked with a laugh as he took the half-pint g=
lass
that the Semi-drunk passed to him with a shaking hand. One after the other, within a few minut=
es,
the rest followed Crass's example, going outside and returning almost
immediately: and as Bundy, who was the last to return, came back he exclaim=
ed:
'Let's 'ave a game of shove-'a'penny.'
'All right,' said Easton, who was beginning to
feel reckless. 'But drink up first=
, and
let's 'ave another.'
He had only sevenpence left, just enough to pay
for another pint for Crass and half a pint for everyone else.
The shove-ha'penny table was a planed mahogany
board with a number of parallel lines scored across it. The game is played by placing the coin =
at the
end of the board--the rim slightly overhanging the edge--and striking it wi=
th
the back part of the palm of the hand, regulating the force of the blow
according to the distance it is desired to drive the coin.
'What's become of Alf tonight?' inquired Philp=
ot
of the landlord whilst Easton and Bundy were playing. Alf was the barman.
''E's doing a bit of a job down in the cellar;
some of the valves gone a bit wrong. But
the missus is comin' down to lend me a hand presently. 'Ere she is now.'
The landlady--who at this moment entered throu=
gh
the door at the back of the bar--was a large woman with a highly-coloured
countenance and a tremendous bust, incased in a black dress with a shot silk
blouse. She had several jewelled gold rings on the fingers of each fat white
hand, and a long gold watch guard hung round her fat neck. She greeted Crass and Philpot with
condescension, smiling affably upon them.
Meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded
merrily, the Semi-drunk taking a great interest in it and tendering advice =
to
both players impartially. Bundy was
badly beaten, and then Easton suggested that it was time to think of going
home. This proposal--slightly
modified--met with general approval, the modification being suggested by
Philpot, who insisted on standing one final round of drinks before they wen=
t.
While they were pouring this down their throat=
s,
Crass took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the slot of the
polyphone. The landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up and it beg=
an
to play 'The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.'
The Semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song,
and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet and with many
fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice:
'They may build their ships, my lads, And try to play the game, But they can't build the boys of=
the
Bulldog breed, Wot made ole=
Hingland's--'
''Ere! Stop that, will yer?' cried the Old Dea=
r,
fiercely. 'I told you once before =
that I
don't allow that sort of thing in my 'ouse!'
The Semi-drunk stopped in confusion.
'I don't mean no 'arm,' he said unsteadily,
appealing to the company.
'I don't want no chin from you!' said the Old =
Dear
with a ferocious scowl. 'If you wa=
nt to
make that row you can go somewheres else, and the sooner you goes the
better. You've been 'ere long enou=
gh.'
This was true.
The man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been
possessed of when he first came: he had no money left now, a fact that the
observant and experienced landlord had divined some time ago. He therefore wished to get rid of the f=
ellow
before the drink affected him further and made him helplessly drunk. The
Semi-drunk listened with indignation and wrath to the landlord's insulting
words.
'I shall go when the bloody 'ell I like!' he
shouted. 'I shan't ask you nor nob=
ody
else! Who the bloody 'ell are you?=
You're nobody! See? Nobody! It's orf the likes of me that you gets =
your
bloody livin'! I shall stop 'ere a=
s long
as I bloody well like, and if you don't like it you can go to 'ell!'
'Oh! =
Yer
will, will yer?' said the Old Dear.
'We'll soon see about that.' And,
opening the door at the back of the bar, he roared out: 'Alf!' 'Yes, sir,' replied a voice, evidently from the
basement. 'Just come up 'ere.' 'All right,' replied the voice, and footsteps =
were
heard ascending some stairs. 'You'll see some fun in a minute,' gleefully
remarked Crass to Easton. The polyphone continued to play 'The Boys of t=
he
Bulldog Breed.' Philpot crossed over to the Semi-drunk. 'Look 'ere, old man,' he whispered, 'ta=
ke my
tip and go 'ome quietly. You'll on=
ly git
the worse of it, you know.' 'Not me, mate,' replied the other, shaking his
head doggedly. ''Ere I am, and 'er=
e I'm
goin' to bloody well stop.' 'No, you ain't,' replied Philpot coaxingly. ''=
Look
'ere. I'll tell you wot we'll do. =
You
'ave just one more 'arf-pint along of me, and then we'll both go 'ome
together. I'll see you safe 'ome.'=
'See me safe 'ome! Wotcher mean?' indignantly
demanded the other. 'Do you think =
I'm
drunk or wot?' 'No.
Certainly not,' replied Philpot, hastily. 'You're all right, as right as I am
myself. But you know wot I mean. Let's go 'ome. You don't want to stop 'ere all night, =
do
you?'
By this time Alf had arrived at the door of the
back of the bar. He was a burly yo=
ung
man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age.
'Put it outside,' growled the landlord, indica=
ting
the culprit.
The barman instantly vaulted over the counter,
and, having opened wide the door leading into the street, he turned to the
half-drunken man and, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door, said:=
'Are yer goin'?'
'I'm goin' to 'ave 'arf a pint along of this
genelman first--'
'Yes. It's
all right,' said Philpot to the landlord.
'Let's 'ave two 'arf-pints, and say no more about it.'
'You mind your own business,' shouted the
landlord, turning savagely on him.
''E'll get no more 'ere! I =
don't
want no drunken men in my 'ouse. W=
ho
asked you to interfere?'
'Now then!' exclaimed the barman to the cause =
of
the trouble, 'Outside!'
'Not me!' said the Semi-drunk firmly. 'Not before I've 'ad my 'arf--'
But before he could conclude, the barman had
clutched him by the collar, dragged him violently to the door and shot him =
into
the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a
brewer's dray that happened to be passing.
This accomplished, Alf shut the door and retired behind the counter
again.
'Serve 'im bloody well right,' said Crass.
'I couldn't 'elp laughin' when I seen 'im go
flyin' through the bloody door,' said Bundy.
'You oughter 'ave more sense than to go
interferin' like that,' said Crass to Philpot.
'It was nothing to do with you.'
Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the ot=
hers,
peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then he opened the door and went out in=
to the
street. Crass and the others--thro=
ugh
the window--watched him assist the Semi-drunk to his feet and rub some of t=
he
dirt off his clothes, and presently after some argument they saw the two go
away together arm in arm.
Crass and the others laughed, and returned to
their half-finished drinks.
'Why, old Joe ain't drunk 'ardly 'arf of 'is!'
cried Easton, seeing Philpot's porter on the counter. 'Fancy going away like that!'
'More fool 'im,' growled Crass. 'There was no need for it: the man's all
right.'
The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as
quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot's glass. He had
just finished his own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste =
the
porter when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared.
'Hullo!
What 'ave you done with 'im?' inquired Crass.
'I think 'e'll be all right,' replied
Philpot. 'He wouldn't let me go no
further with 'im: said if I didn't go away, 'e'd go for me! But I believe 'e'll be all right. I think the fall sobered 'im a bit.'
'Oh, 'e's all right,' said Crass offhandedly.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'There's nothing the matter with 'im.'<= o:p>
Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding 'good
night' to the Old Dear, the landlady and the Besotted Wretch, they all set =
out
for home. As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over=
the
hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the wild
animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field. Just as t=
hey
reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly observed a dark obje=
ct
in the middle of the road some distance in front of them. It seemed to be a
large animal of some kind and was coming slowly and stealthily towards them=
.
They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way
through the darkness. The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground, gropi=
ng
about in search of a stone, and--with the exception of Crass, who was too
frightened to move--the others followed his example. They found several lar=
ge
stones and stood waiting for the creature--whatever it was--to come a little
nearer so as to get a fair shot at it.
They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its side a=
nd moaned
as if in pain. Observing this, the=
four
men advanced cautiously towards it.
Bundy struck a match and held it over the prostrate figure. It was the Semi-drunk.
After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had
managed to walk all right for some distance.
As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to some extent sobered him; bu=
t he
had not gone very far before the drink he had taken began to affect him aga=
in
and he had fallen down. Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling
along on his hands and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travellin=
g in
the wrong direction. Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and =
he
would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They raised him up, and Philpot, exhort=
ing
him to 'pull himself together' inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be abl=
e to
tell them his address, which was fortunately at Windley, where they all
resided.
Bundy and Philpot took him home, separating fr=
om
Crass and Easton at the corner of the street where both the latter lived.
Crass felt very full and satisfied with himsel=
f.
He had had six and a half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections=
on
the polyphone at a total cost of one penny.
Easton had but a few yards to go before reachi=
ng
his own house after parting from Crass, but he paused directly he heard the
latter's door close, and leaning against a street lamp yielded to the feeli=
ng
of giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way home.=
All the inanimate objects around him se=
emed
to be in motion. The lights of the distant street lamps appeared to be floa=
ting
about the pavement and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a trou=
bled
sea. He searched his pockets for h=
is
handkerchief and having found it wiped his mouth, inwardly congratulating
himself that Crass was not there to see him.
Resuming his walk, after a few minutes he reached his own home. As he passed through, the gate closed of
itself after him, clanging loudly. He
went rather unsteadily up the narrow path that led to his front door and
entered.
The baby was asleep in the cradle. Slyme had gone up to his own room, and =
Ruth
was sitting sewing by the fireside. The
table was still set for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea.
Easton lurched in noisily. ''Ello, old girl!' he cried, throwing h=
is
dinner basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality and
resting his hands on the table to support himself. 'I've come at last, you see.'
Ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands f=
all
into her lap, sat looking at him. =
She
had never seen him like this before. His
face was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips tremulous
and moist, and the ends of the hair of his fair moustache, stuck together w=
ith
saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily round his mouth in damp cluster=
s.
Perceiving that she did not speak or smile, Ea=
ston
concluded that she was angry and became grave himself.
'I've come at last, you see, my dear; better l=
ate
than never.'
He found it very difficult to speak plainly, f=
or
his lips trembled and refused to form the words.
'I don't know so much about that,' said Ruth,
inclined to cry and trying not to let him see the pity she could not help
feeling for him. 'A nice state you're in.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'
Easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. 'Don't be angry, Ruth. It's no good, you
know.'
He walked clumsily towards her, still leaning =
on
the table to steady himself.
'Don't be angry,' he mumbled as he stooped ove=
r her,
putting his arm round her neck and his face close to hers. 'It's no good being angry, you know, de=
ar.'
She shrank away, shuddering with involuntary
disgust as he pressed his wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. His fetid breath, foul with the smell of
tobacco and beer, and the odour of the stale tobacco smoke that exuded from=
his
clothes filled her with loathing. =
He
kissed her repeatedly and when at last he released her she hastily wiped her
face with her handkerchief and shivered.
Easton said he did not want any tea, and went
upstairs to bed almost immediately. Ruth
did not want any tea either now, although she had been very hungry before he
came home. She sat up very late, s=
ewing,
and when at length she did go upstairs she found him lying on his back, par=
tly
undressed on the outside of the bedclothes, with his mouth wide open, breat=
hing
stertorously.
This =
is an
even more unusually dull and uninteresting chapter, and introduces several
matters that may appear to have nothing to do with the case. The reader is nevertheless entreated to
peruse it, because it contains certain information necessary to an
understanding of this history.
The town of Mugsborough was governed by a set =
of
individuals called the Municipal Council.
Most of these 'representatives of the people' were well-to-do or ret=
ired
tradesmen. In the opinion of the
inhabitants of Mugsborough, the fact that a man had succeeded in accumulati=
ng
money in business was a clear demonstration of his fitness to be entrusted =
with
the business of the town.
Consequently, when that very able and successf=
ul
man of business Mr George Rushton was put up for election to the Council he=
was
returned by a large majority of the votes of the working men who thought hi=
m an
ideal personage...
These Brigands did just as they pleased. No one ever interfered with them. They never consulted the ratepayers in =
any
way. Even at election time they di=
d not
trouble to hold meetings: each one of them just issued a kind of manifesto
setting forth his many noble qualities and calling upon the people for their
votes: and the latter never failed to respond.
They elected the same old crew time after time...
The Brigands committed their depredations almo=
st
unhindered, for the voters were engaged in the Battle of Life. Take the public park for instance. Like so many swine around a trough--the=
y were
so busily engaged in this battle that most of them had no time to go to the
park, or they might have noticed that there were not so many costly plants
there as there should have been. A=
nd if
they had inquired further they would have discovered that nearly all the
members of the Town Council had very fine gardens. There was reason for these gardens bein=
g so
grand, for the public park was systematically robbed of its best to make th=
em
so.
There was a lake in the park where large numbe=
rs
of ducks and geese were kept at the ratepayers' expense. In addition to the food provided for th=
ese
fowl with public money, visitors to the park used to bring them bags of
biscuits and bread crusts. When the
ducks and geese were nicely fattened the Brigands used to carry them off and
devour them at home. When they bec=
ame
tired of eating duck or goose, some of the Councillors made arrangements wi=
th
certain butchers and traded away the birds for meat.
One of the most energetic members of the Band =
was
Mr Jeremiah Didlum, the house-furnisher, who did a large hire system
trade. He had an extensive stock of
second-hand furniture that he had resumed possession of when the unfortunate
would-be purchasers failed to pay the instalments regularly. Other of the second-hand things had been
purchased for a fraction of their real value at Sheriff's sales or from peo=
ple
whom misfortune or want of employment had reduced to the necessity of selli=
ng
their household possessions.
Another notable member of the Band was Mr Amos
Grinder, who had practically monopolized the greengrocery trade and now own=
ed
nearly all the fruiterers' shops in the town.
As for the other shops, if they did not buy their stocks from him--o=
r,
rather, the company of which he was managing director and principal
shareholder--if these other fruiterers and greengrocers did not buy their s=
tuff
from his company, he tried to smash them by opening branches in their immed=
iate
neighbourhood and selling below cost. He
was a self-made man: an example of what may be accomplished by cunning and
selfishness.
Then there was the Chief of the Band--Mr Adam
Sweater, the Mayor. He was always =
the
Chief, although he was not always Mayor, it being the rule that the latter
'honour' should be enjoyed by all the members of the Band in turn. A bright 'honour', forsooth! to be the =
first
citizen in a community composed for the most part of ignorant semi-imbecile=
s,
slaves, slave-drivers and psalm-singing hypocrites. Mr Sweater was the mana=
ging
director and principal shareholder of a large drapery business in which he =
had
amassed a considerable fortune. This was not very surprising, considering t=
hat
he paid none of his workpeople fair wages and many of them no wages at
all. He employed a great number of=
girls
and young women who were supposed to be learning dressmaking, mantle-making=
or
millinery. These were all indentur=
ed
apprentices, some of whom had paid premiums of from five to ten pounds. They were 'bound' for three years. For the first two years they received no
wages: the third year they got a shilling or eightpence a week. At the end of the third year they usual=
ly got
the sack, unless they were willing to stay on as improvers at from three
shillings to four and sixpence per week.
They worked from half past eight in the morning
till eight at night, with an interval of an hour for dinner, and at half pa=
st
four they ceased work for fifteen minutes for tea. This was provided by the firm--half a p=
int
for each girl, but they had to bring their own milk and sugar and bread and
butter.
Few of the girls ever learned their trades
thoroughly. Some were taught to ma=
ke
sleeves; others cuffs or button-holes, and so on. The result was that in a short time eac=
h one
became very expert and quick at one thing; and although their proficiency in
this one thing would never enable them to earn a decent living, it enabled =
Mr
Sweater to make money during the period of their apprenticeship, and that w=
as
all he cared about.
Occasionally a girl of intelligence and spirit
would insist on the fulfilment of the terms of her indentures, and sometimes
the parents would protest. If this=
were
persisted in those girls got on better: but even these were turned to good
account by the wily Sweater, who induced the best of them to remain after t=
heir
time was up by paying them what appeared--by contrast with the others girls'
money--good wages, sometimes even seven or eight shillings a week! and libe=
ral
promises of future advancement. Th=
ese
girls then became a sort of reserve who could be called up to crush any
manifestation of discontent on the part of the leading hands.
The greater number of the girls, however, subm=
itted
tamely to the conditions imposed upon them.
They were too young to realize the wrong that was being done them. As for their parents, it never occurred=
to
them to doubt the sincerity of so good a man as Mr Sweater, who was always
prominent in every good and charitable work.
At the expiration of the girl's apprenticeship=
, if
the parents complained of her want of proficiency, the pious Sweater would
attribute it to idleness or incapacity, and as the people were generally po=
or
he seldom or never had any trouble with them.
This was how he fulfilled the unctuous promise made to the confiding
parents at the time the girl was handed over to his tender mercy--that he w=
ould
'make a woman of her'.
This method of obtaining labour by false prete=
nces
and without payment, which enabled him to produce costly articles for a mere
fraction of the price for which they were eventually sold, was adopted in o=
ther
departments of his business. He pr=
ocured
shop assistants of both sexes on the same terms. A youth was indentured, usually for five
years, to be 'Made a Man of and 'Turned out fit to take a Position in any
House'. If possible, a premium, five, ten, or twenty pounds--according to t=
heir
circumstances--would be extracted from the parents. For the first three years, no wages: af=
ter
that, perhaps two or three shillings a week.
At the end of the five years the work of 'Maki=
ng a
Man of him' would be completed. Mr
Sweater would then congratulate him and assure him that he was qualified to
assume a 'position' in any House but regret that there was no longer any ro=
om
for him in his. Business was so ba=
d.
Still, if the Man wished he might stay on until he secured a better 'positi=
on'
and, as a matter of generosity, although he did not really need the Man's
services, he would pay him ten shillings per week!
Provided he was not addicted to drinking, smok=
ing,
gambling or the Stock Exchange, or going to theatres, the young man's future
was thus assured. Even if he were
unsuccessful in his efforts to obtain another position he could save a port=
ion
of his salary and eventually commence business on his own account.
However, the branch of Mr Sweater's business to
which it is desired to especially direct the reader's attention was the
Homeworkers Department. He employe=
d a
large number of women making ladies' blouses, fancy aprons and children's
pinafores. Most of these articles =
were
disposed of wholesale in London and elsewhere, but some were retailed at
'Sweaters' Emporium' in Mugsborough and at the firm's other retail establis=
hments
throughout the county. Many of the=
women
workers were widows with children, who were glad to obtain any employment t=
hat
did not take them away from their homes and families.
The blouses were paid for at the rate of from =
two
shillings to five shillings a dozen, the women having to provide their own
machine and cotton, besides calling for and delivering the work. These poor women were able to clear fro=
m six
to eight shillings a week: and to earn even that they had to work almost
incessantly for fourteen or sixteen hours a day. There was no time for cooking and very =
little
to cook, for they lived principally on bread and margarine and tea. Their homes were squalid, their children
half-starved and raggedly clothed in grotesque garments hastily fashioned o=
ut
of the cast-off clothes of charitable neighbours.
But it was not in vain that these women toiled
every weary day until exhaustion compelled them to cease. It was not in vain that they passed the=
ir
cheerless lives bending with aching shoulders over the thankless work that
barely brought them bread. It was =
not in
vain that they and their children went famished and in rags, for after all,=
the
principal object of their labour was accomplished: the Good Cause was advan=
ced.
Mr Sweater waxed rich and increased in goods and respectability.
Of course, none of those women were COMPELLED =
to
engage in that glorious cause. No =
one is
compelled to accept any particular set of conditions in a free country like
this. Mr Trafaim--the manager of
Sweater's Homework Department--always put the matter before them in the
plainest, fairest possible way. Th=
ere
was the work: that was the figure! And
those who didn't like it could leave it.
There was no compulsion.
Sometimes some perverse creature belonging to =
that
numerous class who are too lazy to work DID leave it! But as the manager said, there were ple=
nty of
others who were only too glad to take it.
In fact, such was the enthusiasm amongst these women--especially suc=
h of
them as had little children to provide for--and such was their zeal for the
Cause, that some of them have been known to positively beg to be allowed to
work!
By these and similar means Adam Sweater had
contrived to lay up for himself a large amount of treasure upon earth, besi=
des
attaining undoubted respectability; for that he was respectable no one
questioned. He went to chapel twice
every Sunday, his obese figure arrayed in costly apparel, consisting--with
other things--of grey trousers, a long garment called a frock-coat, a tall =
silk
hat, a quantity of jewellery and a morocco-bound gilt-edged Bible. He was an official of some sort of the
Shining Light Chapel. His name app=
eared
in nearly every published list of charitable subscriptions. No starving wretch had ever appealed to=
him
in vain for a penny soup ticket.
Small wonder that when this good and
public-spirited man offered his services to the town--free of charge--the
intelligent working men of Mugsborough accepted his offer with enthusiastic
applause. The fact that he had made
money in business was a proof of his intellectual capacity. His much-advertised benevolence was a
guarantee that his abilities would be used to further not his own private
interests, but the interests of every section of the community, especially
those of the working classes, of whom the majority of his constituents was
composed.
As for the shopkeepers, they were all so absor=
bed
in their own business--so busily engaged chasing their employees, adding up
their accounts, and dressing themselves up in feeble imitation of the
'Haristocracy'--that they were incapable of taking a really intelligent
interest in anything else. They th=
ought
of the Town Council as a kind of Paradise reserved exclusively for
jerry-builders and successful tradesmen.
Possibly, some day, if they succeeded in making money, they might be=
come
town councillors themselves! but in the meantime public affairs were no
particular concern of theirs. So s=
ome of
them voted for Adam Sweater because he was a Liberal and some of them voted
against him for the same 'reason'.
Now and then, when details of some unusually
scandalous proceeding of the Council's leaked out, the townspeople--roused =
for
a brief space from their customary indifference--would discuss the matter i=
n a
casual, half-indignant, half-amused, helpless sort of way; but always as if=
it
were something that did not directly concern them. It was during some such nine days' wond=
er
that the title of 'The Forty Thieves' was bestowed on the members of the Co=
uncil
by their semi-imbecile constituents, who, not possessing sufficient
intelligence to devise means of punishing the culprits, affected to regard =
the
manoeuvres of the Brigands as a huge joke.
There was only one member of the Council who d=
id
not belong to the Band--Councillor Weakling, a retired physician; but
unfortunately he also was a respectable man.
When he saw something going forwards that he did not think was right=
, he
protested and voted against it and then--he collapsed! There was nothing of the low agitator a=
bout
HIM. As for the Brigands, they laughed at his protests and his vote did not
matter.
With this one exception, the other members of =
the
band were very similar in character to Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and
Grinder. They had all joined the B=
and
with the same objects, self-glorification and the advancement of their priv=
ate
interests. These were the real rea=
sons
why they besought the ratepayers to elect them to the Council, but of course
none of them ever admitted that such was the case. No! When these noble-minded altruists o=
ffered
their services to the town they asked the people to believe that they were
actuated by a desire to give their time and abilities for the purpose of
furthering the interests of Others, which was much the same as asking them =
to
believe that it is possible for the leopard to change his spots.
Owing to the extraordinary apathy of the other
inhabitants, the Brigands were able to carry out their depredations
undisturbed. Daylight robberies were of frequent occurrence.
For many years these Brigands had looked with
greedy eyes upon the huge profits of the Gas Company. They thought it was a beastly shame that
those other bandits should be always raiding the town and getting clear away
with such rich spoils.
At length--about two years ago--after much stu=
dy and
many private consultations, a plan of campaign was evolved; a secret counci=
l of
war was held, presided over by Mr Sweater, and the Brigands formed themselv=
es
into an association called 'The Mugsborough Electric Light Supply and
Installation Coy. Ltd.', and bound themselves by a solemn oath to do their =
best
to drive the Gas Works Bandits out of the town and to capture the spoils at
present enjoyed by the latter for themselves.
There was a large piece of ground, the propert=
y of
the town, that was a suitable site for the works; so in their character of
directors of the Electric Light Coy. they offered to buy this land from the
Municipality--or, in other words, from themselves--for about half its value=
.
At the meeting of the Town Council when this o=
ffer
was considered, all the members present, with the solitary exception of Dr
Weakling, being shareholders in the newly formed company, Councillor Rushton
moved a resolution in favour of accepting it.
He said that every encouragement should be given to the promoters of=
the
Electric Light Coy., those public-spirited citizens who had come forward and
were willing to risk their capital in an undertaking that would be a benefi=
t to
every class of residents in the town that they all loved so well. (Applause.) There could be no doubt tha=
t the
introduction of the electric light would be a great addition to the attract=
ions
of Mugsborough, but there was another and more urgent reason that disposed =
him
to do whatever he could to encourage the Company to proceed with this work.
Unfortunately, as was usual at that time of the year (Mr Rushton's voice
trembled with emotion) the town was full of unemployed. (The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, and all t=
he
other Councillors shook their heads sadly; they were visibly affected.) The=
re was
no doubt that the starting of that work at that time would be an inestimable
boon to the working-classes. As the
representative of a working-class ward he was in favour of accepting the of=
fer
of the Company. (Hear. Hear.)
Councillor Didlum seconded. In his opinion, it
would be nothing short of a crime to oppose anything that would provide work
for the unemployed.
Councillor Weakling moved that the offer be refused. (Shame.) He admitted that the electric light wou= ld be an improvement to the town, and in view of the existing distress he would be glad to see the work started, but the price mentioned was altogether too low. It was not more than half the= value of the land. (Derisive laughter.)<= o:p>
Councillor Grinder said he was astonished at t=
he
attitude taken up by Councillor Weakling.
In his (Grinder's) opinion it was disgraceful that a member of the
council should deliberately try to wreck a project which would do so much
towards relieving the unemployed.
The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, said that he could
not allow the amendment to be discussed until it was seconded: if there wer=
e no
seconder he would put the original motion.
There was no seconder, because everyone except
Weakling was in favour of the resolution, which was carried amid loud cheer=
s,
and the representatives of the ratepayers proceeded to the consideration of=
the
next business.
Councillor Didlum proposed that the duty on all
coal brought into the borough be raised from two shillings to three shillin=
gs
per ton.
Councillor Rushton seconded. The largest consumer of coal was the Gas=
Coy.,
and, considering the great profits made by that company, they were quite
justified in increasing the duty to the highest figure the Act permitted.
After a feeble protest from Weakling, who said=
it
would only increase the price of gas and coal without interfering with the
profits of the Gas Coy., this was also carried, and after some other busine=
ss
had been transacted, the Band dispersed.
That meeting was held two years ago, and since
that time the Electric Light Works had been built and the war against the
gasworks carried on vigorously. Af=
ter
several encounters, in which they lost a few customers and a portion of the
public lighting, the Gasworks Bandits retreated out of the town and entrenc=
hed
themselves in a strong position beyond the borough boundary, where they ere=
cted
a number of gasometers. They were =
thus
enabled to pour gas into the town at long range without having to pay the c=
oal
dues.
This masterly stratagem created something like=
a
panic in the ranks of the Forty Thieves.
At the end of two years they found themselves exhausted with the
protracted campaign, their movements hampered by a lot of worn-out plant and
antiquated machinery, and harassed on every side by the lower charges of the
Gas Coy. They were reluctantly
constrained to admit that the attempt to undermine the Gasworks was a
melancholy failure, and that the Mugsborough Electric Light and Installation
Coy. was a veritable white elephant.
They began to ask themselves what they should do with it; and some of
them even urged unconditional surrender, or an appeal to the arbitration of=
the
Bankruptcy Court.
In the midst of all the confusion and
demoralization there was, however, one man who did not lose his presence of
mind, who in this dark hour of disaster remained calm and immovable, and li=
ke a
vast mountain of flesh reared his head above the storm, whose mighty intell=
ect
perceived a way to turn this apparently hopeless defeat into a glorious
victory. That man was Adam Sweater=
, the
Chief of the Band.
Durin=
g the
next four weeks the usual reign of terror continued at 'The Cave'. The men slaved like so many convicts un=
der
the vigilant surveillance of Crass, Misery and Rushton. No one felt free from observation for a
single moment. It happened frequen=
tly
that a man who was working alone--as he thought--on turning round would find
Hunter or Rushton standing behind him: or one would look up from his work to
catch sight of a face watching him through a door or a window or over the
banisters. If they happened to be
working in a room on the ground floor, or at a window on any floor, they kn=
ew
that both Rushton and Hunter were in the habit of hiding among the trees th=
at
surrounded the house, and spying upon them thus.
There was a plumber working outside repairing =
the
guttering that ran round the bottom edge of the roof. This poor wretch's life was a perfect m=
isery:
he fancied he saw Hunter or Rushton in every bush. He had two ladders to work from, and si=
nce
these ladders had been in use Misery had thought of a new way of spying on =
the
men. Finding that he never succeed=
ed in
catching anyone doing anything wrong when he entered the house by one of the
doors, Misery adopted the plan of crawling up one of the ladders, getting in
through one of the upper windows and creeping softly downstairs and in and =
out
of the rooms. Even then he never caught anyone, but that did not matter, fo=
r he
accomplished his principal purpose--every man seemed afraid to cease working
for even an instant.
The result of all this was, of course, that the
work progressed rapidly towards completion.
The hands grumbled and cursed, but all the same every man tore into =
it
for all he was worth. Although he =
did
next to nothing himself, Crass watched and urged on the others. He was 'in charge of the job': he knew =
that
unless he succeeded in making this work pay he would not be put in charge of
another job. On the other hand, if=
he
did make it pay he would be given the preference over others and be kept on=
as
long as the firm had any work. The=
firm
would give him the preference only as long as it paid them to do so.
As for the hands, each man knew that there was=
no
chance of obtaining work anywhere else at present; there were dozens of men=
out
of employment already. Besides, even if there had been a chance of getting
another job somewhere else, they knew that the conditions were more or less=
the
same on every firm. Some were even=
worse
than this one. Each man knew that unless he did as much as ever he could, C=
rass
would report him for being slow. T=
hey
knew also that when the job began to draw to a close the number of men empl=
oyed
upon it would be reduced, and when that time came the hands who did the most
work would be kept on and the slower ones discharged. It was therefore in the hope of being o=
ne of
the favoured few that while inwardly cursing the rest for 'tearing into it',
everyone as a matter of self-preservation went and 'tore into it' themselve=
s.
They all cursed Crass, but most of them would =
have
been very glad to change places with him: and if any one of them had been in
his place they would have been compelled to act in the same way--or lose the
job.
They all reviled Hunter, but most of them would
have been glad to change places with him also: and if any one of them had b=
een
in his place they would have been compelled to do the same things, or lose =
the
job.
They all hated and blamed Rushton. Yet if they had been in Rushton's place=
they
would have been compelled to adopt the same methods, or become bankrupt: fo=
r it
is obvious that the only way to compete successfully against other employers
who are sweaters is to be a sweater yourself.
Therefore no one who is an upholder of the present system can
consistently blame any of these men.
Blame the system.
If you, reader, had been one of the hands, wou=
ld
you have slogged? Or would you have
preferred to starve and see your family starve?
If you had been in Crass's place, would you have resigned rather tha=
n do
such dirty work? If you had had Hu=
nter's
berth, would you have given it up and voluntarily reduced yourself to the l=
evel
of the hands? If you had been Rush=
ton,
would you rather have become bankrupt than treat your 'hands' and your
customers in the same way as your competitors treated theirs? It may be that, so placed, you--being t=
he
noble-minded paragon that you are--would have behaved unselfishly. But no o=
ne
has any right to expect you to sacrifice yourself for the benefit of other
people who would only call you a fool for your pains. It may be true that if
any one of the hands--Owen, for instance--had been an employer of labour, he
would have done the same as other employers.
Some people seem to think that proves that the present system is all
right! But really it only proves t=
hat
the present system compels selfishness.
One must either trample upon others or be trampled upon oneself. Happiness might be possible if everyone=
were
unselfish; if everyone thought of the welfare of his neighbour before think=
ing
of his own. But as there is only a=
very
small percentage of such unselfish people in the world, the present system =
has
made the earth into a sort of hell.
Under the present system there is not sufficient of anything for
everyone to have enough. Consequen=
tly
there is a fight--called by Christians the 'Battle of Life'. In this fight some get more than they n=
eed,
some barely enough, some very little, and some none at all. The more aggressive, cunning, unfeeling=
and
selfish you are the better it will be for you.
As long as this 'Battle of Life' System endures, we have no right to
blame other people for doing the same things that we are ourselves compelle=
d to
do. Blame the system.
But that IS just what the hands did not do.
As the work in the drawing-room proceeded, Cra=
ss
abandoned the hope that Owen was going to make a mess of it. Some of the rooms upstairs being now re=
ady
for papering, Slyme was started on that work, Bert being taken away from Ow=
en
to assist Slyme as paste boy, and it was arranged that Crass should help Ow=
en
whenever he needed someone to lend him a hand.
Sweater came frequently during these four week=
s,
being interested in the progress of the work.
On these occasions Crass always managed to be present in the
drawing-room and did most of the talking.
Owen was very satisfied with this arrangement, for he was always ill=
at
ease when conversing with a man like Sweater, who spoke in an offensively
patronizing way and expected common people to kowtow to and 'Sir' him at ev=
ery
second word. Crass however, seemed=
to
enjoy doing that kind of thing. He=
did
not exactly grovel on the floor, when Sweater spoke to him, but he contrive=
d to
convey the impression that he was willing to do so if desired.
Outside the house Bundy and his mates had dug =
deep
trenches in the damp ground in which they were laying new drains. This work, like that of the painting of=
the
inside of the house, was nearly completed. It was a miserable job. Owing to the fact that there had been a=
spell
of bad weather the ground was sodden with rain and there was mud everywhere,
the men's clothing and boots being caked with it. But the worst thing about the job was t=
he
smell. For years the old drain-pip=
es had
been defective and leaky. The grou=
nd a
few feet below the surface was saturated with fetid moisture and a stench a=
s of
a thousand putrefying corpse emanated from the opened earth. The clothing of the men who were workin=
g in
the trenches became saturated with this fearful odour, and for that matter,=
so
did the men themselves.
They said they could smell and taste it all the
time, even when they were away from the work at home, and when they were at
meals. Although they smoked their pipes all the time they were at work, Mis=
ery
having ungraciously given them permission, several times Bundy and one or o=
ther
of his mates were attacked with fits of vomiting.
But, as they began to realize that the finish =
of
the job was in sight, a kind of panic seized upon the hands, especially tho=
se
who had been taken on last and who would therefore be the first to be 'stood
still'. Easton, however, felt pretty confident that Crass would do his best=
to
get him kept on till the end of the job, for they had become quite chummy
lately, usually spending a few evenings together at the Cricketers every we=
ek.
'There'll be a bloody slaughter 'ere soon,'
remarked Harlow to Philpot one day as they were painting the banisters of t=
he
staircase. 'I reckon next week will
about finish the inside.'
'And the outside ain't goin' to take very long,
you know,' replied Philpot.
'They ain't got no other work in, have they?'<= o:p>
'Not that I knows of,' replied Philpot gloomil=
y;
'and I don't think anyone else has either.'
'You know that little place they call the
"Kiosk" down the Grand Parade, near the bandstand,' asked Harlow
after a pause.
'Where they used to sell refreshments?'
'Yes; it belongs to the Corporation, you know.=
'
'It's been closed up lately, ain't it?'
'Yes; the people who 'ad it couldn't make it p=
ay;
but I 'eard last night that Grinder the fruit-merchant is goin' to open it
again. If it's true, there'll be a=
bit
of a job there for someone, because it'll 'ave to be done up.'
'Well, I hope it does come orf replied
Philpot. 'It'll be a job for some =
poor
b--rs.'
'I wonder if they've started anyone yet on the
venetian blinds for this 'ouse?' remarked Easton after a pause.
'I don't know,' replied Philpot.
They relapsed into silence for a while.
'I wonder what time it is?' said Philpot at
length. 'I don't know 'ow you feel=
, but
I begin to want my dinner.'
'That's just what I was thinking; it can't be =
very
far off it now. It's nearly 'arf an hour since Bert went down to make the
tea. It seems a 'ell of a long mor=
ning
to me.'
'So it does to me,' said Philpot; 'slip upstairs and ask Slyme what time =
it
is.'
Harlow laid his brush across the top of his
paint-pot and went upstairs. He was
wearing a pair of cloth slippers, and walked softly, not wishing that Crass
should hear him leaving his work, so it happened that without any intention=
of
spying on Slyme, Harlow reached the door of the room in which the former was
working without being heard and, entering suddenly, surprised Slyme--who was
standing near the fireplace--in the act of breaking a whole roll of wallpap=
er
across his knee as one might break a stick.
On the floor beside him was what had been another roll, now broken i=
nto
two pieces. When Harlow came in, S=
lyme
started, and his face became crimson with confusion. He hastily gathered the broken rolls to=
gether
and, stooping down, thrust the pieces up the flue of the grate and closed t=
he
register.
'Wot's the bloody game?' inquired Harlow.
Slyme laughed with an affectation of carelessn=
ess,
but his hands trembled and his face was now very pale.
'We must get our own back somehow, you know,
Fred,' he said.
Harlow did not reply. He did not understand. After puzzling over it for a few minute=
s, he
gave it up.
'What's the time?' he asked.
'Fifteen minutes to twelve,' said Slyme and ad=
ded,
as Harlow was going away: 'Don't mention anything about that paper to Crass=
or
any of the others.'
'I shan't say nothing,' replied Harlow.
Gradually, as he pondered over it, Harlow bega=
n to
comprehend the meaning of the destruction of the two rolls of paper. Slyme was doing the paperhanging
piecework--so much for each roll hung.
Four of the rooms upstairs had been done with the same pattern, and
Hunter--who was not over-skilful in such matters--had evidently sent more p=
aper
than was necessary. By getting rid=
of
these two rolls, Slyme would be able to make it appear that he had hung two
rolls more than was really the case. He
had broken the rolls so as to be able to take them away from the house with=
out
being detected, and he had hidden them up the chimney until he got an
opportunity of so doing. Harlow ha=
d just
arrived at this solution of the problem when, hearing the lower flight of
stairs creaking, he peeped over and observed Misery crawling up. He had com=
e to
see if anyone had stopped work before the proper time. Passing the two work=
men
without speaking, he ascended to the next floor, and entered the room where
Slyme was.
'You'd better not do this room yet,' said
Hunter. 'There's to be a new grate=
and
mantelpiece put in.'
He crossed over to the fireplace and stood loo=
king
at it thoughtfully for a few minutes.
'It's not a bad little grate, you know, is it?=
' he
remarked. 'We'll be able to use it
somewhere or other.'
'Yes; it's all right,' said Slyme, whose heart=
was
beating like a steam-hammer.
'Do for a front room in a cottage,' continued
Misery, stooping down to examine it more closely. 'There's nothing broke that I can see.'=
He put his hand against the register and vainly
tried to push it open. 'H'm, there's something wrong 'ere,' he remarked,
pushing harder.
'Most likely a brick or some plaster fallen do=
wn,'
gasped Slyme, coming to Misery's assistance.
'Shall I try to open it?'
'Don't trouble,' replied Nimrod, rising to his
feet. 'It's most likely what you
say. I'll see that the new grate i=
s sent
up after dinner. Bundy can fix it this afternoon and then you can go on pap=
ering
as soon as you like.'
With this, Misery went out of the room, downst=
airs
and away from the house, and Slyme wiped the sweat from his forehead with h=
is
handkerchief. Then he knelt down a=
nd,
opening the register, he took out the broken rolls of paper and hid them up=
the
chimney of the next room. While he=
was
doing this the sound of Crass's whistle shrilled through the house.
'Thank Gord!' exclaimed Philpot fervently as he
laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the
kitchen. The scene here is already
familiar to the reader. For seats,=
the
two pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight =
feet
apart and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank placed acro=
ss;
and the upturned pails and the drawers of the dresser. The floor unswept and
littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of plaster, pieces of lead pipe a=
nd
dried mud; and in the midst, the steaming bucket of stewed tea and the
collection of cracked cups, jam-jam and condensed milk tins. And on the seats the men in their shabb=
y and
in some cases ragged clothing sitting and eating their coarse food and crac=
king
jokes.
It was a pathetic and wonderful and at the same
time a despicable spectacle. Pathe=
tic
that human beings should be condemned to spend the greater part of their li=
ves
amid such surroundings, because it must be remembered that most of their ti=
me
was spent on some job or other. When 'The Cave' was finished they would go =
to
some similar 'job', if they were lucky enough to find one. Wonderful, because although they knew t=
hat
they did more than their fair share of the great work of producing the
necessaries and comforts of life, they did not think they were entitled to a
fair share of the good things they helped to create! And despicable, because
although they saw their children condemned to the same life of degradation,
hard labour and privation, yet they refused to help to bring about a better
state of affairs. Most of them tho=
ught
that what had been good enough for themselves was good enough for their chi=
ldren.
It seemed as if they regarded their own childr=
en
with a kind of contempt, as being only fit to grow up to be the servants of=
the
children of such people as Rushton and Sweater.
But it must be remembered that they had been taught self-contempt wh=
en they
were children. In the so-called 'C=
hristian'
schools they attended then they were taught to 'order themselves lowly and
reverently towards their betters', and they were now actually sending their=
own
children to learn the same degrading lessons in their turn! They had a vast amount of consideration=
for
their betters, and for the children of their betters, but very little for t=
heir
own children, for each other, or for themselves.
That was why they sat there in their rags and =
ate
their coarse food, and cracked their coarser jokes, and drank the dreadful =
tea,
and were content! So long as they =
had
Plenty of Work and plenty of--Something--to eat, and somebody else's cast-o=
ff
clothes to wear, they were content! And
they were proud of it. They glorie=
d in
it. They agreed and assured each other that the good things of life were not
intended for the 'Likes of them', or their children.
'Wot's become of the Professor?' asked the
gentleman who sat on the upturned pail in the corner, referring to Owen, who
had not yet come down from his work.
'P'raps 'e's preparing 'is sermon,' remarked
Harlow with a laugh.
'We ain't 'ad no lectures from 'im lately, sin=
ce
'e's been on that room,' observed Easton.
''Ave we?'
'Dam good job too!' exclaimed Sawkins. 'It gives me the pip to 'ear 'im, the s=
ame
old thing over and over again.'
'Poor ole Frank,' remarked Harlow. ''E does upset 'isself about things, do=
n't
'e?'
'More fool 'im!' said Bundy. 'I'll take bloody good care I don't go
worryin' myself to death like 'e's doin', about such dam rot as that.'
'I do believe that's wot makes 'im look so bad=
as
'e does,' observed Harlow. 'Several
times this morning I couldn't help noticing the way 'e kept on coughing.'
'I thought 'e seemed to be a bit better lately=
,'
Philpot observed; 'more cheerful and happier like, and more inclined for a =
bit
of fun.'
'He's a funny sort of chap, ain't he?' said
Bundy. 'One day quite jolly, singi=
ng and
cracking jokes and tellin' yarns, and the next you can't hardly get a word =
out
of 'im.'
'Bloody rot, I call it,' chimed in the man on =
the
pail. 'Wot the 'ell's the use of t=
he
likes of us troublin' our 'eads about politics?'
'Oh, I don't see that.' replied Harlow. 'We've got votes and we're really the p=
eople
what control the affairs of the country, so I reckon we ought to take SOME =
interest
in it, but at the same time I can't see no sense in this 'ere Socialist wan=
gle
that Owen's always talkin' about.'
'Nor nobody else neither,' said Crass with a
jeering laugh.
'Even if all the bloody money in the world WAS
divided out equal,' said the man on the pail, profoundly, 'it wouldn't do no
good! In six months' time it would=
be
all back in the same 'ands again.'
'Of course,' said everybody.
'But 'e 'ad a cuff the other day about money b=
ein'
no good at all!' observed Easton. =
'Don't
you remember 'e said as money was the principal cause of poverty?'
'So it is the principal cause of poverty,' said
Owen, who entered at that moment.
'Hooray!' shouted Philpot, leading off a cheer
which the others took up. 'The Pro=
fessor
'as arrived and will now proceed to say a few remarks.'
A roar of merriment greeted this sally.
'Let's 'ave our bloody dinner first, for Chris=
t's
sake,' appealed Harlow, with mock despair.
As Owen, having filled his cup with tea, sat d=
own
in his usual place, Philpot rose solemnly to his feet, and, looking round t=
he
company, said:
'Genelmen, with your kind permission, as soon =
as
the Professor 'as finished 'is dinner 'e will deliver 'is well-known lectur=
e,
entitled, "Money the Principal Cause of being 'ard up", proving as
money ain't no good to nobody. At =
the
hend of the lecture a collection will be took up to provide the lecturer wi=
th a
little encouragement.' Philpot res=
umed
his seat amid cheers.
As soon as they had finished eating, some of t=
he
men began to make remarks about the lecture, but Owen only laughed and went=
on
reading the piece of newspaper that his dinner had been wrapped in. Usually most of the men went out for a =
walk
after dinner, but as it happened to be raining that day they were determine=
d,
if possible, to make Owen fulfill the engagement made in his name by Philpo=
t.
'Let's 'oot 'im,' said Harlow, and the suggest=
ion
was at once acted upon; howls, groans and catcalls filled the air, mingled =
with
cries of 'Fraud!' 'Imposter!' 'Give us our money back!' 'Let's wreck the 'a=
ll!'
and so on.
'Come on 'ere,' cried Philpot, putting his han=
d on
Owen's shoulder. 'Prove that money is the cause of poverty.'
'It's one thing to say it and another to prove
it,' sneered Crass, who was anxious for an opportunity to produce the
long-deferred Obscurer cutting.
'Money IS the real cause of poverty,' said Owe=
n.
'Prove it,' repeated Crass.
'Money is the cause of poverty because it is t=
he
device by which those who are too lazy to work are enabled to rob the worke=
rs
of the fruits of their labours.'
'Prove it,' said Crass.
Owen slowly folded up the piece of newspaper he
had been reading and put it into his pocket.
'All right,' he replied. 'I'll show you how the Great Money Tric=
k is
worked.'
Owen opened his dinner basket and took from it=
two
slices of bread but as these were not sufficient, he requested that anyone =
who
had some bread left would give it to him.
They gave him several pieces, which he placed in a heap on a clean p=
iece
of paper, and, having borrowed the pocket knives they used to cut and eat t=
heir
dinners with from Easton, Harlow and Philpot, he addressed them as follows:=
'These pieces of bread represent the raw mater= ials which exist naturally in and on the earth for the use of mankind; they were= not made by any human being, but were created by the Great Spirit for the benef= it and sustenance of all, the same as were the air and the light of the sun.'<= o:p>
'You're about as fair-speakin' a man as I've m=
et
for some time,' said Harlow, winking at the others.
'Yes, mate,' said Philpot. 'Anyone would agree to that much! It's =
as
clear as mud.'
'Now,' continued Owen, 'I am a capitalist; or,
rather, I represent the landlord and capitalist class. That is to say, all these raw materials
belong to me. It does not matter f=
or our
present argument how I obtained possession of them, or whether I have any r=
eal
right to them; the only thing that matters now is the admitted fact that all
the raw materials which are necessary for the production of the necessaries=
of
life are now the property of the Landlord and Capitalist class. I am that class: all these raw materials
belong to me.'
'Good enough!' agreed Philpot.
'Now you three represent the Working class: you
have nothing--and for my part, although I have all these raw materials, they
are of no use to me--what I need is--the things that can be made out of the=
se
raw materials by Work: but as I am too lazy to work myself, I have invented=
the
Money Trick to make you work FOR me. But
first I must explain that I possess something else beside the raw
materials. These three knives
represent--all the machinery of production; the factories, tools, railways,=
and
so forth, without which the necessaries of life cannot be produced in
abundance. And these three
coins'--taking three halfpennies from his pocket--'represent my Money Capit=
al.'
'But before we go any further,' said Owen,
interrupting himself, 'it is most important that you remember that I am not
supposed to be merely "a" capitalist.
I represent the whole Capitalist Class.
You are not supposed to be just three workers--you represent the who=
le
Working Class.'
'All right, all right,' said Crass, impatientl=
y,
'we all understand that. Git on wi=
th
it.'
Owen proceeded to cut up one of the slices of
bread into a number of little square blocks.
'These represent the things which are produced=
by
labour, aided by machinery, from the raw materials. We will suppose that three of these blo=
cks
represent--a week's work. We will
suppose that a week's work is worth--one pound: and we will suppose that ea=
ch
of these ha'pennies is a sovereign. We'd
be able to do the trick better if we had real sovereigns, but I forgot to b=
ring
any with me.'
'I'd lend you some,' said Philpot, regretfully,
'but I left me purse on our grand pianner.'
As by a strange coincidence nobody happened to
have any gold with them, it was decided to make shift with the halfpence.
'Now this is the way the trick works--'
'Before you goes on with it,' interrupted Phil=
pot,
apprehensively, 'don't you think we'd better 'ave someone to keep watch at =
the
gate in case a Slop comes along? We
don't want to get runned in, you know.'
'I don't think there's any need for that,' rep=
lied
Owen, 'there's only one slop who'd interfere with us for playing this game,=
and
that's Police Constable Socialism.'
'Never mind about Socialism,' said Crass,
irritably. 'Get along with the blo=
ody
trick.'
Owen now addressed himself to the working clas=
ses
as represented by Philpot, Harlow and Easton.
'You say that you are all in need of employmen=
t,
and as I am the kind-hearted capitalist class I am going to invest all my m=
oney
in various industries, so as to give you Plenty of Work. I shall pay each of you one pound per w=
eek,
and a week's work is--you must each produce three of these square blocks. For doing this work you will each recei=
ve
your wages; the money will be your own, to do as you like with, and the thi=
ngs
you produce will of course be mine, to do as I like with. You will each take one of these machine=
s and
as soon as you have done a week's work, you shall have your money.'
The Working Classes accordingly set to work, a=
nd
the Capitalist class sat down and watched them.
As soon as they had finished, they passed the nine little blocks to
Owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by his side and paid the workers
their wages.
'These blocks represent the necessaries of
life. You can't live without some =
of
these things, but as they belong to me, you will have to buy them from me: =
my
price for these blocks is--one pound each.'
As the working classes were in need of the
necessaries of life and as they could not eat, drink or wear the useless mo=
ney,
they were compelled to agree to the kind Capitalist's terms. They each bought back and at once consu=
med
one-third of the produce of their labour. The capitalist class also devoured
two of the square blocks, and so the net result of the week's work was that=
the
kind capitalist had consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the
labour of the others, and reckoning the squares at their market value of one
pound each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the
three pounds in money and in addition four pounds worth of goods. As for the working classes, Philpot, Ha=
rlow
and Easton, having each consumed the pound's worth of necessaries they had
bought with their wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as
when they started work--they had nothing.
This process was repeated several times: for e=
ach
week's work the producers were paid their wages. They kept on working and spending all t=
heir
earnings. The kind-hearted capital=
ist
consumed twice as much as any one of them and his pile of wealth continually
increased. In a little while--reckoning the little squares at their market
value of one pound each--he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the wor=
king
classes were still in the same condition as when they began, and were still
tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon it.
After a while the rest of the crowd began to
laugh, and their merriment increased when the kind-hearted capitalist, just
after having sold a pound's worth of necessaries to each of his workers,
suddenly took their tools--the Machinery of Production--the knives away from
them, and informed them that as owing to Over Production all his store-hous=
es
were glutted with the necessaries of life, he had decided to close down the
works.
'Well, and wot the bloody 'ell are we to do no=
w?'
demanded Philpot.
'That's not my business,' replied the kind-hea=
rted
capitalist. 'I've paid you your wa=
ges,
and provided you with Plenty of Work for a long time past. I have no more work for you to do at
present. Come round again in a few
months' time and I'll see what I can do for you.'
'But what about the necessaries of life?' dema=
nded
Harlow. 'We must have something to=
eat.'
'Of course you must,' replied the capitalist,
affably; 'and I shall be very pleased to sell you some.'
'But we ain't got no bloody money!'
'Well, you can't expect me to give you my goods
for nothing! You didn't work for m=
e for
nothing, you know. I paid you for =
your
work and you should have saved something: you should have been thrifty like=
me.
Look how I have got on by being thrifty!'
The unemployed looked blankly at each other, b=
ut
the rest of the crowd only laughed; and then the three unemployed began to
abuse the kind-hearted Capitalist, demanding that he should give them some =
of
the necessaries of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to be
allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs; and even threate=
ned
to take some of the things by force if he did not comply with their
demands. But the kind-hearted Capi=
talist
told them not to be insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said if =
they
were not careful he would have their faces battered in for them by the poli=
ce,
or if necessary he would call out the military and have them shot down like
dogs, the same as he had done before at Featherstone and Belfast.
'Of course,' continued the kind-hearted
capitalist, 'if it were not for foreign competition I should be able to sell
these things that you have made, and then I should be able to give you Plen=
ty
of Work again: but until I have sold them to somebody or other, or until I =
have
used them myself, you will have to remain idle.'
'Well, this takes the bloody biskit, don't it?'
said Harlow.
'The only thing as I can see for it,' said Phi=
lpot
mournfully, 'is to 'ave a unemployed procession.'
'That's the idear,' said Harlow, and the three
began to march about the room in Indian file, singing:
'We've got no work to do-oo-oo' =
We've got no work to do-oo-oo! =
Just because we've been workin' a dam sight too hard, Now we've got no work to do.'
As they marched round, the crowd jeered at them
and made offensive remarks. Crass =
said
that anyone could see that they were a lot of lazy, drunken loafers who had
never done a fair day's work in their lives and never intended to.
'We shan't never get nothing like this, you kn=
ow,'
said Philpot. 'Let's try the religious dodge.'
'All right,' agreed Harlow. 'What shall we give 'em?'
'I know!' cried Philpot after a moment's
deliberation. '"Let my lower =
lights
be burning." That always make=
s 'em
part up.'
The three unemployed accordingly resumed their
march round the room, singing mournfully and imitating the usual whine of
street-singers:
'Trim your fee-bil lamp me brither-in, Some poor sail-er tempest torst,=
Strugglin' 'ard to save the 'arb=
-er, Hin the dark-niss may be lorst,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So let try lower lights be
burning, Send 'er gleam acrost the wave, Some poor shipwrecked, struggling
seaman, You may rescue, you=
may
save.'
'Kind frens,' said Philpot, removing his cap a=
nd
addressing the crowd, 'we're hall honest British workin' men, but we've bee=
n hout
of work for the last twenty years on account of foreign competition and
over-production. We don't come hou=
t 'ere
because we're too lazy to work; it's because we can't get a job. If it wasn't for foreign competition, t=
he
kind'earted Hinglish capitalists would be able to sell their goods and give=
us
Plenty of Work, and if they could, I assure you that we should hall be
perfectly willing and contented to go on workin' our bloody guts out for the
benefit of our masters for the rest of our lives. We're quite willin' to work: that's hal=
l we
arst for--Plenty of Work--but as we can't get it we're forced to come out '=
ere
and arst you to spare a few coppers towards a crust of bread and a night's
lodgin'.'
As Philpot held out his cap for subscriptions,
some of them attempted to expectorate into it, but the more charitable put =
in
pieces of cinder or dirt from the floor, and the kind-hearted capitalist wa=
s so
affected by the sight of their misery that he gave them one of the sovereig=
ns
he had in us pocket: but as this was of no use to them they immediately
returned it to him in exchange for one of the small squares of the necessar=
ies
of life, which they divided and greedily devoured. And when they had finished eating they =
gathered
round the philanthropist and sang, 'For he's a jolly good fellow,' and
afterwards Harlow suggested that they should ask him if he would allow them=
to
elect him to Parliament.
The
following morning--Saturday--the men went about their work in gloomy silenc=
e;
there were but few attempts at conversation and no jests or singing. The tenor of the impending slaughter pe=
rvaded
the house. Even those who were con=
fident
of being spared and kept on till the job was finished shared the general
depression, not only out of sympathy for the doomed, but because they knew =
that
a similar fate awaited themselves a little later on.
They all waited anxiously for Nimrod to come, =
but
hour after hour dragged slowly by and he did not arrive. At half past eleven some of those who h=
ad
made up their minds that they were to be 'stood still' began to hope that t=
he
slaughter was to be deferred for a few days: after all, there was plenty of
work still to be done: even if all hands were kept on, the job could scarce=
ly
be finished in another week. Anyhow, it would not be very long now before t=
hey
would know one way or the other. I=
f he
did not come before twelve, it was all right: all the hands were paid by the
hour and were therefore entitled to an hour's notice.
Easton and Harlow were working together on the
staircase, finishing the doors and other woodwork with white enamel. The men had not been allowed to spend t=
he
time necessary to prepare this work in a proper manner, it had not been rub=
bed
down smooth or properly filled up, and it had not had a sufficient number of
coats of paint to make it solid white.
Now that the glossy enamel was put on, the work looked rather rough =
and
shady.
'It ain't 'arf all right, ain't it?' remarked
Harlow, sarcastically, indicating the door he had just finished.
Easton laughed: 'I can't understand how people
pass such work,' he said.
'Old Sweater did make some remark about it the
other day,' replied Harlow, 'and I heard Misery tell 'im it was impossible =
to
make a perfect job of such old doors.'
'I believe that man's the biggest liar Gord ev=
er
made,' said Easton, an opinion in which Harlow entirely concurred.
'I wonder what the time is?' said the latter a=
fter
a pause.
'I don't know exactly,' replied Easton, 'but it
can't be far off twelve.'
''E don't seem to be comin', does 'e?' Harlow
continued.
'No: and I shouldn't be surprised if 'e didn't turn up at all, now. P'raps 'e don't mean to stop nobody today after all.'<= o:p>
They spoke in hushed tones and glanced cautiou=
sly
about them fearful of being heard or observed.
'This is a bloody life, ain't it?' Harlow said,
bitterly. 'Workin' our guts out li=
ke a
lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and then as soon as they've =
done
with you, you're chucked aside like a dirty rag.'
'Yes: and I begin to think that a great deal of
what Owen says is true. But for my part I can't see 'ow it's ever goin' to =
be
altered, can you?'
Blowed if I know, mate. But whether it can be altered or not, t=
here's
one thing very certain; it won't be done in our time.'
Neither of them seemed to think that if the
'alteration' they spoke of were to be accomplished at all they themselves w=
ould
have to help to bring it about.
'I wonder what they're doin' about the venetian
blinds?' said Easton. 'Is there anyone doin' em yet?'
'I don't know; ain't 'eard nothing about 'em s=
ince
the boy took 'em to the shop.'
There was quite a mystery about these blinds.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> About a month ago they were taken to the
paint-shop down at the yard to be repainted and re-harnessed, and since then
nothing had been heard of them by the men working at the 'Cave'.
'P'hap's a couple of us will be sent there to =
do
'em next week,' remarked Harlow.
'P'hap's so.
Most likely they'll 'ave to be done in a bloody 'urry at the last
minute.'
Presently Harlow--who was very anxious to know
what time it was--went downstairs to ask Slyme.
It was twenty minutes to twelve.
From the window of the room where Slyme was
papering, one could see into the front garden. Harlow paused a moment to wa=
tch
Bundy and the labourers, who were still working in the trenches at the drai=
ns,
and as he looked out he saw Hunter approaching the house. Harlow drew back hastily and returned t=
o his
work, and as he went he passed the word to the other men, warning them of t=
he
approach of Misery.
Hunter entered in his usual manner and, after
crawling quietly about the house for about ten minutes, he went into the
drawing room.
'I see you're putting the finishing touches on=
at
last,' he said.
'Yes,' replied Owen. 'I've only got this bit of outlining to=
do
now.'
'Ah, well, it looks very nice, of course,' said Misery in a voice of mourning, 'but we've lost money over it. It's taken you a week longer to do than= we allowed for; you said three weeks and it's taken you a month; and we only allowed for fifteen books of gold, but you've been and used twenty-three.'<= o:p>
'You can hardly blame me for that, you know,'
answered Owen. 'I could have got i=
t done
in the three weeks, but Mr Rushton told me not to hurry for the sake of a d=
ay
or two, because he wanted a good job. He
said he would rather lose a little over it than spoil it; and as for the ex=
tra
gold, that was also his order.'
'Well, I suppose it can't be helped,' whined
Misery. 'Anyhow, I'm very glad it's
done, because this kind of work don't pay.
We'll 'ave you back on the brush on Monday morning; we want to get
outside done next week if it keeps fine.'
The 'brush' alluded to by Nimrod was the large
'pound' brush used in ordinary painting.
Misery now began wandering about the house, in=
and
out of the rooms, sometimes standing for several minutes silently watching =
the
hands as they worked. As he watched them the men became nervous and awkward,
each one dreading that he might be one of those who were to be paid off at =
one
o'clock.
At about five minutes to twelve Hunter went do=
wn
to the paint-shop--the scullery--where Crass was mixing some colour, and
getting ready some 'empties' to be taken to the yard.
'I suppose the b--r's gone to ask Crass which =
of
us is the least use,' whispered Harlow to Easton.
'I wouldn't be surprised if it was you and me,=
for
two,' replied the latter in the same tone.
'You can't trust Crass you know, for all 'e seems so friendly to our
faces. You never know what 'e ses =
behind
our backs.'
'You may be sure it won't be Sawkins or any of=
the
other light-weights, because Nimrod won't want to pay us sixpence ha'penny =
for
painting guttering and rainpipes when THEY can do it near enough for fourpe=
nce
ha'penny and fivepence. They won't=
be
able to do the sashes, though, will they?'
'I don't know so much about that,' replied
Easton. 'Anything seems to be good
enough for Hunter.'
'Look out!
Ere 'e comes!' said Harlow, and they both relapsed into silence and
busied themselves with their work.
Misery stood watching them for some time without speaking, and then =
went
out of the house. They crept cautiously to the window of a room that overlo=
oked
the garden and, peeping furtively out, they saw him standing on the brink of
one of the trenches, moodily watching Bundy and his mates as they toiled at=
the
drains. Then, to their surprise and
relief, he turned and went out of the gate!
They just caught sight of one of the wheels of his bicycle as he rode
away.
The slaughter was evidently to be put off until
next week! It seemed too good to b=
e true.
'P'hap's 'e's left a message for some of us wi=
th
Crass?' suggested Easton. 'I don't=
think
it's likely, but it's just possible.'
'Well, I'm goin' down to ask 'im,' said Harlow,
desperately. 'We may as well know =
the
worst at once.'
He returned in a few minutes with the informat=
ion
that Hunter had decided not to stop anyone that day because he wanted to get
the outside finished during the next week, if possible.
The hands received this intelligence with mixed
feelings, because although it left them safe for the present, it meant that
nearly everybody would certainly be stopped next Saturday, if not before;
whereas if a few had been sacked today it would have made it all the better=
for
the rest. Still, this aspect of the
business did not greatly interfere with the relief that they all felt at
knowing that the immediate danger was over; and the fact that it was
Saturday--pay-day--also served to revive their drooping spirits. They all felt pretty certain that Misery
would return no more that day, and presently Harlow began to sing the old
favourite. 'Work! for the night is
coming!' the refrain of which was soon taken up by nearly everyone in the
house:
'Work! for the night is coming, =
Work in the morning hours.
Work! for the night is coming, =
Work 'mid springing flowers.
'Work while the dew is sparkling, =
Work in the noonday sun!
Work! for the night is coming =
When man's work is done!'
When this hymn was finished, someone else,
imitating the whine of a street-singer, started, 'Oh, where is my wandering=
boy
tonight?' and then Harlow--who by some strange chance had a penny--took it =
out
of his pocket and dropped it on the floor, the ringing of the coin being
greeted with shouts of 'Thank you, kind lady,' from several of the
singers. This little action of Har=
low's
was the means of bringing a most extraordinary circumstance to light. Although it was Saturday morning, sever=
al of
the others had pennies or half-pence! and at the conclusion of each verse t=
hey
all followed Harlow's example and the house resounded with the ringing of
falling coins, cries of 'Thank you, kind lady,' 'Thank you, sir,' and 'Gord
bless you,' mingled with shouts of laughter.
'My wandering boy' was followed by a choice se=
lection
of choruses of well-known music-hall songs, including 'Goodbye, my Bluebell=
',
'The Honeysuckle and the Bee', 'I've got 'em!' and 'The Church Parade', the
whole being tastefully varied and interspersed with howls, shrieks, curses,
catcalls, and downward explosions of flatulence.
In the midst of the uproar Crass came upstairs=
.
''Ere!' he shouted. 'For Christ's sake make less row! Suppose Nimrod was to come back!'
'Oh, he ain't comin' any more today,' said Har=
low,
recklessly.
'Besides, what if 'e does come?' cried
Easton. 'Oo cares for 'im?'
'Well, we never know; and for that matter Rush=
ton
or Sweater might come at any minit.'
With this, Crass went muttering back to the
scullery, and the men relapsed into their usual silence.
At ten minutes to one they all ceased work, put
away their colours and locked up the house.
There were a number of 'empties' to be taken away and left at the ya=
rd
on their way to the office; these Crass divided amongst the others--carrying
nothing himself--and then they all set out for the office to get their mone=
y,
cracking jokes as they went along. Harlow and Easton enlivened the journey =
by
coughing significantly whenever they met a young woman, and audibly making =
some
complimentary remark about her personal appearance. If the girl smiled, each of them eagerly
claimed to have 'seen her first', but if she appeared offended or 'stuck up=
',
they suggested that she was cross-cut or that she had been eating vinegar w=
ith
a fork. Now and then they kissed t=
heir
hands affectionately to servant-girls whom they saw looking out of windows.
Some of these girls laughed, others looked indignant, but whichever way they
took it was equally amusing to Crass and the rest, who were like a crowd of
boys just let out of school.
It will be remembered that there was a back do=
or
to Rushton's office; in this door was a small sliding panel or trap-door wi=
th a
little shelf at the bottom. The men
stood in the road on the pavement outside the closed door, their money being
passed out to them through the sliding panel.
As there was no shelter, when it rained they occasionally got wet
through while waiting to be paid. =
With
some firms it is customary to call out the names of the men and pay them in
order of seniority or ability, but there was no such system here; the man w=
ho
got to the aperture first was paid first, and so on. The result was that there was always a =
sort
of miniature 'Battle of Life', the men pushing and struggling against each
other as if their lives depended upon their being paid by a certain time.
On the ledge of the little window through which
their money was passed there was always a Hospital collection-box. Every man put either a penny or twopenc=
e into
this box. Of course, it was not
compulsory to do so, but they all did, because they felt that any man who
omitted to contribute might be 'marked'.
They did not all agree with contributing to the Hospital, for several
reasons. They knew that the doctor=
s at the
Hospital made a practice of using the free patients to make experiments upo=
n,
and they also knew that the so-called 'free' patients who contribute so very
largely directly to the maintenance of such institutions, get scant
consideration when they apply for the 'free' treatment, and are plainly giv=
en
to understand that they are receiving 'charity'. Some of the men thought that, consideri=
ng the
extent to which they contributed, they should be entitled to attention as a
right.
After receiving their wages, Crass, Easton, Bu=
ndy,
Philpot, Harlow and a few others adjourned to the Cricketers for a drink. Owen went away alone, and Slyme also we=
nt on
by himself. There was no use waiti=
ng for
Easton to come out of the public house, because there was no knowing how lo=
ng
he would be; he might stay half an hour or two hours.
On his way home, in accordance with his usual
custom, Slyme called at the Post Office to put some of his wages in the
bank. Like most other 'Christians'=
, he
believed in taking thought for the morrow, what he should eat and drink and
wherewithal he was to be clothed. =
He thought
it wise to layup for himself as much treasure upon earth as possible. The f=
act
that Jesus said that His disciples were not to do these things made no more
difference to Slyme's conduct than it does to the conduct of any other
'Christian'. They are all agreed t=
hat
when Jesus said this He meant something else: and all the other inconvenient
things that Jesus said are disposed of in the same way. For instance, these 'disciples' assure =
us
that when Jesus said, 'Resist not evil', 'If a man smite thee upon he right
cheek turn unto him also the left', He really meant 'Turn on to him a Maxim
gun; disembowel him with a bayonet or batter in his skull with the butt end=
of
a rifle!' When He said, 'If one ta=
ke thy
coat, give him thy cloak also,' the 'Christians' say that what He really me=
ant
was: 'If one take thy coat, give him six months' hard labour. A few of the
followers of Jesus admit that He really did mean just what He said, but they
say that the world would never be able to go on if they followed out His
teachings! That is true. It is pro=
bably
the effect that Jesus intended His teachings to produce. It is altogether improbable that He wis=
hed
the world to continue along its present lines.
But, if these pretended followers really think--as they say that they
do--that the teachings of Jesus are ridiculous and impracticable, why conti=
nue
the hypocritical farce of calling themselves 'Christians' when they don't
really believe in or follow Him at all?
As Jesus himself pointed out, there's no sense=
in
calling Him 'Lord, Lord' when they do not the things that He said.
This banking transaction finished, Slyme resum=
ed
his homeward way, stopping only to purchase some sweets at a
confectioner's. He spent a whole
sixpence at once in this shop on a glass jar of sweets for the baby.
Ruth was not surprised when she saw him come in
alone; it was the usual thing since Easton had become so friendly with Cras=
s.
She made no reference to his absence, but Slyme
noticed with secret chagrin that she was annoyed and disappointed. She was just finishing scrubbing the ki=
tchen
floor and little Freddie was sitting up in a baby's high chair that had a
little shelf or table fixed in front of it.
To keep him amused while she did her work, Ruth had given him a piec=
e of
bread and raspberry jam, which the child had rubbed all over his face and i=
nto
his scalp, evidently being under the impression that it was something for t=
he
improvement of the complexion, or a cure for baldness. He now looked as if he had been in a fi=
ght or
a railway accident. The child hail=
ed the
arrival of Slyme with enthusiasm, being so overcome with emotion that he be=
gan
to shed tears, and was only pacified when the man gave him the jar of sweets
and took him out of the chair.
Slyme's presence in the house had not proved so
irksome as Easton and Ruth had dreaded it would be. Indeed, at first, he made a point of re=
tiring
to his own room after tea every evening, until they invited him to stay
downstairs in the kitchen. Nearly =
every
Wednesday and Saturday he went to a meeting, or an open-air preaching, when=
the
weather permitted, for he was one of a little zealous band of people connec=
ted
with the Shining Light Chapel who carried on the 'open-air' work all the ye=
ar
round. After a while, the Eastons =
not
only became reconciled to his presence in the house, but were even glad of =
it.
Ruth especially would often have been very lonely if he had not been there,=
for
it had lately become Easton's custom to spend a few evenings every week with
Crass at the Cricketers.
When at home Slyme passed his time playing a
mandolin or making fretwork photo frames.
Ruth had the baby's photograph taken a few weeks after Slyme came, a=
nd
the frame he made for it was now one of the ornaments of the sitting-room.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The instinctive, unreasoning aversion s=
he had
at first felt for him had passed away.
In a quiet, unobtrusive manner he did her so many little services th=
at
she found it impossible to dislike him.
At first, she used to address him as 'Mr' but after a time she fell
naturally into Easton's practice of calling him by his first name.
As for the baby, he made no secret of his
affection for the lodger, who nursed and played with him for hours at a
stretch.
'I'll serve your dinner now, Alf,' said Ruth w=
hen
she had finished scrubbing the floor, 'but I'll wait for mine for a little
while. Will may come.'
'I'm in no hurry,' replied Slyme. 'I'll go and have a wash; he may be here
then.'
As he spoke, Slyme--who had been sitting by the fire nursing the baby--who was trying to swallow the jar of sweets--put the child back into the high chair, giving him one of the sticks of sweet out of the jar to keep him quiet; and went upstairs to his own room. He came down again in about a quarter o= f an hour, and Ruth proceeded to serve his dinner, for Easton was still absent.<= o:p>
'If I was you, I wouldn't wait for Will,' said
Slyme, 'he may not come for another hour or two. It's after two o'clock now, and I'm sur=
e you
must be hungry.'
'I suppose I may as well,' replied Ruth,
hesitatingly. 'He'll most likely g=
et
some bread and cheese at the "Cricketers", same as he did last
Saturday.'
'Almost sure to,' responded Slyme.
The baby had had his face washed while Slyme w=
as
upstairs. Directly he saw his moth=
er
eating he threw away the sugar-stick and began to cry, holding out his arms=
to
her. She had to take him on her lap
whilst she ate her dinner, and feed him with pieces from her plate.
Slyme talked all the time, principally about t=
he
child. He was very fond of childre=
n, he
said, and always got on well with them, but he had really never known such =
an
intelligent child--for his age--as Freddie. His fellow-workmen would have b=
een
astonished had they been present to hear him talking about the shape of the
baby's head. They would have been
astonished at the amount of knowledge he appeared to possess of the science=
of
Phrenology. Ruth, at any rate, tho=
ught
he was very clever.
After a time the child began to grow fretful a=
nd
refused to eat; when his mother gave him a fresh piece of sugar-stick out of
the jar he threw it peevishly on the floor and began to whimper, rubbing his
face against his mother's bosom and pulling at her dress with his hands. Wh=
en
Slyme first came Ruth had made a practice of withdrawing from the room if he
happened to be present when she wanted to nurse the child, but lately she h=
ad
been less sensitive. She was sitting with her back to the window and she pa=
rtly
covered the baby's face with a light shawl that she wore. By the time they finished dinner the ch=
ild
had dozed off to sleep. Slyme got =
up
from his chair and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at them;
presently he spoke, referring, of course, to the baby:
'He's very like you, isn't he?'
'Yes,' replied Ruth. 'Everyone says he takes after me.'
Slyme moved a little closer, bending down to l=
ook
at the slumbering infant.
'You know, at first I thought he was a girl,' =
he
continued after a pause. 'He seems
almost too pretty for a boy, doesn't he?'
Ruth smiled.
'People always take him for a girl at first,' she said. 'Yesterday I
took him with me to the Monopole Stores to buy some things, and the manager
would hardly believe it wasn't a girl.'
The man reached out his hand and stroked the
baby's face.
Although Slyme's behaviour had hitherto always
been very correct, yet there was occasionally an indefinable something in h=
is
manner when they were alone that made Ruth feel conscious and embarrassed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Now, as she glanced up at him and saw t=
he
expression on his face she crimsoned with confusion and hastily lowered her
eyes without replying to his last remark.
He did not speak again either, and they remained for several minutes=
in
silence, as if spellbound, Ruth oppressed with instinctive dread, and Slyme
scarcely less agitated, his face flushed and his heart beating wildly. He t=
rembled
as he stood over her, hesitating and afraid.
And then the silence was suddenly broken by the
creaking and clanging of the front gate, heralding the tardy coming of
Easton. Slyme went out into the sc=
ullery
and, taking down the blacking brushes from the shelf, began cleaning his bo=
ots.
It was plain from Easton's appearance and mann=
er
that he had been drinking, but Ruth did not reproach him in any way; on the
contrary, she seemed almost feverishly anxious to attend to his comfort.
When Slyme finished cleaning his boots he went
upstairs to his room, receiving a careless greeting from Easton as he passed
through the kitchen. He felt nervo=
us and
apprehensive that Ruth might say something to Easton, and was not quite abl=
e to
reassure himself with the reflection that, after all, there was nothing to
tell. As for Ruth, she had to post=
pone
the execution of her hastily formed resolution to tell her husband of Slyme=
's
strange behaviour, for Easton fell asleep in his chair before he had finish=
ed
his dinner, and she had some difficulty in waking him sufficiently to persu=
ade
him to go upstairs to bed, where he remained until tea-time. Probably he would not have come down ev=
en
then if it had not been for the fact that he had made an appointment to meet
Crass at the Cricketers.
Whilst Easton was asleep, Slyme had been
downstairs in the kitchen, making a fretwork frame. He played with Freddie while Ruth prepa=
red
the tea, and he appeared to her to be so unconscious of having done anythin=
g unusual
that she began to think that she must have been mistaken in imagining that =
he
had intended anything wrong.
After tea, Slyme put on his best clothes to go=
to
his usual 'open-air' meeting. As a=
rule
Easton and Ruth went out marketing together every Saturday night, but this
evening he could not wait for her because he had promised to meet Crass at
seven o'clock; so he arranged to see her down town at eight.
Durin=
g the
last few weeks ever since he had been engaged on the decoration of the draw=
ing-room,
Owen had been so absorbed in his work that he had no time for other
things. Of course, all he was paid=
for
was the time he actually worked, but really every waking moment of his time=
was
given to the task. Now that it was
finished he felt something like one aroused from a dream to the stern reali=
ties
and terrors of life. By the end of=
next
week, the inside of the house and part of the outside would be finished, an=
d as
far as he knew the firm had nothing else to do at present. Most of the other employers in the town=
were
in the same plight, and it would be of no use to apply even to such of them=
as
had something to do, for they were not likely to take on a fresh man while =
some
of their regular hands were idle.
For the last month he had forgotten that he was
ill; he had forgotten that when the work at 'The Cave' was finished he would
have to stand off with the rest of the hands.
In brief, he had forgotten for the time being that, like the majorit=
y of
his fellow workmen, he was on the brink of destitution, and that a few week=
s of
unemployment or idleness meant starvation.
As far as illness was concerned, he was even worse off than most oth=
ers,
for the greater number of them were members of some sick benefit club, but
Owen's ill-health rendered him ineligible for membership of such societies.=
As he walked homewards after being paid, feeli=
ng
unutterably depressed and weary, he began once more to think of the future;=
and
the more he thought of it the more dreadful it appeared. Even looking at it in the best possible
light--supposing he did not fall too ill to work, or lose his employment fr=
om
some other cause--what was there to live for?
He had been working all this week.
These few coins that he held in his hand were the result, and he lau=
ghed
bitterly as he thought of all they had to try to do with this money, and of=
all
that would have to be left undone.
As he turned the corner of Kerk Street he saw
Frankie coming to meet him, and the boy catching sight of him at the same
moment began running and leapt into his arms with a joyous whoop.
'Mother told me to tell you to buy something f=
or
dinner before you come home, because there's nothing in the house.'
'Did she tell you what I was to get?'
She did tell me something, but I forget what it
was. But I know she said to get an=
ything
you like if you couldn't get what she told me to tell you.'
'Well, we'll go and see what we can find,' said
Owen.
'If I were you, I'd get a tin of salmon or some
eggs and bacon,' suggested Frankie as he skipped along holding his father's
hand. 'We don't want anything that=
's a
lot of trouble to cook, you know, because Mum's not very well today.'
'Is she up?'
She's been up all the morning, but she's lying
down now. We've done all the work,
though. While she was making the b=
eds I
started washing up the cups and saucers without telling her, but when she c=
ame
in and saw what a mess I'd made on the floor, she had to stop me doing it, =
and
she had to change nearly all my clothes as well, because I was almost wet
through; but I managed the wiping up all right when she did the washing, an=
d I
swept the passage and put all my things tidy and made the cat's bed. And that just reminds me: will you plea=
se
give me my penny now? I promised t=
he cat
that I'd bring him back some meat.'
Owen complied with the boy's request, and while
the latter went to the butcher's for the meat, Owen went into the grocer's =
to
get something for dinner, it being arranged that they were to meet again at=
the
corner of the street. Owen was at =
the
appointed place first and after waiting some time and seeing no sign of the=
boy
he decided to go towards the butcher's to meet him. When he came in sight of the shop he sa=
w the
boy standing outside in earnest conversation with the butcher, a jolly-look=
ing
stoutly built man, with a very red face. Owen perceived at once that the ch=
ild
was trying to explain something, because Frankie had a habit of holding his
head sideways and supplementing his speech by spreading out his fingers and
making quaint gestures with his hands whenever he found it difficult to make
himself understood. The boy was do=
ing
this now, waving one hand about with the fingers and thumb extended wide, a=
nd
with the other flourishing a paper parcel which evidently contained the pie=
ces
of meat. Presently the man laughed heartily and after shaking hands with
Frankie went into the shop to attend to a customer, and Frankie rejoined his
father.
'That butcher's a very decent sort of chap, you
know, Dad,' he said. 'He wouldn't take a penny for the meat.'
'Is that what you were talking to him about?'<= o:p>
No; we were talking about Socialism. You see, this is the second time he wou=
ldn't
take the money, and the first time he did it I thought he must be a Sociali=
st,
but I didn't ask him then. But whe=
n he
did it again this time I asked him if he was.
So he said, No. He said he =
wasn't
quite mad yet. So I said, "If=
you
think that Socialists are all mad, you're very much mistaken, because I'm a
Socialist myself, and I'm quite sure I'M not mad." So he said he knew I was all right, but=
he
didn't understand anything about Socialism himself--only that it meant shar=
ing
out all the money so that everyone could have the same. So then I told him that's not Socialism=
at
all! And when I explained it to him
properly and advised him to be one, he said he'd think about it. So I said =
if
he'd only do that he'd be sure to change over to our side; and then he laug=
hed
and promised to let me know next time he sees me, and I promised to lend him
some literature. You won't mind, will you, Dad?'
'Of course not; when we get home we'll have a =
look
through what we've got and you can take him some of them.'
'I know!' cried Frankie eagerly. 'The two very best of all. Happy Britain and England for the Engli=
sh.'
He knew that these were 'two of the best' beca=
use
he had often heard his father and mother say so, and he had noticed that
whenever a Socialist friend came to visit them, he was also of the same
opinion.
As a rule on Saturday evenings they all three =
went
out together to do the marketing, but on this occasion, in consequence of N=
ora
being unwell, Owen and Frankie went by themselves. The frequent recurrence of his wife's i=
llness
served to increase Owen's pessimism with regard to the future, and the fact
that he was unable to procure for her the comforts she needed was not
calculated to dispel the depression that filled his mind as he reflected th=
at
there was no hope of better times.
In the majority of cases, for a workman there =
is
no hope of advancement. After he h=
as
learnt his trade and become a 'journeyman' all progress ceases. He is at the goal. After he has been working ten or twenty=
years
he commands no more than he did at first--a bare living wage--sufficient mo=
ney
to purchase fuel to keep the human machine working. As he grows older he will have to be co=
ntent
with even less; and all the time he holds his employment at the caprice and=
by
the favour of his masters, who regard him merely as a piece of mechanism th=
at
enables them to accumulate money--a thing which they are justified in casti=
ng
aside as soon as it becomes unprofitable. And the workman must not only be =
an
efficient money-producing machine, but he must also be the servile subject =
of
his masters. If he is not abjectly=
civil
and humble, if he will not submit tamely to insult, indignity, and every fo=
rm
of contemptuous treatment that occasion makes possible, he can be dismissed,
and replaced in a moment by one of the crowd of unemployed who are always
waiting for his job. This is the s=
tatus
of the majority of the 'Heirs of all the ages' under the present system.
As he walked through the crowded streets holdi=
ng
Frankie by the hand, Owen thought that to voluntarily continue to live such=
a
life as this betokened a degraded mind.
To allow one's child to grow up to suffer it in turn was an act of
callous, criminal cruelty.
In this matter he held different opinions from
most of his fellow workmen. The gr=
eater
number of them were quite willing and content that their children should be
made into beasts of burden for the benefit of other people. As he looked down upon the little, frail
figure trotting along by his side, Owen thought for the thousandth time tha=
t it
would be far better for the child to die now: he would never be fit to be a
soldier in the ferocious Christian Battle of Life.
Then he remembered Nora. Although she was always brave, and never
complained, he knew that her life was one of almost incessant physical
suffering; and as for himself he was tired and sick of it all. He had been working like a slave all hi=
s life
and there was nothing to show for it--there never would be anything to show=
for
it. He thought of the man who had =
killed
his wife and children. The jury had
returned the usual verdict, 'Temporary Insanity'. It never seemed to occur to these peopl=
e that
the truth was that to continue to suffer hopelessly like this was evidence =
of
permanent insanity.
But supposing that bodily death was not the
end. Suppose there was some kind o=
f a
God? If there were, it wasn't
unreasonable to think that the Being who was capable of creating such a wor=
ld
as this and who seemed so callously indifferent to the unhappiness of His
creatures, would also be capable of devising and creating the other Hell th=
at
most people believed in.
Although it was December the evening was mild =
and
clear. The full moon deluged the t=
own
with silvery light, and the cloudless sky was jewelled with myriads of
glittering stars.
Looking out into the unfathomable infinity of
space, Owen wondered what manner of Being or Power it was that had originat=
ed
and sustained all this? Considered=
as an
explanation of the existence of the universe, the orthodox Christian religi=
on
was too absurd to merit a second thought.
But then, every other conceivable hypothesis was
also--ultimately--unsatisfactory and even ridiculous. To believe that the universe as it is n=
ow has
existed from all eternity without any Cause is surely ridiculous. But to say that it was created by a Bei=
ng who
existed without a Cause from all eternity is equally ridiculous. In fact, it
was only postponing the difficulty one stage.
Evolution was not more satisfactory, because although it was undoubt=
edly
true as far as it went, it only went part of the way, leaving the great
question still unanswered by assuming the existence--in the beginning--of t=
he
elements of matter, without a cause! The
question remained unanswered because it was unanswerable. Regarding this problem man was but--
'An
infant crying in the night, An
infant crying for the light And
with no language but a cry.'
All the same, it did not follow, because one c=
ould
not explain the mystery oneself, that it was right to try to believe an
unreasonable explanation offered by someone else.
But although he reasoned like this, Owen could=
not
help longing for something to believe, for some hope for the future; someth=
ing
to compensate for the unhappiness of the present. In one sense, he thought, how good it w=
ould
be if Christianity were true, and after all the sorrow there was to be an
eternity of happiness such as it had never entered into the heart of man to
conceive? If only that were true,
nothing else would matter. How contemptible and insignificant the very worst
that could happen here would be if one knew that this life was only a short
journey that was to terminate at the beginning of an eternity of joy? But no one really believed this; and as=
for
those who pretended to do so--their lives showed that they did not believe =
it
at all. Their greed and
inhumanity--their ferocious determination to secure for themselves the good
things of THIS world--were conclusive proofs of their hypocrisy and infidel=
ity.
'Dad,' said Frankie, suddenly, 'let's go over =
and
hear what that man's saying.' He pointed across the way to where--a little
distance back from the main road, just round the corner of a side street--a
group of people were standing encircling a large lantern fixed on the top o=
f a
pole about seven feet high, which was being held by one of the men. A bright
light was burning inside this lantern and on the pane of white, obscured gl=
ass
which formed the sides, visible from where Owen and Frankie were standing, =
was
written in bold plain letters that were readable even at that distance, the
text:
'Be
not deceived: God is not mocked!'
The man whose voice had attracted Frankie's
attention was reading out a verse of a hymn:
'I
heard the voice of Jesus say,
Behold, I freely give, The
living water, thirsty one, =
Stoop
down and drink, and live. I=
came
to Jesus and I drank Of tha=
t life
giving stream, My thirst was
quenched, My soul revived,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And now I live in Him.'
The individual who gave out this hymn was a ta=
ll,
thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered, =
bony
form. His long, thin legs--about which the baggy trousers hung in ungraceful
folds--were slightly knock-kneed, and terminated in large, flat feet. His a=
rms
were very long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnar=
led
and knotted. Regardless of the sea=
son,
he had removed his bowler hat, revealing his forehead, which was high, flat=
and
narrow. His nose was a large, fles=
hy,
hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended
downwards until it disappeared in the drooping moustache that concealed his
mouth when he was not speaking, but the vast extent of which was perceptible
now as he opened it to call out the words of the hymn. His chin was large a=
nd
extraordinarily long: the eyes were pale blue, very small and close togethe=
r,
surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible eyebrows with a deep
vertical cleft between them over the nose.
His head--covered with thick, coarse brown hair--was very large,
especially at the back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to make a full-face drawing=
of
his cadaverous visage, it would be found that the outline resembled that of=
the
lid of a coffin.
As Owen and Frankie drew near, the boy tugged =
at
his father's hand and whispered: 'Dad! that's the teacher at the Sunday Sch=
ool
where I went that day with Charley and Elsie.'
Owen looked quickly and saw that it was Hunter=
.
As Hunter ceased reading out the words of the
hymn, the little company of evangelists began to sing, accompanied by the s=
trains
of a small but peculiarly sweet-toned organ.
A few persons in the crowd joined in, the words being familiar to
them. During the singing their fac=
es
were a study, they all looked so profoundly solemn and miserable, as if they
were a gang of condemned criminals waiting to be led forth to execution.
As the singing proceeded, the scornful express=
ion
faded from the visage of the Semi-drunk, and he not only joined in, but unf=
olded
his arms and began waving them about as if he were conducting the music.
By the time the singing was over a considerable
crowd had gathered, and then one of the evangelists, the same man who had g=
iven
out the hymn, stepped into the middle of the ring. He had evidently been offended by the
unseemly conduct of the two well-dressed young men, for after a preliminary
glance round upon the crowd, he fixed his gaze upon the pair, and immediate=
ly
launched out upon a long tirade against what he called 'Infidelity'. Then, having heartily denounced all tho=
se
who--as he put it--'refused' to believe, he proceeded to ridicule those
half-and-half believers, who, while professing to believe the Bible, reject=
ed
the doctrine of Hell. That the exi=
stence
of a place of eternal torture is taught in the Bible, he tried to prove by a
long succession of texts. As he
proceeded he became very excited, and the contemptuous laughter of the two
unbelievers seemed to make him worse. He shouted and raved, literally foami=
ng
at the mouth and glaring in a frenzied manner around upon the faces of the
crowd.
'There is a Hell!' he shouted. 'And understand this clearly--"The
wicked shall be turned into hell"--"He that believeth not shall be
damned."'
'Well, then, you'll stand a very good chance of
being damned also,' exclaimed one of the two young men.
''Ow do you make it out?' demanded the preache=
r,
wiping the froth from his lips and the perspiration from his forehead with =
his
handkerchief.
'Why, because you don't believe the Bible
yourselves.'
Nimrod and the other evangelists laughed, and
looked pityingly at the young man.
'Ah, my dear brother,' said Misery. 'That's your delusion. I thank God I do believe it, every word=
!'
'Amen,' fervently ejaculated Slyme and several=
of
the other disciples.
'Oh no, you don't,' replied the other. 'And I can prove you don't.'
'Prove it, then,' said Nimrod.
'Read out the 17th and 18th verses of the XVIth
chapter of Mark,' said the disturber of the meeting. The crowd began to close in on the cent=
re,
the better to hear the dispute. Mi=
sery,
standing close to the lantern, found the verse mentioned and read aloud as
follows:
'And these signs shall follow them that
believe. In my name shall they cas=
t out
devils: they shall speak with new tongues.
They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it s=
hall
not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.'
'Well, you can't heal the sick, neither can you
speak new languages or cast out devils: but perhaps you can drink deadly th=
ings
without suffering harm.' The speak=
er
here suddenly drew from his waistcoat pocket a small glass bottle and held =
it
out towards Misery, who shrank from it with horror as he continued: 'I have=
here
a most deadly poison. There is in this bottle sufficient strychnine to kill=
a
dozen unbelievers. Drink it! And if it doesn't harm you, we'll know =
that
you really are a believer and that what you believe is the truth!'
''Ear, 'ear!' said the Semi-drunk, who had
listened to the progress of the argument with great interest. ''Ear, 'ear!
That's fair enough. Git it acrost yer chest.'
Some of the people in the crowd began to laugh,
and voices were heard from several quarters calling upon Misery to drink the
strychnine.
'Now, if you'll allow me, I'll explain to you =
what
that there verse means,' said Hunter.
'If you read it carefully--WITH the context--'
'I don't want you to tell me what it means,'
interrupted the other. 'I am able to read for myself. Whatever you may say, or pretend to thi=
nk it
means, I know what it says.'
'Hear, Hear,' shouted several voices, and angry
cries of 'Why don't you drink the poison?' began to be heard from the outsk=
irts
of the crowd.
'Are you going to drink it or not?' demanded t=
he
man with the bottle.
'No! =
I'm
not such a fool!' retorted Misery, fiercely, and a loud shout of laughter b=
roke
from the crowd.'
'P'haps some of the other "believers"
would like to,' said the young man sneeringly, looking round upon the
disciples. As no one seemed desiro=
us of
availing himself of this offer, the man returned the bottle regretfully to =
his
pocket.
'I suppose,' said Misery, regarding the owner =
of
the strychnine with a sneer, 'I suppose you're one of them there hired crit=
ics
wot's goin' about the country doin' the Devil's work?'
'Wot I wants to know is this 'ere,' said the
Semi-drunk, suddenly advancing into the middle of the ring and speaking in a
loud voice. 'Where did Cain get 'is wife from?'
'Don't answer 'im, Brother 'Unter,' said Mr
Didlum, one of the disciples. This=
was
rather an unnecessary piece of advice, because Misery did not know the answ=
er.
An individual in a long black garment--the
'minister'--now whispered something to Miss Didlum, who was seated at the
organ, whereupon she began to play, and the 'believers' began to sing, as l=
oud
as they could so as to drown the voices of the disturbers of the meeting, a
song called 'Oh, that will be Glory for me!'
After this hymn the 'minister' invited a shabb=
ily
dressed 'brother'--a working-man member of the PSA, to say a 'few words', a=
nd
the latter accordingly stepped into the centre of the ring and held forth as
follows:
'My dear frens, I thank Gord tonight that I can
stand 'ere tonight, hout in the hopen hair and tell hall you dear people
tonight of hall wot's been done for ME.
Ho my dear frens hi ham so glad tonight as I can stand 'ere tonight =
and
say as hall my sins is hunder the blood tonight and wot 'E's done for me 'E=
can
do for you tonight. If you'll honl=
y do
as I done and just acknowledge yourself a lost sinner--'
'Yes! that's the honly way!' shouted Nimrod.
'Amen,' cried all the other believers.
'--If you'll honly come to 'im tonight in the =
same
way as I done you'll see wot 'E's done for me 'E can do for you. Ho my dear frens, don't go puttin' it o=
rf from
day to day like a door turnin' on its 'inges, don't put orf to some more
convenient time because you may never 'ave another chance. 'Im that bein' orfen reproved 'ardeneth=
'is
neck shall be suddenly cut orf and that without remedy. Ho come to 'im tonight, for 'Is name's =
sake
and to 'Im we'll give hall the glory.
Amen.'
'Amen,' said the believers, fervently, and then
the man who was dressed in the long garment entreated all those who were not
yet true believers--and doers--of the word to join earnestly and MEANINGLY =
in
the singing of the closing hymn, which he was about to read out to them.
The Semi-drunk obligingly conducted as before,=
and
the crowd faded away with the last notes of the music.
As has
already been stated, hitherto Slyme had passed the greater number of his
evenings at home, but during the following three weeks a change took place =
in
his habits in this respect. He now=
went
out nearly every night and did not return until after ten o'clock. On meeting nights he always changed his
attire, dressing himself as on Sundays, but on the other occasions he went =
out
in his week-day clothes. Ruth often
wondered where he went on those nights, but he never volunteered the
information and she never asked him.
Easton had chummed up with a lot of the regular
customers at the 'Cricketers', where he now spent most of his spare time,
drinking beer, telling yarns or playing shove-ha'penny or hooks and rings. =
When
he had no cash the Old Dear gave him credit until Saturday. At first, the place had not had much
attraction for him, and he really went there only for the purpose of 'keepi=
ng
in' with Crass: but after a time he found it a very congenial way of passing
his evenings...
One evening, Ruth saw Slyme meet Crass as if by
appointment and as the two men went away together she returned to her house=
work
wondering what it meant.
Meantime, Crass and Slyme proceeded on their w=
ay
down town. It was about half past =
six
o'clock: the shops and streets were brilliantly lighted, and as they went a=
long
they saw numerous groups of men talking together in a listless way. Most of them were artisans and labourer=
s out
of employment and evidently in no great hurry to go home. Some of them had neither tea nor fire t=
o go
to, and stayed away from home as long as possible so as not to be compelled=
to
look upon the misery of those who were waiting for them there. Others hung about hoping against all
probability that they might even yet--although it was so late--hear of some=
job
to be started somewhere or other.
As they passed one of these groups they recogn=
ized
and nodded to Newman and old Jack Linden, and the former left the others and
came up to Crass and Slyme, who did not pause, so Newman walked along with
them.
'Anything fresh in, Bob?' he asked.
'No; we ain't got 'ardly anything,' replied
Crass. 'I reckon we shall finish u=
p at
"The Cave" next week, and then I suppose we shall all be stood
orf. We've got several plumbers on=
, and
I believe there's a little gas-fitting work in, but next to nothing in our
line.'
'I suppose you don't know of any other firm wh=
at's
got anything?'
'No, I don't, mate. Between you and me, I don't think any o=
f 'em
has; they're all in about the same fix.'
'I've not done anything since I left, you know=
,'
said Newman, 'and we've just about got as far as we can get, at home.'
Slyme and Crass said nothing in reply to
this. They wished that Newman woul=
d take
himself off, because they did not want him to know where they were going.
However, Newman continued to accompany them an=
d an
awkward silence succeeded. He seem=
ed to
wish to say something more, and they both guessed what it was. So they walked along as rapidly as poss=
ible
in order not to give him any encouragement.
At last Newman blurted out:
'I suppose--you don't happen--either of you--to
have a tanner you could lend me? I=
'll
let you have it back--when I get a job.'
'I ain't mate,' replied Crass. 'I'm sorry; if I 'ad one on me, you sho=
uld
'ave it, with pleasure.'
Slyme also expressed his regret that he had no=
money
with him, and at the corner of the next street Newman--ashamed of having
asked--wished them 'good night' and went away.
Slyme and Crass hurried along and presently
arrived at Rushton & Co.'s shop. The
windows were lit up with electric light, displaying an assortment of
wallpapers, gas and electric light fittings, glass shades, globes, tins of
enamel, paint and varnish. Several
framed show-cards--'Estimates Free', 'First class work only, at moderate
charges', 'Only First Class Workmen Employed' and several others of the same
type. On one side wall of the wind=
ow was
a large shield-shaped board covered with black velvet on which a number of
brass fittings for coffins were arranged.
The shield was on an oak mount with the inscription: 'Funerals condu=
cted
on modern principles'.
Slyme waited outside while Crass went in. Mr Budd, the shopman, was down at the f=
ar end
near the glazed partition which separated Mr Rushton's office from the front
shop. As Crass entered, Budd--who =
was a
pale-faced, unhealthy-looking, undersized youth about twenty years of
age--looked round and, with a grimace, motioned him to walk softly. Crass
paused, wondering what the other meant; but the shopman beckoned him to
advance, grinning and winking and jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of the office. Crass
hesitated, fearing that possibly the miserable Budd had gone--or been
driven--out of his mind; but as the latter continued to beckon and grin and
point towards the office Crass screwed up his courage and followed him behi=
nd
one of the showcases, and applying his eye to a crack in the woodwork of the
partition indicated by Budd, he could see Mr Rushton in the act of kissing =
and
embracing Miss Wade, the young lady clerk. Crass watched them for some time=
and
then whispered to Budd to call Slyme, and when the latter came they all thr=
ee
took turns at peeping through the crack in the partition.
When they had looked their fill they came out =
from
behind the showcase, almost bursting with suppressed merriment. Budd reached down a key from where it w=
as
hanging on a hook on the wall and gave it to Crass and the two resumed their
interrupted journey. But before th=
ey had
proceeded a dozen yards from the shop, they were accosted by a short, elder=
ly
man with grey hair and a beard. Th=
is man
looked about sixty-five years of age, and was very shabbily dressed. The ends of the sleeves of his coat were
frayed and ragged, and the elbows were worn threadbare. His boots were patched, broken, and dow=
n at
heel, and the knees and bottoms of the legs of his trousers were in the same
condition as the sleeves of his coat.
This man's name was Latham; he was a venetian blind maker and
repairer. With his son, he was sup=
posed
to be 'in business' on his own account, but as most of their work was done =
for
'the trade', that is, for such firms as Rushton & Co., they would be mo=
re
correctly described as men who did piecework at home.
He had been 'in business'--as he called it--for
about forty years working, working, always working; and ever since his son
became old enough to labour he had helped his father in the philanthropic t=
ask
of manufacturing profits for the sweaters who employed them. They had been so busy running after wor=
k, and
working for the benefit of others, that they had overlooked the fact that t=
hey
were only earning a bare living for themselves and now, after forty years' =
hard
labour, the old man was clothed in rags and on the verge of destitution.
'Is Rushton there?' he asked.
'Yes, I think so,' replied Crass, attempting to
pass on; but the old man detained him.
'He promised to let us know about them blinds =
for
"The Cave". We gave 'im a
price for 'em about a month ago. In
fact, we gave 'im two prices, because he said the first was too high. Five and six a set I asked 'im! take 'em right through the 'ole 'ouse! =
one
with another--big and little. Two =
coats
of paint, and new tapes and cords. That wasn't too much, was it?'
'No,' said Crass, walking on; 'that was cheap
enough!'
HE said it was too much,' continued Latham.
As he walked along, talking, between Crass and
Slyme, the old man became very excited.
'But we 'adn't nothing to do to speak of, so my
son told 'im we'd do 'em for five bob a set, and 'e said 'e'd let us know, =
but
we ain't 'eard nothing from 'im yet, so I thought I'd try and see 'im tonig=
ht.'
Well, you'll find 'im in there now,' said Slyme
with a peculiar look, and walking faster.
'Good night.'
'I won't take 'em on for no less!' cried the o=
ld
man as he turned back. I've got my livin' to get, and my son's got 'is wife=
and
little 'uns to keep. We can't work=
for
nothing!'
'Certainly not,' said Crass, glad to get away =
at
last. 'Good night, and good luck to
you.'
As soon as they were out of hearing, they both
burst out laughing at the old man's vehemence.
'Seemed quite upset about it,' said Slyme; and
they laughed again.
They now left the main road and pursued their =
way
through a number of badly lighted, mean-looking streets, and finally turning
down a kind of alley, arrived at their destination. On one side of this street was a row of=
small
houses; facing these were a number of buildings of a miscellaneous
description--sheds and stables; and beyond these a plot of waste ground on
which could be seen, looming weirdly through the dusk, a number of empty ca=
rts
and waggons with their shafts resting on the ground or reared up into the
air. Threading their way carefully
through these and avoiding as much as possible the mud, pools of water, and
rubbish which covered the ground, they arrived at a large gate fastened wit=
h a
padlock. Applying the key, Crass s=
wung
back the gate and they found themselves in a large yard filled with building
materials and plant, ladders, huge tressels, planks and beams of wood,
hand-carts, and wheelbarrows, heaps of sand and mortar and innumerable other
things that assumed strange fantastic shapes in the semi-darkness. Crates and packing cases, lengths of ir=
on
guttering and rain-pipes, old door-frames and other woodwork that had been
taken from buildings where alterations had been made. And over all these things, a gloomy,
indistinct and shapeless mass, rose the buildings and sheds that comprised
Rushton & Co.'s workshop.
Crass struck a match, and Slyme, stooping down,
drew a key from a crevice in the wall near one of the doors, which he unloc=
ked,
and they entered. Crass struck ano=
ther
match and lit the gas at the jointed bracket fixed to the wall. This was the paint-shop. At one end was a fireplace without a gr=
ate
but with an iron bar fixed across the blackened chimney for the purpose of
suspending pails or pots over the fire, which was usually made of wood on t=
he
hearthstone. All round the walls o=
f the
shop--which had once been whitewashed, but were now covered with smears of
paint of every colour where the men had 'rubbed out' their brushes--were ro=
ws
of shelves with kegs of paint upon them. In front of the window was a long
bench covered with an untidy litter of dirty paint-pots, including several
earthenware mixing vessels or mortars, the sides of these being thickly coa=
ted
with dried paint. Scattered about the stone floor were a number of dirty pa=
ils,
either empty or containing stale whitewash; and standing on a sort of low
platform or shelf at one end of the shop were four large round tanks fitted
with taps and labelled 'Boiled Oil', 'Turps', 'Linseed Oil', 'Turps
Substitute'. The lower parts of the
walls were discoloured with moisture.
The atmosphere was cold and damp and foul with the sickening odours =
of
the poisonous materials.
It was in this place that Bert--the
apprentice--spent most of his time, cleaning out pots and pails, during sla=
ck
periods when there were no jobs going on outside.
In the middle of the shop, under a two-armed g=
as
pendant, was another table or bench, also thickly coated with old, dried pa=
int,
and by the side of this were two large stands on which were hanging up to d=
ry
some of the lathes of the venetian blinds belonging to 'The Cave', which Cr=
ass
and Slyme were painting--piecework--in their spare time. The remainder of t=
he
lathes were leaning against the walls or piled in stacks on the table.
Crass shivered with cold as he lit the two
gas-jets. 'Make a bit of a fire, A=
lf, he
said, 'while I gets the colour ready.'
Slyme went outside and presently returned with=
his
arms full of old wood, which he smashed up and threw into the fireplace; th=
en
he took an empty paint-pot and filled it with turpentine from the big tank =
and
emptied it over the wood. Amongst =
the
pots on the mixing bench he found one full of old paint, and he threw this =
over
the wood also, and in a few minutes he had made a roaring fire.
Meantime, Crass had prepared the paint and bru=
shes
and taken down the lathes from the drying frames. The two men now proceeded with the pain=
ting
of the blinds, working rapidly, each lathe being hung on the wires of the
drying frame after being painted. =
They
talked freely as they worked, having no fear of being overheard by Rushton =
or
Nimrod. This job was piecework, so it didn't matter whether they talked or =
not.
They waxed hilarious over Old Latham's discomfiture and wondered what he wo=
uld
say if he could see them now. Then=
the
conversation drifted to the subject of the private characters of the other =
men
who were employed by Rushton & Co., and an impartial listener--had there
been one there--would have been forced to come to the same conclusion as Cr=
ass
and Slyme did: namely, that they themselves were the only two decent fellow=
s on
the firm. There was something wron=
g or
shady about everybody else. That b=
loke
Barrington, for instance--it was a very funny business, you know, for a chap
like 'im to be workin' as a labourer, it looked very suspicious. Nobody knowed exactly who 'e was or whe=
re 'e
come from, but anyone could tell 'e'd been a toff. It was very certain 'e'd never bin brou=
ght up
to work for 'is livin'. The most
probable explanation was that 'e'd committed some crime and bin disowned by=
'is
family--pinched some money, or forged a cheque or something like that. Then there was that Sawkins. He was no class whatever. It was a well-known fact that he used t=
o go
round to Misery's house nearly every night to tell him every little thing t=
hat
had happened on the job during the day!
As for Payne, the foreman carpenter, the man was a perfect fool: he'd
find out the difference if ever he got the sack from Rushton's and went to =
work
for some other firm! He didn't
understand his trade, and he couldn't make a coffin properly to save 'is
life! Then there was that rotter O=
wen;
there was a bright specimen for yer! An
Atheist! didn't believe in no God or Devil or nothing else. A pretty state of things there would be=
if
these Socialists could have their own way: for one thing, nobody would be
allowed to work overtime!
Crass and Slyme worked and talked in this mann=
er
till ten o'clock, and then they extinguished the fire by throwing some wate=
r on
it--put out the gas and locked up the shop and the yard, dropping the key of
the latter into the letter-box at Rushton's office on their way home.
In this way they worked at the blinds nearly e=
very
night for three weeks.
When Saturday arrived the men working at 'The
Cave' were again surprised that nobody was sacked, and they were divided in
opinion as to the reason, some thinking that Nimrod was determined to keep =
them
all on till the job was finished, so as to get it done as quickly as possib=
le;
and others boldly asserting the truth of a rumour that had been going about=
for
several days that the firm had another big job in. Mr Sweater had bought
another house; Rushton had to do it up, and they were all to be kept on to
start this other work as soon as 'The Cave' was finished. Crass knew no more than anyone else and=
he
maintained a discreet silence, but the fact that he did not contradict the
rumour served to strengthen it. Th=
e only
foundation that existed for this report was that Rushton and Misery had been
seen looking over the garden gate of a large empty house near 'The Cave'. But although it had such an insignifica=
nt
beginning, the rumour had grown and increased in detail and importance day =
by
day. That very morning at
breakfast-time, the man on the pail had announced that he had heard on the =
very
best authority that Mr Sweater had sold all his interest in the great busin=
ess
that bore his name and was about to retire into private life, and that he
intended to buy up all the house property in the neighbourhood of 'The
Cave'. Another individual--one of =
the
new hands--said that he had heard someone else--in a public house--say that
Rushton was about to marry one of Sweater's daughters, and that Sweater
intended to give the couple a house to live in, as a wedding present: but t=
he
fact that Rushton was already married and the father of four children, rath=
er
knocked the bottom out of this story, so it was regretfully dismissed. Whatever the reason, the fact remained =
that
nobody had been discharged, and when pay-time arrived they set out for the
office in high spirits.
That evening, the weather being fine, Slyme we=
nt
out as usual to his open-air meeting, but Easton departed from HIS usual cu=
stom
of rushing off to the 'Cricketers' directly he had had his tea, having on t=
his
occasion promised to wait for Ruth and to go with her to do the marketing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The baby was left at home alone, asleep=
in
the cradle.
By the time they had made all their purchases =
they
had a fairly heavy load. Easton ca=
rried
the string-bag containing the potatoes and other vegetables, and the meat, =
and
Ruth, the groceries. On their way =
home,
they had to pass the 'Cricketers' and just before they reached that part of
their journey they met Mr and Mrs Crass, who were also out marketing. They both insisted on Easton and Ruth g=
oing
in to have a drink with them. Ruth=
did
not want to go, but she allowed herself to be persuaded for she could see t=
hat
Easton was beginning to get angry with her for refusing. Crass had on a new overcoat and a new h=
at,
with dark grey trousers and yellow boots, and a 'stand-up' collar with a br=
ight
blue tie. His wife--a fat,
vulgar-looking, well-preserved woman about forty--was arrayed in a dark red
'motor' costume, with hat to match. Both
Easton and Ruth--whose best clothes had all been pawned to raise the money =
to
pay the poor rate--felt very mean and shabby before them.
When they got inside, Crass paid for the first
round of drinks, a pint of Old Six for himself; the same for Easton, half a
pint for Mrs Easton and threepenny-worth of gin for Mrs Crass.
The Besotted Wretch was there, just finishing a
game of hooks and rings with the Semi-drunk--who had called round on the day
after he was thrown out, to apologize for his conduct to the Old Dear, and =
had
since then become one of the regular customers.
Philpot was absent. He had been there that afternoon, so the Old Dear
said, but he had gone home about five o'clock, and had not been back
since. He was almost sure to look =
in
again in the course of the evening.
Although the house was not nearly so full as it
would have been if times had been better, there was a large number of people
there, for the 'Cricketers' was one of the most popular houses in the town.
Another thing that helped to make them busy was the fact that two other pub=
lic
houses in the vicinity had recently been closed up. There were people in all
the compartments. Some of the seat=
s in
the public bar were occupied by women, some young and accompanied by their
husbands, some old and evidently sodden with drink. In one corner of the public bar, drinki=
ng
beer or gin with a number of young fellows, were three young girls who work=
ed
at a steam laundry in the neighbourhood.
Two large, fat, gipsy-looking women: evidently hawkers, for on the f=
loor
beside them were two baskets containing bundles of flowers--chrysanthemums =
and
Michaelmas daisies. There were als=
o two
very plainly and shabbily dressed women about thirty-five years of age, who
were always to be found there on Saturday nights, drinking with any man who=
was
willing to pay for them. The behav=
iour
of these two women was very quiet and their manners unobtrusive. They seemed to realize that they were t=
here
only on sufferance, and their demeanour was shamefaced and humble.
The majority of the guests were standing. The floor was sprinkled with sawdust wh=
ich
served to soak up the beer that slopped out of the glasses of those whose h=
ands
were too unsteady to hold them upright. The air was foul with the smell of
beer, spirits and tobacco smoke, and the uproar was deafening, for nearly
everyone was talking at the same time, their voices clashing discordantly w=
ith
the strains of the Polyphone, which was playing 'The Garden of Your
Heart'. In one corner a group of m=
en
convulsed with laughter at the details of a dirty story related by one of t=
heir
number. Several impatient customer=
s were
banging the bottoms of their empty glasses or pewters on the counter and
shouting their orders for more beer.
Oaths, curses and obscene expressions resounded on every hand, coming
almost as frequently from the women as the men.
And over all the rattle of money, the ringing of the cash register.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The clinking and rattling of the glasse=
s and
pewter pots as they were being washed, and the gurgling noise made by the b=
eer
as it poured into the drinking vessels from the taps of the beer engine, wh=
ose
handles were almost incessantly manipulated by the barman, the Old Dear and=
the
glittering landlady, whose silken blouse, bejewelled hair, ears, neck and
fingers scintillated gloriously in the blaze of the gaslight.
The scene was so novel and strange to Ruth that
she felt dazed and bewildered. Pre=
vious
to her marriage she had been a total abstainer, but since then she had
occasionally taken a glass of beer with Easton for company's sake with their
Sunday dinner at home; but it was generally Easton who went out and bought =
the
beer in a jug. Once or twice she h=
ad
bought it herself at an Off Licence beer-shop near where they lived, but she
had never before been in a public house to drink. She was so confused and i=
ll
at ease that she scarcely heard or understood Mrs Crass, who talked
incessantly, principally about their other residents in North Street where =
they
both resided; and about Mr Crass. =
She
also promised Ruth to introduce her presently--if he came in, as he was alm=
ost
certain to do--to Mr Partaker, one of her two lodgers a most superior young
man, who had been with them now for over three years and would not leave on=
any
account. In fact, he had been their
lodger in their old house, and when they moved he came with them to North
Street, although it was farther away from his place of business than their =
former
residence. Mrs Crass talked a lot =
more
of the same sort of stuff, to which Ruth listened like one in a dream, and
answered with an occasional yes or no.
Meantime, Crass and Easton--the latter had
deposited the string-bag on the seat at Ruth's side--and the Semi-drunk and=
the
Besotted Wretch, arranged to play a match of Hooks and Rings, the losers to=
pay
for drinks for all the party, including the two women. Crass and the Semi-drunk tossed up for =
sides. Crass won and picked the Besotted Wretc=
h, and
the game began. It was a one-sided
affair from the first, for Easton and the Semi-drunk were no match for the
other two. The end of it was that =
Easton
and his partner had to pay for the drinks. The four men had a pint each of =
four
ale, and Mrs Crass had another threepennyworth of gin. Ruth protested that she did not want an=
y more
to drink, but the others ridiculed this, and both the Besotted Wretch and t=
he
Semi-drunk seemed to regard her unwillingness as a personal insult, so she
allowed them to get her another half-pint of beer, which she was compelled =
to
drink, because she was conscious that the others were watching her to see t=
hat
she did so.
The Semi-drunk now suggested a return match. He wished to have his revenge. He was a little out of practice, he sai=
d, and
was only just getting his hand in as they were finishing the other game.
Although they played more carefully than befor=
e,
and notwithstanding the fact that the Besotted Wretch was very drunk, Easton
and his partner were again beaten and once more had to pay for the drinks. =
The
men had a pint each as before. Mrs
Crass--upon whom the liquor so far seemed to have no effect--had another
threepennyworth of gin; and Ruth consented to take another glass of beer on
condition that Easton would come away directly their drinks were finished.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Easton agreed to do so, but instead of =
keeping
his word he began to play a four-handed game of shove-ha'penny with the oth=
er
three, the sides and stakes being arranged as before.
The liquor was by this time beginning to have =
some
effect upon Ruth: she felt dizzy and confused.
Whenever it was necessary to reply to Mrs Crass's talk she found some
difficulty in articulating the words and she knew she was not answering very
intelligently. Even when Mrs Crass
introduced her to the interesting Mr Partaker, who arrived about this time,=
she
was scarcely able to collect herself sufficiently to decline that fascinati=
ng
gentleman's invitation to have another drink with himself and Mrs Crass.
After a time a kind of terror took possession =
of
her, and she resolved that if Easton would not come when he had finished the
game he was playing, she would go home without him.
Meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded
merrily, the majority of the male guests crowding round the board, applaudi=
ng
or censuring the players as occasion demanded.
The Semi-drunk was in high glee, for Crass was not much of a hand at
this game, and the Besotted Wretch, although playing well, was not able to =
make
up for his partner's want of skill. As
the game drew near its end and it became more and more certain that his
opponents would be defeated, the joy of the Semi-drunk was unbounded, and he
challenged them to make it double or quits--a generous offer which they wis=
ely
declined, and shortly afterwards, seeing that their position was hopeless, =
they
capitulated and prepared to pay the penalty of the vanquished.
Crass ordered the drinks and the Besotted Wret=
ch
paid half the damage--a pint of four ale for each of the men and the same as
before for the ladies. The Old Dear
executed the order, but by mistake, being very busy, he served two 'threes'=
of
gin instead of one. Ruth did not w=
ant
any more at all, but she was afraid to say so, and she did not like to make=
any
fuss about it being the wrong drink, especially as they all assured her that
the spirits would do her more good than beer.
She did not want either; she wanted to get away, and would have like=
d to
empty the stuff out of the glass on the floor, but she was afraid that Mrs
Crass or one of the others might see her doing so, and there might be some
trouble about it. Anyway, it seemed
easier to drink this small quantity of spirits and water than a big glass of
beer, the very thought of which now made her feel ill. She drank the stuff which Easton handed=
to
her at a single draught and, handing back the empty glass with a shudder, s=
tood
up resolutely.
'Are you coming home now? You promised you would,' she said.
'All right: presently,' replied Easton. 'There's plenty of time; it's not nine =
yet.'
'That doesn't matter; it's quite late enough.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You know we've left the child at home a=
lone
in the house. You promised you'd c=
ome as
soon as you'd finished that other game.'
'All right, all right,' answered Easton
impatiently. 'Just wait a minute, =
I want
to see this, and then I'll come.'
'This' was a most interesting problem propound=
ed
by Crass, who had arranged eleven matches side by side on the shove-ha'penny
board. The problem was to take non=
e away
and yet leave only nine. Nearly al=
l the
men in the bar were crowding round the shove-ha'penny board, some with knit=
ted
brows and drunken gravity trying to solve the puzzle and others waiting
curiously for the result. Easton c=
rossed
over to see how it was done, and as none of the crowd were able to do the
trick, Crass showed that it could be accomplished by simply arranging the
eleven matches so as to form the word NINE. Everybody said it was very good
indeed, very clever and interesting. But
the Semi-drunk and the Besotted Wretch were reminded by this trick of sever=
al
others equally good, and they proceeded to do them; and then the men had
another pint each all round as a reviver after the mental strain of the last
few minutes.
Easton did not know any tricks himself, but he=
was
an interested spectator of those done by several others until Ruth came over
and touched his arm.
'Aren't you coming?'
'Wait a minute, can't you?' cried Easton
roughly. 'What's your hurry?'
'I don't want to stay here any longer,' said R=
uth,
hysterically. 'You said you'd come=
as
soon as you saw that trick. If you=
don't
come, I shall go home by myself. I=
don't
want to stay in this place any longer.'
'Well, go by yourself if you want to!' shouted
Easton fiercely, pushing her away from him.
'I shall stop 'ere as long as I please, and if you don't like it you=
can
do the other thing.'
Ruth staggered and nearly fell from the force =
of
the push he gave her, and the man turned again to the table to watch the
Semi-drunk, who was arranging six matches so as to form the numeral XII, and
who said he could prove that this was equal to a thousand.
Ruth waited a few minutes longer, and then as
Easton took no further notice of her, she took up the string-bag and the ot=
her
parcels, and without staying to say good night to Mrs Crass--who was earnes=
tly
conversing with the interesting Partaker--she with some difficulty opened t=
he
door and went out into the street. The
cold night air felt refreshing and sweet after the foul atmosphere of the
public house, but after a little while she began to feel faint and dizzy, a=
nd
was conscious also that she was walking unsteadily, and she fancied that pe=
ople
stared at her strangely as they passed.
The parcels felt very heavy and awkward to carry, and the string-bag
seemed as if it were filled with lead.
Although under ordinary circumstances it was o=
nly
about ten minutes' walk home from here, she resolved to go by one of the tr=
ams
which passed by the end of North Street.
With this intention, she put down her bag on the pavement at the
stopping-place, and waited, resting her hand on the iron pillar at the corn=
er
of the street, where a little crowd of people were standing evidently with =
the
same object as herself. Two trains
passed without stopping, for they were already full of passengers, a common
circumstance on Saturday nights. T=
he
next one stopped, and several persons alighted, and then ensued a fierce
struggle amongst the waiting crowd for the vacant seats. Men and women pushed, pulled and almost
fought, shoving their fists and elbows into each other's sides and breasts =
and
faces. Ruth was quickly thrust asi=
de and
nearly knocked down, and the tram, having taken aboard as many passengers a=
s it
had accommodation for, passed on. =
She
waited for the next one, and the same scene was enacted with the same result
for her, and then, reflecting that if she had not stayed for these trams she
might have been home by now, she determined to resume her walk. The parcels
felt heavier than ever, and she had not proceeded very far before she was
compelled to put the bag down again upon the pavement, outside an empty hou=
se.
Leaning against the railings, she felt very ti=
red
and ill. Everything around her--the
street, the houses, the traffic--seemed vague and shadowy and unreal. Several people looked curiously at her =
as
they passed, but by this time she was scarcely conscious of their scrutiny.=
Slyme had gone that evening to the usual
'open-air' conducted by the Shining Light Mission. The weather being fine, they had a most
successful meeting, the disciples, including Hunter, Rushton, Sweater, Didl=
um,
and Mrs Starvem--Ruth's former mistress--assembled in great force so as to =
be
able to deal more effectively with any infidels or hired critics or drunken
scoffers who might try to disturb the proceedings; and--possibly as an evid=
ence
of how much real faith there was in them--they had also arranged to have a =
police
officer in attendance, to protect them from what they called the 'Powers of
Darkness'. One might be excused for
thinking that--if they really believed--they would have relied rather upon
those powers of Light which they professed to represent on this planet to
protect them without troubling to call in the aid of such a 'worldly' force=
as
the police. However, it came to pa=
ss
that on this occasion the only infidels present were those who were conduct=
ing
the meeting, but as these consisted for the most part of members of the cha=
pel,
it will be seen that the infidel fraternity was strongly represented.
On his way home after the meeting Slyme had to
pass by the 'Cricketers' and as he drew near the place he wondered if Easton
was there, but he did not like to go and look in, because he was afraid som=
eone
might see him coming away and perhaps think he had been in to drink. Just as he arrived opposite the house a=
nother
man opened the door of the public bar and entered, enabling Slyme to catch a
momentary glimpse of the interior, where he saw Easton and Crass with a num=
ber
of others who were strangers to him, laughing and drinking together.
Slyme hurried away; it had turned very cold, a=
nd
he was anxious to get home. As he
approached the place where the trams stopped to take up passengers and saw =
that
there was a tram in sight he resolved to wait for it and ride home: but when
the tram arrived and there were only one or two seats vacant, and although =
he
did his best to secure one of these he was unsuccessful, and after a moment=
's
hesitation he decided that it would be quicker to walk than to wait for the
next one. He accordingly resumed h=
is
journey, but he had not gone very far when he saw a small crowd of people o=
n the
pavement on the other side of the road outside an unoccupied house, and
although he was in a hurry to get home he crossed over to see what was the
matter. There were about twenty pe=
ople
standing there, and in the centre close to the railing there were three or =
four
women whom Slyme could not see although he could hear their voices.
'What's up?' he inquired of a man on the edge =
of
the crowd.
'Oh, nothing much,' returned the other. 'Some young woman; she's either ill, co=
me
over faint, or something--or else she's had a drop too much.'
'Quite a respectable-looking young party, too,'
said another man.
Several young fellows in the crowd were amusing
themselves by making suggestive jokes about the young woman and causing some
laughter by the expressions of mock sympathy.
'Doesn't anyone know who she is?' said the sec=
ond
man who had spoken in reply to Slyme's inquiry.
'No,' said a woman who was standing a little
nearer the middle of the crowd. 'A=
nd she
won't say where she lives.'
'She'll be all right now she's had that glass =
of
soda,' said another man, elbowing his way out of the crowd. As this individual came out, Slyme mana=
ged to
work himself a little further into the group of people, and he uttered an
involuntary cry of astonishment as he caught sight of Ruth, very pale, and
looking very ill, as she stood clasping one of the railings with her left h=
and
and holding the packages of groceries in the other. She had by this time recovered sufficie=
ntly
to feel overwhelmed with shame and confusion before the crowd of strangers =
who
hemmed her in on every side, and some of whom she could hear laughing and
joking about her. It was therefore=
with
a sensation of intense relief and gratitude that she saw Slyme's familiar f=
ace
and heard his friendly voice as he forced his way through to her side.
'I can walk home all right now,' she stammered=
in
reply to his anxious questioning. =
'If
you wouldn't mind carrying some of these things for me.'
He insisted on taking all the parcels, and the
crowd, having jumped to the conclusion that he was the young woman's husband
began to dwindle away, one of the jokers remarking 'It's all over!' in a lo=
ud
voice as he took himself off.
It was only about seven minutes' walk home from
there, and as the streets along which they had to pass were not very
brilliantly lighted, Ruth was able to lean on Slyme's arm most of the way.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When they arrived home, after she had r=
emoved
her hat, he made her sit down in the armchair by the fire, which was burning
brightly, and the kettle was singing on the hob, for she had banked up the =
fire
with cinders and small coal before she went out.
The baby was still asleep in the cradle, but h=
is
slumbers had evidently not been of the most restful kind, for he had kicked=
all
the bedclothes off him and was lying all uncovered. Ruth obeyed passively when Slyme told h=
er to
sit down, and, lying back languidly in the armchair, she watched him through
half-closed eyes and with a slight flush on her face as he deftly covered t=
he
sleeping child with the bedclothes and settled him more comfortably in the =
cot.
Slyme now turned his attention to the fire, an=
d as
he placed the kettle upon it he remarked: 'As soon as the water boils I'll =
make
you some strong tea.'
During their walk home she had acquainted Slyme
with the cause of her being in the condition in which he found her in the
street, and as she reclined in the armchair, drowsily watching him, she
wondered what would have happened to her if he had not passed by when he di=
d.
'Are you feeling better?' he asked, looking do=
wn
at her.
'Yes, thanks. I feel quite well now; but I'm
afraid I've given you a lot of trouble.'
'No, you haven't.
Nothing I can do for you is a trouble to me. But don't you think you'd better take y=
our
jacket off? Here, let me help you.=
'
It took a very long time to get this jacket of=
f,
because whilst he was helping her, Slyme kissed her repeatedly and passiona=
tely
as she lay limp and unresisting in his arms.
Durin=
g the
following week the work at 'The Cave' progressed rapidly towards completion,
although, the hours of daylight being so few, the men worked only from 8 A.=
M.
till 4 P.M. and they had their breakfasts before they came. This made 40 hours a week, so that thos=
e who
were paid sevenpence an hour earned £1.3.4.
Those who got sixpence-halfpenny drew £1.1.8. Those whose wages were fivepence an hou=
r were
paid the princely sum of 16/8d. for their week's hard labour, and those who=
se
rate was fourpence-halfpenny 'picked up' 15/-.
And yet there are people who have the insolenc=
e to
say that Drink is the cause of poverty.
And many of the persons who say this, spend mo=
re
money than that on drink themselves--every day of their useless lives.
By Tuesday night all the inside was finished w=
ith
the exception of the kitchen and scullery.
The painting of the kitchen had been delayed owing to the non-arriva=
l of
the new cooking range, and the scullery was still used as the paint shop. The outside work was also nearly finish=
ed:
all the first coating was done and the second coating was being proceeded
with. According to the specificati=
on,
all the outside woodwork was supposed to have three coats, and the gutterin=
g,
rain-pipes and other ironwork two coats, but Crass and Hunter had arranged =
to
make two coats do for most of the windows and woodwork, and all the ironwor=
k was
to be made to do with one coat only. The
windows were painted in two colours: the sashes dark green and the frames
white. All the rest--gables, doors,
railings, guttering, etc.--was dark green; and all the dark green paint was
made with boiled linseed oil and varnish; no turpentine being allowed to be
used on this part of the work.
'This is some bloody fine stuff to 'ave to use,
ain't it?' remarked Harlow to Philpot on Wednesday morning. 'It's more like a lot of treacle than
anything else.'
'Yes: and it won't arf blister next summer whe=
n it
gets a bit of sun on it,' replied Philpot with a grin.
'I suppose they're afraid that if they was to =
put
a little turps in, it wouldn't bear out, and they'd 'ave to give it another
coat.'
'You can bet yer life that's the reason,' said
Philpot. 'But all the same I mean =
to
pinch a drop to put in mine as soon as Crass is gorn.'
'Gorn where?'
'Why, didn't you know? there's another funeral=
on
today? Didn't you see that corfin =
plate
what Owen was writing in the drorin'-room last Saturday morning?'
'No, I wasn't 'ere. Don't you remember I was sent away to d=
o a
ceilin' and a bit of painting over at Windley?'
'Oh, of course; I forgot,' exclaimed Philpot.<= o:p>
'I reckon Crass and Slyme must be making a sma=
ll
fortune out of all these funerals,' said Harlow. 'This makes the fourth in the last
fortnight. What is it they gets for
'em?'
'A shillin' for taking' 'ome the corfin and liftin' in the corpse, and four bob for the funeral--five bob altogether.'<= o:p>
'That's a bit of all right, ain't it?' said
Harlow. 'A couple of them in a week
besides your week's wages, eh? Fiv=
e bob
for two or three hours work!'
'Yes, the money's all right, mate, but they're
welcome to it for my part. I don't want to go messin' about with no corpses=
,'
replied Philpot with a shudder.
'Who is this last party what's dead?' asked Ha=
rlow
after a pause.
'It's a parson what used to belong to the
"Shining Light" Chapel. He'd been abroad for 'is 'ollerdays--to M=
onte
Carlo. It seems 'e was ill before =
'e
went away, but the change did 'im a lot of good; in fact, 'e was quite
recovered, and 'e was coming back again.
But while 'e was standin' on the platform at Monte Carlo Station wai=
tin'
for the train, a porter runned into 'im with a barrer load o' luggage, and =
'e
blowed up.'
'Blowed up?'
'Yes,' repeated Philpot. 'Blowed up!
Busted! Exploded! All into pieces. But they swep' 'em all up and put it in=
a
corfin and it's to be planted this afternoon.'
Harlow maintained an awestruck silence, and
Philpot continued:
'I had a drink the other night with a butcher
bloke what used to serve this parson with meat, and we was talkin' about wh=
at a
strange sort of death it was, but 'e said 'e wasn't at all surprised to 'ea=
r of
it; the only thing as 'e wondered at was that the man didn't blow up long a=
go,
considerin' the amount of grub as 'e used to make away with. He ses the quantities of stuff as 'e's =
took
there and seen other tradesmen take was something chronic. Tons of it!'
'What was the parson's name?' asked Harlow.
'Belcher.
You must 'ave noticed 'im about the town. A very fat chap,' replied Philpot. 'I'm sorry you wasn't 'ere on Saturday =
to see
the corfin plate. Frank called me =
in to
see the wordin' when 'e'd finished it.
It had on: "Jonydab Belcher.
Born January 1st, 1849. Ascended, December 8th, 19--"'
'Oh, I know the bloke now!' cried Harlow. 'I remember my youngsters bringin' 'ome= a subscription list what they'd got up at the Sunday School to send 'im away = for a 'ollerday because 'e was ill, and I gave 'em a penny each to put on their cards because I didn't want 'em to feel mean before the other young 'uns.'<= o:p>
'Yes, it's the same party. Two or three young 'uns asked me to giv=
e 'em
something to put on at the time. A=
nd I
see they've got another subscription list on now. I met one of Newman's children yesterda=
y and
she showed it to me. It's for an
entertainment and a Christmas Tree for all the children what goes to the Su=
nday
School, so I didn't mind giving just a trifle for anything like that.'...
'Seems to be gettin' colder, don't it?'
'It's enough to freeze the ears orf a brass
monkey!' remarked Easton as he descended from a ladder close by and, placing
his pot of paint on the pound, began to try to warm his hands by rubbing and
beating them together.
He was trembling, and his teeth were chattering
with cold.
'I could just do with a nice pint of beer, now=
,'
he said as he stamped his feet on the pound.
'That's just what I was thinkin',' said Philpo=
t,
wistfully, 'and what's more, I mean to 'ave one, too, at dinner-time. I shall nip down to the
"Cricketers". Even if I =
don't
get back till a few minutes after one, it won't matter, because Crass and
Nimrod will be gorn to the funeral.'
'Will you bring me a pint back with you, in a
bottle?' asked Easton.
'Yes, certainly,' said Philpot.
Harlow said nothing. He also would have liked a pint of beer=
, but,
as was usual with him, he had not the necessary cash. Having restored the circulation to a ce=
rtain
extent, they now resumed their work, and only just in time, for a few minut=
es
afterwards they observed Misery peeping round the corner of the house at th=
em
and they wondered how long he had been there, and whether he had overheard
their conversation.
At twelve o'clock Crass and Slyme cleared off =
in a
great hurry, and a little while afterwards, Philpot took off his apron and =
put
on his coat to go to the 'Cricketers'.
When the others found out where he was going, several of them asked =
him
to bring back a drink for them, and then someone suggested that all those w=
ho
wanted some beer should give twopence each.
This was done: one shilling and fourpence was collected and given to
Philpot, who was to bring back a gallon of beer in a jar. He promised to get
back as soon as ever he could, and some of the shareholders decided not to
drink any tea with their dinners, but to wait for the beer, although they k=
new
that it would be nearly time to resume work before he could get back. It would be a quarter to one at the very
earliest.
The minutes dragged slowly by, and after a whi=
le
the only man on the job who had a watch began to lose his temper and refuse=
d to
answer any more inquiries concerning the time.
So presently Bert was sent up to the top of the house to look at a
church clock which was visible therefrom, and when he came down he reported
that it was ten minutes to one.
Symptoms of anxiety now began to manifest
themselves amongst the shareholders, several of whom went down to the main =
road
to see if Philpot was yet in sight, but each returned with the same report-=
-they
could see nothing of him.
No one was formally 'in charge' of the job dur=
ing
Crass's absence, but they all returned to their work promptly at one because
they feared that Sawkins or some other sneak might report any irregularity =
to
Crass or Misery.
At a quarter-past one, Philpot was still missi=
ng
and the uneasiness of the shareholders began to develop into a panic. Some of them plainly expressed the opin=
ion
that he had gone on the razzle with the money. As the time wore on, this be=
came
the general opinion. At two o'cloc=
k, all
hope of his return having been abandoned, two or three of the shareholders =
went
and drank some of the cold tea.
Their fears were only too well founded, for th=
ey
saw no more of Philpot till the next morning, when he arrived looking very
sheepish and repentant and promised to refund all the money on Saturday.
Whilst Philpot was making this explanation they
were putting on their aprons and blouses, and Crass was serving out the lot=
s of
colour. Slyme took no part in the conversation, but got ready as quickly as
possible and went outside to make a start.
The reason for this haste soon became apparent to some of the others,
for they noticed that he had selected and commenced painting a large window
that was so situated as to be sheltered from the keen wind that was blowing=
.
The basement of the house was slightly below t=
he
level of the ground and there was a sort of a trench or area about three fe=
et
deep in front of the basement windows.
The banks of this trench were covered with rose trees and evergreens,
and the bottom was a mass of slimy, evil-smelling, rain-sodden earth, foul =
with
the excrement of nocturnal animals. To
second-coat these basement windows, Philpot and Harlow had to get down into=
and
stand in all this filth, which soaked through the worn and broken soles of
their boots. As they worked, the t=
horns
of the rose trees caught and tore their clothing and lacerated the flesh of
their half-frozen hands.
Owen and Easton were working on ladders doing = the windows immediately above Philpot and Harlow, Sawkins, on another ladder, w= as painting one of the gables, and the other men were working at different par= ts of the outside of the house. The b= oy Bert was painting the iron railings of the front fence. The weather was bitterly cold, the sun = was concealed by the dreary expanse of grey cloud that covered the wintry sky.<= o:p>
As they stood there working most of the time t=
hey
were almost perfectly motionless, the only part of their bodies that were
exercised being their right arms. =
The
work they were now doing required to be done very carefully and deliberatel=
y, otherwise
the glass would be 'messed up' or the white paint of the frames would 'run
into' the dark green of the sashes, both colours being wet at the same time,
each man having two pots of paint and two sets of brushes. The wind was not blowing in sudden gust=
s, but
swept by in a strong, persistent current that penetrated their clothing and
left them trembling and numb with cold. It blew from the right; and it was =
all
the worse on that account, because the right arm, being in use, left that s=
ide
of the body fully exposed. They we=
re
able to keep their left hands in their trousers pockets and the left arm cl=
ose
to the side most of the time. This=
made
a lot of difference.
Another reason why it is worse when the wind
strikes upon one from the right side is that the buttons on a man's coat are
always on the right side, and consequently the wind gets underneath. Philpot realized this all the more beca=
use
some of the buttons on his coat and waistcoat were missing.
As they worked on, trembling with cold, and wi=
th
their teeth chattering, their faces and hands became of that pale violet co=
lour
generally seen on the lips of a corpse.
Their eyes became full of water and the lids were red and inflamed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Philpot's and Harlow's boots were soon =
wet
through, with the water they absorbed from the damp ground, and their feet =
were
sore and intensely painful with cold.
Their hands, of course, suffered the most,
becoming so numbed that they were unable to feel the brushes they held; in
fact, presently, as Philpot was taking a dip of colour, the brush fell from=
his
hand into the pot; and then, finding that he was unable to move his fingers=
, he
put his hand into his trousers pocket to thaw, and began to walk about,
stamping his feet upon the ground. His
example was quickly followed by Owen, Easton and Harlow, and they all went
round the corner to the sheltered side of the house where Slyme was working,
and began walking up and down, rubbing their hands, stamping their feet and
swinging their arms to warm themselves.
'If I thought Nimrod wasn't comin', I'd put my
overcoat on and work in it,' remarked Philpot, 'but you never knows when to
expect the b--r, and if 'e saw me in it, it would mean the bloody push.'
'It wouldn't interfere with our workin' if we =
did
wear 'em,' said Easton; 'in fact, we'd be able to work all the quicker if we
wasn't so cold.'
'Even if Misery didn't come, I suppose Crass w=
ould
'ave something to say if we did put 'em on,' continued Philpot.
'Well, yer couldn't blame 'im if 'e did say
something, could yer?' said Slyme, offensively.
'Crass would get into a row 'imself if 'Unter came and saw us workin=
' in
overcoats. It would look ridiclus.=
'
Slyme suffered less from the cold than any of
them, not only because he had secured the most sheltered window, but also
because he was better clothed than most of the rest.
'What's Crass supposed to be doin' inside?' as=
ked
Easton as he tramped up and down, with his shoulders hunched up and his han=
ds
thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers.
'Blowed if I know,' replied Philpot. 'Messin' about touchin' up or makin'
colour. He never does 'is share of=
a job
like this; 'e knows 'ow to work things all right for 'isself.'
'What if 'e does?
We'd be the same if we was in 'is place, and so would anybody else,'
said Slyme, and added sarcastically: 'Or p'haps you'd give all the soft job=
s to
other people and do all the rough yerself!'
Slyme knew that, although they were speaking of
Crass, they were also alluding to himself, and as he replied to Philpot he
looked slyly at Owen, who had so far taken no part in the conversation.
'It's not a question of what we would do,' chi=
med
in Harlow. 'It's a question of wha=
t's
fair. If it's not fair for Crass t=
o pick
all the soft jobs for 'imself and leave all the rough for others, the fact =
that
we might do the same if we 'ad the chance don't make it right.'
'No one can be blamed for doing the best he can
for himself under existing circumstances,' said Owen in reply to Slyme's
questioning look. That is the prin=
ciple
of the present system--every man for himself and the devil take the rest. For my own part I don't pretend to prac=
tise
unselfishness. I don't pretend to =
guide
my actions by the rules laid down in the Sermon on the Mount. But it's certainly surprising to hear y=
ou who
profess to be a follower of Christ--advocating selfishness. Or, rather, it would be surprising if i=
t were
not that the name of "Christian" has ceased to signify one who
follows Christ, and has come to mean only liar and hypocrite.'
Slyme made no answer. Possibly the fact that he was a true be=
liever
enabled him to bear this insult with meekness and humility.
'I wonder what time it is?' interposed Philpot=
.
Slyme looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock.
'Jesus Christ!
Is that all?' growled Easton as they returned to work. 'Two hours mo=
re
before dinner!'
Only two more hours, but to these miserable,
half-starved, ill-clad wretches, standing here in the bitter wind that pier=
ced
their clothing and seemed to be tearing at their very hearts and lungs with=
icy
fingers, it appeared like an eternity.
To judge by the eagerness with which they longed for dinner-time, one
might have thought they had some glorious banquet to look forward to instea=
d of
bread and cheese and onions, or bloaters--and stewed tea.
Two more hours of torture before dinner; and t=
hree
more hours after that. And then, t=
hank
God, it would be too dark to see to work any longer.
It would have been much better for them if,
instead of being 'Freemen', they had been slaves, and the property, instead=
of
the hirelings, of Mr Rushton. As i=
t was,
HE would not have cared if one or all of them had become ill or died from t=
he
effects of exposure. It would have made no difference to him. There were plenty of others out of work=
and
on the verge of starvation who would be very glad to take their places. But if they had been Rushton's property=
, such
work as this would have been deferred until it could be done without danger=
to
the health and lives of the slaves; or at any rate, even if it were proceed=
ed
with during such weather, their owner would have seen to it that they were
properly clothed and fed; he would have taken as much care of them as he wo=
uld
of his horse.
People always take great care of their
horses. If they were to overwork a=
horse
and make it ill, it would cost something for medicine and the veterinary
surgeon, to say nothing of the animal's board and lodging. If they were to work their horses to de=
ath,
they would have to buy others. But=
none
of these considerations applies to workmen. If they work a man to death they
can get another for nothing at the corner of the next street. They don't have to buy him; all they ha=
ve to
do is to give him enough money to provide him with food and clothing--of a =
kind--while
he is working for them. If they on=
ly
make him ill, they will not have to feed him or provide him with medical ca=
re
while he is laid up. He will eithe=
r go
without these things or pay for them himself.
At the same time it must be admitted that the workman scores over bo=
th
the horse and the slave, inasmuch as he enjoys the priceless blessing of
Freedom. If he does not like the h=
irer's
conditions he need not accept them. He
can refuse to work, and he can go and starve. There are no ropes on him.
The wind blew colder and colder. The sky, which at first had shown small
patches of blue through rifts in the masses of clouds, had now become unifo=
rmly
grey. There was every indication o=
f an
impending fall of snow.
The men perceived this with conflicting
feelings. If it did commence to sn=
ow,
they would not be able to continue this work, and therefore they found them=
selves
involuntarily wishing that it would snow, or rain, or hail, or anything that
would stop the work. But on the ot=
her
hand, if the weather prevented them getting on with the outside, some of th=
em
would have to 'stand off', because the inside was practically finished. None of them wished to lose any time if=
they
could possibly help it, because there were only ten days more before Christ=
mas.
The morning slowly wore away and the snow did =
not
fall. The hands worked on in silen=
ce,
for they were in no mood for talking, and not only that, but they were afra=
id
that Hunter or Rushton or Crass might be watching them from behind some bus=
h or
tree, or through some of the windows.
This dread possessed them to such an extent that most of them were
almost afraid even to look round, and kept steadily on at work. None of them
wished to spoil his chance of being kept on to help to do the other house t=
hat
it was reported Rushton & Co. were going to 'do up' for Mr Sweater.
Twelve o'clock came at last, and Crass's whist=
le
had scarcely ceased to sound before they all assembled in the kitchen before
the roaring fire. Sweater had sent in two tons of coal and had given orders
that fires were to be lit every day in nearly every room to make the house
habitable by Christmas.
'I wonder if it's true as the firm's got anoth=
er
job to do for old Sweater?' remarked Harlow as he was toasting a bloater on=
the
end of the pointed stick.
'True? No!' said the man on the pail
scornfully. 'It's all bogy. You know that empty 'ouse as they said
Sweater 'ad bought--the one that Rushton and Nimrod was seen lookin' at?'
'Yes,' replied Harlow. The other men listened with evident int=
erest.
'Well, they wasn't pricing it up after all! The landlord of that 'ouse is
abroad, and there was some plants in the garden as Rushton thought 'e'd lik=
e,
and 'e was tellin' Misery which ones 'e wanted. And afterwards old Pontius
Pilate came up with Ned Dawson and a truck. They made two or three journeys=
and
took bloody near everything in the garden as was worth takin'. What didn't go to Rushton's place went =
to
'Unter's.'
The disappointment of their hopes for another =
job
was almost forgotten in their interest in this story.
'Who told you about it?' said Harlow.
'Ned Dawson 'imself. It's right enough what I say. Ask 'im.'=
Ned Dawson, usually called 'Bundy's mate', had
been away from the house for a few days down at the yard doing odd jobs, and
had only come back to the 'Cave' that morning.
On being appealed to, he corroborated Dick Wantley's statement.
'They'll be gettin' theirselves into trouble if
they ain't careful,' remarked Easton.
'Oh, no they won't, Rushton's too artful for
that. It seems the agent is a pal =
of
'is, and they worked it between 'em.'
'Wot a bloody cheek, though!' exclaimed Harlow=
.
'Oh, that's nothing to some of the things I've
known 'em do before now,' said the man on the pail. 'Why, don't you remember, back in the s=
ummer,
that carved hoak hall table as Rushton pinched out of that 'ouse on Grand P=
arade?'
'Yes; that was a bit of all right too, wasn't =
it?'
cried Philpot, and several of the others laughed.
'You know, that big 'ouse we did up last
summer--No. 596,' Wantley continued, for the benefit of those not 'in the
know'. 'Well, it 'ad bin empty for=
a
long time and we found this 'ere table in a cupboard under the stairs. A bloody fine table it was too. One of them bracket tables what you fix=
to
the wall, without no legs. It 'ad a
'arf-round marble top to it, and underneath was a carved hoak figger, a
mermaid, with 'er arms up over 'er 'ead 'oldin' up the table top--something
splendid!' The man on the pail wax=
ed
enthusiastic as he thought of it. 'Must 'ave been worth at least five
quid. Well, just as we pulled this=
'ere
table out, who should come in but Rushton, and when 'e seen it, 'e tells Cr=
ass
to cover it over with a sack and not to let nobody see it. And then 'e clea=
rs
orf to the shop and sends the boy down with the truck and 'as it took up to=
'is
own 'ouse, and it's there now, fixed in the front 'all. I was sent up there a couple of months =
ago to
paint and varnish the lobby doors and I seen it meself. There's a pitcher called "The Day =
of
Judgement" 'angin' on the wall just over it--thunder and lightning and
earthquakes and corpses gettin' up out o' their graves--something bloody
'orrible! And underneath the picture is a card with a tex out of the
Bible--"Christ is the 'ead of this 'ouse: the unknown guest at every m=
eal.
The silent listener to every conversation." I was workin' there for three or four d=
ays
and I got to know it orf by 'eart.'
'Well, that takes the biskit, don't it?' said
Philpot.
'Yes: but the best of it was,' the man on the =
pail
proceeded, 'the best of it was, when ole Misery 'eard about the table, 'e w=
as
so bloody wild because 'e didn't get it 'imself that 'e went upstairs and
pinched one of the venetian blinds and 'ad it took up to 'is own 'ouse by t=
he
boy, and a few days arterwards one of the carpenters 'ad to go and fix it u=
p in
'is bedroom.'
'And wasn't it never found out?' inquired East=
on.
'Well, there was a bit of talk about it. The agent wanted to know where it was, =
but
Pontius Pilate swore black and white as there 'adn't been no blind in that
room, and the end of it was that the firm got the order to supply a new one=
.'
'What I can't understand is, who did the table
belong to?' said Harlow.
'It was a fixture belongin' to the 'ouse,' rep=
lied
Wantley. 'But I suppose the former
tenants had some piece of furniture of their own that they wanted to put in=
the
'all where this table was fixed, so they took it down and stored it away in
this 'ere cupboard, and when they left the 'ouse I suppose they didn't trou=
ble
to put it back again. Anyway, there was the mark on the wall where it used =
to
be fixed, but when we did the staircase down, the place was papered over, a=
nd I
suppose the landlord or the agent never give the table a thought. Anyhow,
Rushton got away with it all right.'
A number of similar stories were related by
several others concerning the doings of different employers they had worked
for, but after a time the conversation reverted to the subject that was
uppermost in their thoughts--the impending slaughter, and the improbability=
of
being able to obtain another job, considering the large number of men who w=
ere
already out of employment.
'I can't make it out, myself,' remarked
Easton. 'Things seems to get worse=
every
year. There don't seem to be 'arf =
the
work about that there used to be, and even what there is is messed up anyho=
w,
as if the people who 'as it done can't afford to pay for it.'
'Yes,' said Harlow; 'that's true enough. Why, just look at the work that's in on=
e o'
them 'ouses on the Grand Parade. P=
eople
must 'ave 'ad more money to spend in those days, you know; all those massive
curtain cornishes over the drawing- and dining-room winders--gilded solid! =
Why,
nowadays they'd want all the bloody 'ouse done down right through--inside a=
nd
out, for the money it cost to gild one of them.'
'It seems that nearly everybody is more or less
'ard up nowadays,' said Philpot. '=
I'm
jiggered if I can understand it, but there it is.'
'You should ast Owen to explain it to yer,'
remarked Crass with a jeering laugh. ''E
knows all about wot's the cause of poverty, but 'e won't tell nobody. 'E's been GOIN' to tell us wot it is fo=
r a
long time past, but it don't seem to come orf.'
Crass had not yet had an opportunity of produc=
ing
the Obscurer cutting, and he made this remark in the hope of turning the
conversation into a channel that would enable him to do so. But Owen did not respond, and went on r=
eading
his newspaper.
'We ain't 'ad no lectures at all lately, 'ave =
we?'
said Harlow in an injured tone. 'I=
think
it's about time Owen explained what the real cause of poverty is. I'm beginning to get anxious about it.'=
The others laughed.
When Philpot had finished eating his dinner he
went out of the kitchen and presently returned with a small pair of steps,
which he opened and placed in a corner of the room, with the back of the st=
eps
facing the audience.
'There you are, me son!' he exclaimed to Owen.=
'There's a pulpit for yer.'
'Yes! come on 'ere!' cried Crass, feeling in h=
is
waistcoat pocket for the cutting. =
'Tell
us wot's the real cause of poverty.'
''Ear, 'ear,' shouted the man on the pail. 'Git up into the bloody pulpit and give=
us a
sermon.'
As Owen made no response to the invitations, t=
he
crowd began to hoot and groan.
'Come on, man,' whispered Philpot, winking his
goggle eye persuasively at Owen. '=
Come
on, just for a bit of turn, to pass the time away.'
Owen accordingly ascended the steps--much to t=
he
secret delight of Crass--and was immediately greeted with a round of
enthusiastic applause.
'There you are, you see,' said Philpot, addres=
sing
the meeting. 'It's no use booin' a=
nd
threatenin', because 'e's one of them lecturers wot can honly be managed wi=
th
kindness. If it 'adn't a bin for m=
e, 'e
wouldn't 'ave agreed to speak at all.'
Philpot having been unanimously elected chairm=
an,
proposed by Harlow and seconded by the man on the pail, Owen commenced:
'Mr Chairman and gentlemen:
'Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, it is
with some degree of hesitation that I venture to address myself to such a
large, distinguished, fashionable, and intelligent looking audience as that
which I have the honour of seeing before me on the present occasion.'
(Applause.)
'One of the finest speakers I've ever 'eard!'
remarked the man on the pail in a loud whisper to the chairman, who motioned
him to be silent.
Owen continued:
'In some of my previous lectures I have
endeavoured to convince you that money is in itself of no value and of no r=
eal
use whatever. In this I am afraid =
I have
been rather unsuccessful.'
'Not a bit of it, mate,' cried Crass,
sarcastically. 'We all agrees with=
it.'
''Ear, 'ear,' shouted Easton. 'If a bloke was to come in 'ere now and=
orfer
to give me a quid--I'd refuse it!'
'So would I,' said Philpot.
'Well, whether you agree or not, the fact
remains. A man might possess so mu=
ch
money that, in England, he would be comparatively rich, and yet if he went =
to
some country where the cost of living is very high he would find himself in=
a
condition of poverty. Or one might
conceivably be in a place where the necessaries of life could not be bought=
for
money at all. Therefore it is more
conducive to an intelligent understanding of the subject if we say that to =
be
rich consists not necessarily in having much money, but in being able to en=
joy
an abundance of the things that are made by work; and that poverty consists=
not
merely in being without money, but in being short of the necessaries and
comforts of life--or in other words in being short of the Benefits of
Civilization, the things that are all, without exception, produced by
work. Whether you agree or not with
anything else that I say, you will all admit that that is our condition at =
the
present time. We do not enjoy a fu=
ll
share of the benefits of civilization--we are all in a state of more or less
abject poverty.'
'Question!' cried Crass, and there were loud
murmurs of indignant dissent from several quarters as Owen proceeded:
'How does it happen that we are so short of the
things that are made by work?'
'The reason why we're short of the things that=
's
made by work,' interrupted Crass, mimicking Owen's manner, 'is that we ain't
got the bloody money to buy 'em.'
'Yes,' said the man on the pail; 'and as I said
before, if all the money in the country was shared out equal today accordin=
g to
Owen's ideas--in six months' time it would be all back again in the same 'a=
nds
as it is now, and what are you goin' to do then?'
'Share again, of course.'
This answer came derisively from several place=
s at
the same instant, and then they all began speaking at once, vying with each
other in ridiculing the foolishness of 'them there Socialists', whom they
called 'The Sharers Out'.
Barrington was almost the only one who took no
part in the conversation. He was s=
eated
in his customary place and, as usual, silently smoking, apparently obliviou=
s to
his surroundings.
'I never said anything about "sharing out=
all
the money",' said Owen during a lull in the storm, 'and I don't know of
any Socialist who advocates anything of the kind. Can any of you tell me the name of some=
one
who proposes to do so?'
No one answered, as Owen repeated his inquiry,
this time addressing himself directly to Crass, who had been one of the lou=
dest
in denouncing and ridiculing the 'Sharers Out'.
Thus cornered, Crass--who knew absolutely nothing about the subject-=
-for
a few moments looked rather foolish.
Then he began to talk in a very loud voice:
'Why, it's a well-known fact. Everybody knows that's what they wants.=
But
they take bloody good care they don't act up to it theirselves, though. Look at them there Labour members of
Parliament--a lot of b--rs what's too bloody lazy to work for their
livin'! What the bloody 'ell was t=
hey
before they got there? Only workin=
' men,
the same as you and me! But they'v=
e got
the gift o' the gab and--'
'Yes, we know all about that,' said Owen, 'but
what I'm asking you is to tell us who advocates taking all the money in the
country and sharing it out equally?'
'And I say that everybody knows that's what
they're after!' shouted Crass. 'An=
d you
know it as well as I do. A fine th=
ing!'
he added indignantly. 'Accordin' t=
o that
idear, a bloody scavenger or a farm labourer ought to get as much wages as =
you
or me!'
'We can talk about that some other time. What I want to know at present is--what
authority have you for saying that Socialists believe in sharing out all the
money equally amongst all the people?'
'Well, that's what I've always understood they
believed in doing,' said Crass rather lamely.
'It's a well-known fact,' said several others.=
'Come to think of it,' continued Crass as he d=
rew
the Obscurer cutting from his waistcoat pocket, 'I've got a little thing 'e=
re
that I've been goin' to read to yer.
It's out of the Obscurer. I=
'd
forgotten all about it.'
Remarking that the print was too small for his=
own
eyes, he passed the slip of paper to Harlow, who read aloud as follows:
PR=
OVE
YOUR PRINCIPLES: OR, LOOK AT BOTH SIDES
'I=
wish
I could open your eyes to the true misery of our condition: injustice, tyranny and
oppression!' said a discontented hack
to a weary-looking cob as they stood side by side in unhired cabs.
'I=
'd
rather have them opened to something pleasant, thank you,' replied the cob.
'I=
am
sorry for you. If you could enter =
into
the noble aspirations--' the ha=
ck
began.
'T=
alk
plain. What would you have?' said =
the
cob, interrupting him.
'W=
hat
would I have? Why, equality, and s=
hare
and share alike all over the wo=
rld,'
said the hack.
'Y=
ou
MEAN that?' said the cob.
'Of
course I do. What right have those sleek, pampered hunters and racers to their warm stables and high
feed, their grooms and jockeys?=
It is really heart-sickening to think of=
it,'
replied the hack.
'I=
don't
know but you may be right,' said the cob, 'and to show I'm in earnest, as no doubt you are,=
let
me have half the good beans you=
have
in your bag, and you shall have half the musty oats and chaff I have in mine. There's nothing like proving one's principles.' Origi=
nal
Parables. By Mrs Prosier.
'There you are!' cried several voices.
'What does that mean?' cried Crass, triumphant=
ly. 'Why don't you go and share your wages =
with
the chaps what's out of work?'
'What does it mean?' replied Owen
contemptuously. 'It means that if =
the
Editor of the Obscurer put that in his paper as an argument against Sociali=
sm,
either he is of feeble intellect himself or else he thinks that the majorit=
y of
his readers are. That isn't an arg=
ument
against Socialism--it's an argument against the hypocrites who pretend to be
Christians--the people who profess to "Love their neighbours as
themselves"--who pretend to believe in Universal Brotherhood, and that
they do not love the world or the things of the world and say that they are
merely "Pilgrims on their way to a better land". As for why I don't do it--why should I?=
I don't pretend to be a Christian. But you're all "Christians"--=
why
don't you do it?'
'We're not talkin' about religion,' exclaimed
Crass, impatiently.
'Then what are you talking about? I never said anything about "Shari=
ng
Out" or "Bearing one another's burdens". I don't profess to "Give to everyo=
ne who
asks of me" or to "Give my cloak to the man who take away my
coat". I have read that Christ
taught that His followers must do all these things, but as I do not pretend=
to be
one of His followers I don't do them.
But you believe in Christianity: why don't you do the things that He
said?'
As nobody seemed to know the answer to this
question, the lecturer proceeded:
'In this matter the difference between so-call=
ed
"Christians" and Socialists is this: Christ taught the Fatherhood=
of God
and the Brotherhood of Men. Those =
who
today pretend to be Christ's followers hypocritically profess to carry out
those teachings now. But they don'=
t.
They have arranged "The Battle of Life" system instead!
'The Socialist--very much against his will--fi=
nds
himself in the midst of this horrible battle, and he appeals to the other
combatants to cease from fighting and to establish a system of Brotherly Lo=
ve
and Mutual Helpfulness, but he does not hypocritically pretend to practise
brotherly love towards those who will not agree to his appeal, and who comp=
el
him to fight with them for his very life.
He knows that in this battle he must either fight or go under. Therefore, in self-defiance, he fights;=
but
all the time he continues his appeal for the cessation of the slaughter.
'It is these pretended Christians who do not
practise what they preach, because, all the time they are singing their son=
gs
of Brotherhood and Love, they are fighting with each other, and strangling =
each
other and trampling each other underfoot in their horrible "Battle of
Life"!
'No Socialist suggests "Sharing out"
money or anything else in the manner you say.
And another thing: if you only had a little more sense you might be =
able
to perceive that this stock "argument" of yours is really an argu=
ment
against the present system, inasmuch as it proves that Money is in itself o=
f no
use whatever. Supposing all the mo=
ney
was shared out equally; and suppose there was enough of it for everyone to =
have
ten thousand pounds; and suppose they then all thought they were rich and n=
one
of them would work. What would the=
y live
on? Their money? Could they eat it or drink it or wear
it? It wouldn't take them very lon=
g to
find out that this wonderful money--which under the present system is the m=
ost
powerful thing in existence--is really of no more use than so much dirt.
'Oh, of course everybody's an idjit except you=
,'
sneered Crass, who was beginning to feel rather fogged.
'I rise to a pint of order,' said Easton.
'And I rise to order a pint,' cried Philpot.
'Order what the bloody 'ell you like,' remarked
Harlow, 'so long as I 'aven't got to pay for it.'
'Mine's a pint of porter,' observed the man on=
the
pail.
'The pint is,' proceeded Easton, 'when does the
lecturer intend to explain to us what is the real cause of poverty.'
''Ear, 'ear,' cried Harlow. 'That's what I want to know, too.'
'And what I should like to know is, who is
supposed to be givin' this 'ere lecture?' inquired the man on the pail.
'Why, Owen, of course,' replied Harlow.
'Well, why don't you try to keep quiet for a f=
ew
minutes and let 'im get on with it?'
'The next b--r wot interrupts,' cried Philpot,
rolling up his shirt-sleeves and glaring threateningly round upon the
meeting. 'The next b--r wot interr=
upts
goes out through the bloody winder!'
At this, everybody pretended to be very
frightened, and edged away as far as possible from Philpot. Easton, who was sitting next to him, go=
t up
and crossed over to Owen's vacant seat.
The man on the pail was the only one who did not seem nervous; perha=
ps
he felt safer because he was, as usual, surrounded by a moat.
'Poverty,' resumed the lecturer, consists in a
shortage of the necessaries of life--or rather, of the benefits of
civilization.'
'You've said that about a 'undred times before=
,'
snarled Crass.
'I know I have; and I have no doubt I shall ha=
ve
to say it about five hundred times more before you understand what it means=
.'
'Get on with the bloody lecture,' shouted the =
man
on the pail. 'Never mind arguin' t=
he
point.'
'Well, keep horder, can't you?' cried Philpot,
fiercely, 'and give the man a chance.'
'All these things are produced in the same way=
,'
proceeded Owen. 'They are made from the Raw materials by those who work--ai=
ded
by machinery. When we inquire into the cause of the present shortage of the=
se
things, the first question we should ask is--Are there not sufficient of the
raw materials in existence to enable us to produce enough to satisfy the ne=
eds
of all?
'The answer to this question is--There are
undoubtedly more than sufficient of all the raw materials.
'Insufficiency of raw material is therefore not
the cause. We must look in another
direction.
'The next question is--Are we short of
labour? Is there not a sufficient =
number
of people able and willing to work? Or
is there not enough machinery?
'The answers to these questions are--There are
plenty of people able and willing to work, and there is plenty of machinery=
!
'These things being so, how comes this
extraordinary result? How is it th=
at the
benefits of civilization are not produced in sufficient quantity to satisfy=
the
needs of all? How is it that the
majority of the people always have to go without most of the refinements,
comforts, and pleasures of life, and very often without even the bare
necessaries of existence?
'Plenty of materials--Plenty of Labour--Plenty=
of
Machinery--and, nearly everybody going short of nearly everything!
'The cause of this extraordinary state of affa=
irs
is that although we possess the means of producing more than abundance for =
all,
we also have an imbecile system of managing our affairs.
'The present Money System prevents us from doi=
ng
the necessary work, and consequently causes the majority of the population =
to
go short of the things that can be made by work. They suffer want in the midst of the me=
ans of
producing abundance. They remain i=
dle
because they are bound and fettered with a chain of gold.
'Let us examine the details of this insane,
idiotic, imbecile system.'
Owen now asked Philpot to pass him a piece of
charred wood from under the grate, and having obtained what he wanted, he d=
rew
upon the wall a quadrangular figure about four feet in length and one foot
deep. The walls of the kitchen had=
not
yet been cleaned off, so it did not matter about disfiguring them.
+------------------------------------------------------------------+=
| =
| | =
| | =
| | =
| | =
| | This represents the wh=
ole of
the adult population of the country |
| =
span> | | =
| | =
| | =
| | =
|
+------------------------------------------------------------------+=
'To find out the cause of the shortage in this
country of the things that can be made by work it is first of all necessary=
to
find out how people spend their time.
Now this square represents the whole of the adult population of this
country. There are many different
classes of people, engaged in a great number of different occupations. Some of them are helping to produce the
benefits of civilization, and some are not.
All these people help to consume these things, but when we inquire i=
nto
their occupations we shall find that although the majority are workers, onl=
y a
comparatively small number are engaged in actually producing either the
benefits of civilization or the necessaries of life.'...
Order being once more restored, the lecturer
turned again to the drawing on the wall and stretched out his hand, evident=
ly
with the intention of making some addition to it, but instead of doing so he
paused irresolutely, and faltering, let his arm drop down again by his side=
.
An absolute, disconcerting silence reigned.
It would be easy enough to convince them if th=
ey
would only take a LITTLE trouble and try to understand, but he knew that th=
ey
certainly would not 'worry' themselves about such a subject as this; it was=
not
as if it were some really important matter, such as a smutty story, a game =
of
hooks and rings or shove-ha'penny, something concerning football or cricket,
horse-racing or the doings of some Royal personage or aristocrat.
The problem of the cause of poverty was only
something that concerned their own and their children's future welfare. Such an unimportant matter, being undes=
erving
of any earnest attention, must be put before them so clearly and plainly th=
at
they would be compelled to understand it at a glance; and it was almost
impossible to do it.
Observing his hesitation, some of the men bega=
n to
snigger. ''E seems to 'ave got 'is=
self
into a bit of a fog,' remarked Crass in a loud whisper to Slyme, who laughe=
d.
The sound roused Owen, who resumed:
'All these people help to consume the things
produced by labour. We will now di=
vide
them into separate classes. Those =
who
help to produce; those who do nothing, those who do harm, and those who are
engaged in unnecessary work.'
'And,' sneered Crass, 'those who are engaged in
unnecessary talk.'
'First we will separate those who not only do
nothing, but do not even pretend to be of any use; people who would consider
themselves disgraced if they by any chance did any useful work. This class includes tramps, beggars, the
"Aristocracy", "Society" people, great landowners, and
generally all those possessed of hereditary wealth.'
As he spoke he drew a vertical line across one=
end
of the oblong.
+------------+-----------------------------------------------------+=
| Tramps
| =
| | Beggars | =
| | Society | =
| | People | =
| | Aristoc- | =
| | racy | =
| | Great | | | Landowners | =
| | All those | =
| | possessed | =
| | of |
=
| | hereditary | =
| | wealth | =
| +------------+----------=
-------------------------------------------+
'These people do absolutely nothing except dev=
our
or enjoy the things produced by the labours of others.
'Our next division represents those who do wor=
k of
a kind--"mental" work if you like to call it so--work that benefi=
ts
themselves and harms other people.
Employers--or rather Exploiters of Labour; Thieves, Swindlers,
Pickpockets; profit seeking share-holders; burglars; Bishops; Financiers;
Capitalists, and those persons humorously called "Ministers" of
religion. If you remember that the=
word
"minister" means "servant" you will be able to see the
joke.
1 2
+------------+-------------+---------------------------------------+=
| Tramps
| Exploiters | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | Beggars
| of Labour | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | Society
| Thieves | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | People
| Swindlers | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | Aristoc-
| Pickpockets | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | racy
| Burglars | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | Great
| Bishops | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | Landowners | Financiers | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | All those
| Capitalists | <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | | possessed
| Share- | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | of =
| holders | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | hereditary | Ministers | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | wealth
| of religion | |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'>
+------------+-------------+---------------------------------------+=
'None of these people produce anything themsel=
ves,
but by means of cunning and scheming they contrive between them to obtain p=
ossession
of a very large portion of the things produced by the labour of others.
'Number three stands for those who work for wa=
ges
or salaries, doing unnecessary work.
That is, producing things or doing things which--though useful and
necessary to the Imbecile System--cannot be described as the necessaries of
life or the benefits of civilization. This is the largest section of all. It comprises Commercial Travellers,
Canvassers, Insurance agents, commission agents, the great number of Shop
Assistants, the majority of clerks, workmen employed in the construction and
adornment of business premises, people occupied with what they call
"Business", which means being very busy without producing
anything. Then there is a vast arm=
y of
people engaged in designing, composing, painting or printing advertisements,
things which are for the most part of no utility whatever, the object of mo=
st
advertisements is merely to persuade people to buy from one firm rather than
from another. If you want some but=
ter it
doesn't matter whether you buy it from Brown or Jones or Robinson.'
1 2 3
+------------+-------------+-------------+-------------------------+=
| Tramps
| Exploiters | All those | | | Society
| Thieves | unnecessary =
| | | People
| Swindlers | work | | | Aristoc-
| Pickpockets | =
| |
| racy | Burglars | | | | Great
| Bishops | | | | Landowners | Financiers | =
| |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | All those
| Capitalists | =
| | | possessed
| Share- | | | | of =
| holders | | | | hereditary | Ministers | =
| |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> | wealth
| of religion | =
| | +------------+-------------+----------=
---+-------------------------+
During the delivery of this pert of the lectur=
e,
the audience began to manifest symptoms of impatience and dissent. Perceiving this, Owen, speaking very rap=
idly,
continued:
'If you go down town, you will see half a dozen
drapers' shops within a stone's-throw of each other--often even next door to
each other--all selling the same things.
You can't possibly think that all those shops are really necessary?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You know that one of them would serve t=
he
purpose for which they are all intended--to store and serve as a centre for=
the
distribution of the things that are made by work. If you will admit that five out of the =
six shops
are not really necessary, you must also admit that the men who built them, =
and
the salesmen and women or other assistants engaged in them, and the men who
design and write and print their advertisements are all doing unnecessary w=
ork;
all really wasting their time and labour, time and labour that might be
employed in helping to produce these things that we are at present short of.
You must admit that none of these people are engaged in producing either the
necessaries of life or the benefits of civilization. They buy them, and sell them, and handle
them, and haggle over, them, and display them, in the plate glass windows of
"Stores" and "Emporiums" and make profit out of them, a=
nd
use them, but these people themselves produce nothing that is necessary to =
life
or happiness, and the things that some of them do produce are only necessar=
y to
the present imbecile system.'
'What the 'ell sort of a bloody system do you
think we ought to 'ave, then?' interrupted the man on the pail.
'Yes: you're very good at finding fault,' snee=
red
Slyme, 'but why don't you tell us 'ow it's all going to be put right?'
'Well, that's not what we're talking about now=
, is
it?' replied Owen. 'At present we're only trying to find out how it is that
there is not sufficient produced for everyone to have enough of the things =
that
are made by work. Although most of=
the
people in number three work very hard, they produce Nothing.'
'This is a lot of bloody rot!' exclaimed Crass,
impatiently.
'Even if there is more shops than what's actua=
lly
necessary,' cried Harlow, 'it all helps people to get a livin'! If half of 'em was shut up, it would ju=
st
mean that all them what works there would be out of a job. Live and let live, I say: all these thi=
ngs
makes work.'
''Ear, 'ear,' shouted the man behind the moat.=
'Yes, I know it makes "work",' repli=
ed
Owen, 'but we can't live on mere "work", you know. To live in comfort we need a sufficienc=
y of
the things that can be made by work. A
man might work very hard and yet be wasting his time if he were not produci=
ng
something necessary or useful.
'Why are there so many shops and stores and
emporiums? Do you imagine they exi=
st for
the purpose of giving those who build them, or work in them, a chance to ea=
rn a
living? Nothing of the sort. They =
are carried
on, and exorbitant prices are charged for the articles they sell, to enable=
the
proprietors to amass fortunes, and to pay extortionate rents to the
landlords. That is why the wages a=
nd
salaries of nearly all those who do the work created by these businesses are
cut down to the lowest possible point.'
'We knows all about that,' said Crass, 'but you
can't get away from it that all these things makes Work; and that's what we
wants--Plenty of Work.'
Cries of ''Ear, 'ear,' and expressions of diss=
ent
from the views expressed by the lecturer resounded through the room, nearly
everyone speaking at the same time.
After a while, when the row had in some measure subsided, Owen resum=
ed:
'Nature has not provided ready-made all the th=
ings
necessary for the life and happiness of mankind. In order to obtain these things we have=
to
Work. The only rational labour is =
that
which is directed to the creation of those things. Any kind of work which does not help us=
to
attain this object is a ridiculous, idiotic, criminal, imbecile, waste of t=
ime.
'That is what the great army of people represe= nted by division number three are doing at present: they are all very busy--work= ing very hard--but to all useful intents and purposes they are doing Nothing.'<= o:p>
'Well, all right,' said Harlow. ''Ave it yer own way, but there's no ne=
ed to
keep on repeating the same thing over an' over again.'
'The next division,' resumed Owen, 'stands for
those who are engaged in really useful work--the production of the benefits=
of
civilization--the necessaries, refinements and comforts of life.'
1 2 3 4
+------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+=
| Tramps
| Exploiters | All those | engaged in | |
| Society | Thieves | unnecessary | necessary |
U | | People
| Swindlers | work | work--the |
N | | Aristoc-
| Pickpockets | |
production | E |
| racy | Burglars | | of the | =
M | | Great
| Bishops | | benefits |
P | | Landowners | Financiers | =
| of | L =
| | All those | Capitalists | | civiliz- |
O | | possessed
| Share- | | ation | =
Y | | of =
| holders | | | E =
| | hereditary | Ministers=
| =
| | D
| | wealth
| of religion | =
| | |
+------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+=
'Hooray!' shouted Philpot, leading off a cheer
which was taken up enthusiastically by the crowd, 'Hooray! This is where WE comes in,' he added, n=
odding
his head and winking his goggle eyes at the meeting.
'I wish to call the chairman to horder,' said =
the
man on the pail.
When Owen had finished writing in the list of
occupations several members of the audience rose to point out that those
engaged in the production of beer had been omitted. Owen rectified this serious oversight a=
nd
proceeded:
'As most of the people in number four are out =
of
work at least one quarter of their time, we must reduce the size of this
division by one fourth--so. The gr=
ey
part represents the unemployed.'
'But some of those in number three are often
unemployed as well,' said Harlow.
Yes: but as THEY produce nothing even when they
are at work we need not trouble to classify them unemployed, because our
present purpose is only to discover the reason why there is not enough prod=
uced
for everyone to enjoy abundance; and this--the Present System of conducting=
our
affairs--is the reason of the shortage--the cause of poverty. When you reflect that all the other peo=
ple
are devouring the things produced by those in number four--can you wonder t=
hat
there is not plenty for all?'
'"Devouring" is a good word,' said
Philpot, and the others laughed.
The lecturer now drew a small square upon the =
wall
below the other drawing. This squa=
re he
filled in solid black.
1 2 3 4
+------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+=
| Tramps
| Exploiters | All those
############## ####=
##########
############## This
represents the total
############## of the
things produced by ##############=
the people in division 4. ##############
'This represents the total amount of the benef=
its
of civilization and necessaries of life produced by the people in number
four. We now proceed to "Share
Out" the things in the same way as they are actually divided amongst t=
he
different classes of the population under the present imbecile system.
'As the people in divisions one and two are
universally considered to be the most worthy and deserving we give
them--two-thirds of the whole.
'The remainder we give to be "Shared
Out" amongst the people represented by divisions three and four.
1 2 3 4
+------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+=
| Tramps
| Exploiters | All those | engaged in | |
| Society | Thieves | unnecessary | necessary |
U | | People
| Swindlers | work | work--the |
N | | Aristoc-
| Pickpockets | |
production | E |
| racy | Burglars | | of the | =
M | | Great
| Bishops | | benefits |
P | | Landowners | Financiers | =
| of | L =
| | All those | Capitalists | | civiliz- |
O | | possessed
| Share- | | ation | =
Y | | of =
| holders | | | E =
| | hereditary | Ministers=
| =
| | D =
| | wealth | of religion | | |
|
+------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+=
\ =
/ \ / \/ \/ ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### How the things produced by the peopl=
e in division
4 are 'shared out' amongst=
the
different classes of the population.
'Now you mustn't run away with the idea that t=
he
people in three and four take their share quietly and divide the things equ=
ally
between them. Not at all. Some get very little, some none, some m=
ore
than a fair share. It is in these =
two
divisions that the ferocious "Battle of Life" rages most fiercely;
and of course in this battle the weak and the virtuous fare the worst. Even those whose exceptional abilities =
or
opportunities enable them to succeed, are compelled to practise selfishness,
because a man of exceptional ability who was not selfish would devote his
abilities to relieving the manifest sufferings of others, and not to his own
profit, and if he did the former he would not be successful in the sense th=
at
the world understands the word. All those who really seek to "Love the=
ir
neighbour as themselves", or to return good for evil, the gentle, the
kind, and all those who refrain from doing to others the things they would =
not
like to suffer themselves; all these are of necessity found amongst the
vanquished; because only the worst--only those who are aggressive, cunning,
selfish and mean are fitted to survive.
And all these people in numbers three and four are so fully occupied=
in
this dreadful struggle to secure a little, that but few of them pause to
inquire why there are not more of the things they are fighting for, or why =
it
is necessary to fight like this at all!'
For a few minutes silence prevailed, each man'=
s mind
being busy trying to think of some objection to the lecturer's arguments.
'How could the small number of people in number
one and two consume as much as you've given 'em in your drorin'?' demanded
Crass.
'They don't actually consume all of it,' repli=
ed
Owen. 'Much of it is wantonly
wasted. They also make fortunes by
selling some of it in foreign countries; but they consume a great part of it
themselves, because the amount of labour expended on the things enjoyed by
these people is greater than that expended in the production of the things =
used
by the workers. Most of the people=
who
do nothing get the best of everything.
More than three-quarters of the time of the working classes is spent=
in
producing the things used by the wealthy.
Compare the quality and quantity of the clothing possessed by the wi=
fe
or daughter of a rich man with that of the wife or daughter of a worker. The
time and labour spent on producing the one is twenty times greater in one c=
ase
than in the other; and it's the same with everything else. Their homes, the=
ir
clothing, boots, hats, jewellery, and their food. Everything must be of the
very best that art or long and painful labour can produce. But for most of those whose labour prod=
uces all
these good things--anything is considered good enough. For themselves, the philanthropic worke=
rs
manufacture shoddy cloth--that is, cheap cloth made of old rags and dirt; a=
nd
shoddy, uncomfortable ironclad boots. If you see a workman wearing a really=
good
suit of clothes you may safely conclude that he is either leading an unnatu=
ral
life--that is, he is not married--or that he has obtained it from a tallyma=
n on
the hire system and has not yet paid for it--or that it is someone else's
cast-off suit that he has bought second-hand or had given to him by some
charitable person. It's the same w=
ith
the food. All the ducks and geese, pheasants, partridges, and all the very =
best
parts of the very best meat--all the soles and the finest plaice and salmon=
and
trout--'
''Ere chuck it,' cried Harlow, fiercely. 'We don't want to 'ear no more of it,' =
and
several others protested against the lecturer wasting time on such mere
details.
'--all the very best of everything is reserved
exclusively for the enjoyment of the people in divisions one and two, while=
the
workers subsist on block ornaments, margarine, adulterated tea, mysterious
beer, and are content--only grumbling when they are unable to obtain even s=
uch
fare as this.'
Owen paused and a gloomy silence followed, but
suddenly Crass brightened up. He d=
etected
a serious flaw in the lecturer's argument.
'You say the people in one and two gets all the
best of everything, but what about the tramps and beggars? You've got them in division one.'
'Yes, I know.
You see, that's the proper place for them. They belong to a Loafer class. They are no better mentally or morally =
than
any of the other loafers in that division; neither are they of any more use=
. Of
course, when we consider them in relation to the amount they consume of the
things produced by others, they are not so harmful as the other loafers,
because they consume comparatively little.
But all the same they are in their right place in that division. All those people don't get the same
share. The section represents not
individuals--but the loafer class.'
'But I thought you said you was goin' to prove
that money was the cause of poverty,' said Easton.
'So it is,' said Owen. 'Can't you see that it's money that's c=
aused
all these people to lose sight of the true purpose of labour--the productio=
n of
the things we need? All these peop=
le are
suffering from the delusion that it doesn't matter what kind of work they
do--or whether they merely do nothing--so long as they get MONEY for doing =
it.
Under the present extraordinary system, that's the only object they have in
view--to get money. Their ideas ar=
e so
topsy-turvey that they regard with contempt those who are engaged in useful
work! With the exception of criminals and the poorer sort of loafers, the
working classes are considered to be the lowest and least worthy in the
community. Those who manage to get=
money
for doing something other than productive work are considered more worthy of
respect on that account. Those who=
do
nothing themselves, but get money out of the labour of others, are regarded=
as
being more worthy still! But the o=
nes
who are esteemed most of all and honoured above all the rest, are those who
obtain money for doing absolutely nothing!'
'But I can't see as that proves that money is =
the
cause of poverty,' said Easton.
'Look here,' said Owen. 'The people in number four produce
everything, don't they?'
'Yes; we knows all about that,' interrupted
Harlow. 'But they gets paid for it,
don't they? They gets their wages.=
'
'Yes, and what does their wages consist of?' s=
aid
Owen.
'Why, money, of course,' replied Harlow,
impatiently.
And what do they do with their money when they=
get
it? Do they eat it, or drink it, o=
r wear
it?'
At this apparently absurd question several of
those who had hitherto been attentive listeners laughed derisively; it was
really very difficult to listen patiently to such nonsense.
'Of course they don't,' answered Harlow
scornfully. 'They buy the things t=
hey
want with it.'
'Do you think that most of them manage to save=
a
part of their wages--put it away in the bank.'
'Well, I can speak for meself,' replied Harlow
amid laughter. 'It takes me all my
bloody time to pay my rent and other expenses and to keep my little lot in =
shoe
leather, and it's dam little I spend on beer; p'r'aps a tanner or a bob a w=
eek
at the most.'
'A single man can save money if he likes,' said
Slyme.
'I'm not speaking of single men,' replied
Owen. 'I'm referring to those who =
live
natural lives.'
'What about all the money what's in the Post
Office Savings Bank, and Building and Friendly Societies?' said Crass.
'A very large part of that belongs to people w=
ho
are in business, or who have some other source of income than their own
wages. There are some exceptionally
fortunate workers who happen to have good situations and higher wages than =
the
ordinary run of workmen. Then ther=
e are
some who are so placed--by letting lodgings, for instance--that they are ab=
le
to live rent free. Others whose wi=
ves go
out to work; and others again who have exceptional jobs and work a lot of
overtime--but these are all exceptional cases.'
'I say as no married workin' man can save any
money at all!' shouted Harlow, 'not unless 'e goes without some of even the=
few
things we are able to get--and makes 'is wife and kids go without as well.'=
''Ear, 'ear,' said everybody except Crass and
Slyme, who were both thrifty working men, and each of them had some money s=
aved
in one or other of the institutions mentioned.
'Then that means,' said Owen, 'that means that=
the
wages the people in division four receive is not equivalent to the work they
do.'
'Wotcher mean, equivalent?' cried Crass. 'Why the 'ell don't yer talk plain Engl=
ish
without draggin' in a lot of long words wot nobody can't understand?'
'I mean this,' replied Owen, speaking very
slowly. 'Everything is produced by=
the
people in number four. In return f=
or
their work they are given--Money, and the things they have made become the
property of the people who do nothing.
Then, as the money is of no use, the workers go to shops and give it
away in exchange for some of the things they themselves have made. They spend--or give back--ALL their wag=
es;
but as the money they got as wages is not equal in value to the things they
produced, they find that they are only able to buy back a VERY SMALL PART.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So you see that these little discs of
metal--this Money--is a device for enabling those who do not work to rob the
workers of the greater part of the fruits of their toil.'
The silence that ensued was broken by Crass.
'It sounds very pretty,' he sneered, 'but I ca=
n't
make no 'ead or tail of it, meself.'
'Look here!' cried Owen. 'The producing class--these people in n=
umber
four are supposed to be paid for their work.
Their wages are supposed to be equal in value to their work. But it's not so. If it were, by spending all their wages=
, the
producing class would be able to buy back All they had produced.'
Owen ceased speaking and silence once more
ensued. No one gave any sign of
understanding, or of agreeing or of disagreeing with what he had said. Their attitude was strictly neutral.
'If their wages were really equal in value to =
the
product of their labour,' Owen repeated, 'they would be able to buy back no=
t a
small part--but the Whole.'...
At this, a remark from Bundy caused a shout of
laughter, and when Wantley added point to the joke by making a sound like t=
he
discharge of a pistol the merriment increased tenfold.
'Well, that's done it,' remarked Easton, as he=
got
up and opened the window.
'It's about time you was buried, if the smell's
anything to go by,' said Harlow, addressing Wantley, who laughed and appear=
ed
to think he had distinguished himself.
'But even if we include the whole of the worki=
ng
classes,' continued Owen, 'that is, the people in number three as well as t=
hose
in number four, we find that their combined wages are insufficient to buy t=
he
things made by the producers. The =
total
value of the wealth produced in this country during the last year was
£1,800,000,000, and the total amount paid in wages during the same period w=
as
only £600,000,000. In other words,=
by
means of the Money Trick, the workers were robbed of two-thirds of the valu=
e of
their labour. All the people in nu=
mbers
three and four are working and suffering and starving and fighting in order
that the rich people in numbers one and two may live in luxury, and do
nothing. These are the wretches who
cause poverty: they not only devour or waste or hoard the things made by the
worker, but as soon as their own wants are supplied--they compel the worker=
s to
cease working and prevent them producing the things they need. Most of these people!' cried Owen, his
usually pale face flushing red and his eyes shining with sudden anger, 'mos=
t of
these people do not deserve to be called human beings at all! They're devils! They know that whilst they are indulgin=
g in
pleasures of every kind--all around them men and women and little children =
are
existing in want or dying of hunger.'
The silence which followed was at length broke=
n by
Harlow:
'You say the workers is entitled to all they
produce, but you forget there's the raw materials to pay for. They don't make them, you know.'
'Of course the workers don't create the raw
materials,' replied Owen. 'But I am not aware that the capitalists or the
landlords do so either. The raw materials exist in abundance in and on the
earth, but they are of no use until labour has been applied to them.'
'But then, you see, the earth belongs to the l=
andlords!'
cried Crass, unguardedly.
'I know that; and of course you think it's rig=
ht
that the whole country should belong to a few people--'
'I must call the lecturer to horder,' interrup=
ted
Philpot. 'The land question is not
before the meeting at present.'
'You talk about the producers being robbed of =
most
of the value of what they produce,' said Harlow, 'but you must remember tha=
t it
ain't all produced by hand labour. What
about the things what's made by machinery?'
'The machines themselves were made by the
workers,' returned Owen, 'but of course they do not belong to the workers, =
who
have been robbed of them by means of the Money Trick.'
'But who invented all the machinery?' cried Cr=
ass.
'That's more than you or I or anyone else can
say,' returned Owen, 'but it certainly wasn't the wealthy loafer class, or =
the
landlords, or the employers. Most =
of the
men who invented the machinery lived and died unknown, in poverty and often=
in
actual want. The inventors too were
robbed by the exploiter-of-labour class.
There are no men living at present who can justly claim to have inve=
nted
the machinery that exists today. T=
he
most they can truthfully say is that they have added to or improved upon the
ideas of those who lived and worked before them. Even Watt and Stevenson me=
rely
improved upon steam engines and locomotives already existing. Your question has really nothing to do =
with
the subject we are discussing: we are only trying to find out why the major=
ity
of people have to go short of the benefits of civilization. One of the causes is--the majority of t=
he
population are engaged in work that does not produce those things; and most=
of
what IS produced is appropriated and wasted by those who have no right to i=
t.
'The workers produce Everything! If you walk through the streets of a to=
wn or
a city, and look around, Everything that you can see--Factories, Machinery,
Houses, Railways, Tramways, Canals, Furniture, Clothing, Food and the very =
road
or pavement you stand upon were all made by the working class, who spend all
their wages in buying back only a very small part of the things they
produce. Therefore what remains in=
the
possession of their masters represents the difference between the value of =
the
work done and the wages paid for doing it. This systematic robbery has been
going on for generations, the value of the accumulated loot is enormous, and
all of it, all the wealth at present in the possession of the rich, is righ=
tly
the property of the working class--it has been stolen from them by means of=
the
Money Trick.'...
For some moments an oppressive silence
prevailed. The men stared with puz=
zled,
uncomfortable looks alternately at each other and at the drawings on the
wall. They were compelled to do a =
little
thinking on their own account, and it was a process to which they were
unaccustomed. In their infancy the=
y had
been taught to distrust their own intelligence and to leave 'thinking' to t=
heir
'pastors' and masters and to their 'betters' generally. All their lives they had been true to t=
his
teaching, they had always had blind, unreasoning faith in the wisdom and
humanity of their pastors and masters.
That was the reason why they and their children had been all their l=
ives
on the verge of starvation and nakedness, whilst their 'betters'--who did n=
othing
but the thinking--went clothed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuous=
ly
every day.
Several men had risen from their seats and were
attentively studying the diagrams Owen had drawn on the wall; and nearly all
the others were making the same mental efforts--they were trying to think of
something to say in defence of those who robbed them of the fruits of their
toil.
'I don't see no bloody sense in always runnin'
down the rich,' said Harlow at last.
'There's always been rich and poor in the world and there always will
be.'
'Of course,' said Slyme. 'It says in the Bible that the poor sha=
ll
always be with us.'
'What the bloody 'ell kind of system do you th=
ink
we ought to 'ave?' demanded Crass. 'If
everything's wrong, 'ow's it goin' to be altered?'
At this, everybody brightened up again, and
exchanged looks of satisfaction and relief.
Of course! It wasn't necess=
ary to
think about these things at all! N=
othing
could ever be altered: it had always been more or less the same, and it alw=
ays
would be.
'It seems to me that you all HOPE it is imposs=
ible
to alter it,' said Owen. 'Without =
trying
to find out whether it could be done, you persuade yourselves that it is
impossible, and then, instead of being sorry, you're glad!'
Some of them laughed in a silly, half-ashamed =
way.
'How do YOU reckon it could be altered?' said
Harlow.
'The way to alter it is, first to enlighten the
people as to the real cause of their sufferings, and then--'
'Well,' interrupted Crass, with a self-satisfi=
ed
chuckle, 'it'll take a better bloody man than you to enlighten ME!'
'I don't want to be henlightened into Darkness=
!'
said Slyme piously.
'But what sort of System do you propose, then?'
repeated Harlow.
'After you've got 'em all enlightened--if you
don't believe in sharing out all the money equal, how ARE you goin' to alter
it?'
'I don't know 'ow 'e's goin' to alter it,' sne=
ered
Crass, looking at his watch and standing up, 'but I do know what the time
is--two minits past one!'
'The next lecture,' said Philpot, addressing t=
he
meeting as they all prepared to return to work, 'the next lecture will be
postponded till tomorrer at the usual time, when it will be my painful doot=
y to
call upon Mr Owen to give 'is well-known and most hobnoxious address entitl=
ed
"Work and how to avoid it."
Hall them as wants to be henlightened kindly attend.'
'Or hall them as don't get the sack tonight,'
remarked Easton grimly.
Durin=
g the
afternoon, Rushton and Sweater visited the house, the latter having an appo=
intment
to meet there a gardener to whom he wished to give instructions concerning =
the
laying out of the grounds, which had been torn up for the purpose of puttin=
g in
the new drains. Sweater had already arranged with the head gardener of the
public park to steal some of the best plants from that place and have them =
sent
up to 'The Cave'. These plants had=
been
arriving in small lots for about a week. They must have been brought there
either in the evening after the men left off or very early in the morning b=
efore
they came. The two gentlemen remai=
ned at
the house for about half an hour and as they went away the mournful sound of
the Town Hall bell--which was always tolled to summon meetings of the
Council--was heard in the distance, and the hands remarked to each other th=
at
another robbery was about to be perpetrated.
Hunter did not come to the job again that day:=
he
had been sent by Rushton to price some work for which the firm was going to
tender an estimate. There was only=
one
person who felt any regret at his absence, and that was Mrs White--Bert's
mother, who had been working at 'The Cave' for several days, scrubbing the
floors. As a rule, Hunter paid her=
wages
every night, and on this occasion she happened to need the money even more =
than
usual. As leaving off time drew ne=
ar,
she mentioned the matter to Crass, who advised her to call at the office on=
her
way home and ask the young lady clerk for the money. As Hunter did not appe=
ar,
she followed the foreman's advice.
When she reached the shop Rushton was just com=
ing
out. She explained to him what she
wanted and he instructed Mr Budd to tell Miss Wade to pay her. The shopman accordingly escorted her to=
the
office at the back of the shop, and the young lady book-keeper--after refer=
ring
to former entries to make quite certain of the amount, paid her the sum that
Hunter had represented as her wages, the same amount that Miss Wade had on =
the
previous occasions given him to pay the charwoman. When Mrs White got outsi=
de
she found that she held in her hand half a crown instead of the two shillin=
gs
she usually received from Mr Hunter. At
first she felt inclined to take it back, but after some hesitation she thou=
ght
it better to wait until she saw Hunter, when she could tell him about it; b=
ut
the next morning when she saw the disciple at 'The Cave' he broached the
subject first, and told her that Miss Wade had made a mistake. And that evening when he paid her, he
deducted the sixpence from the usual two shillings.
The lecture announced by Philpot was not deliv=
ered. Anxiously awaiting the impending slaugh=
ter
the men kept tearing into it as usual, for they generally keep working in t=
he
usual way, each one trying to outdo the others so as not to lose his chance=
of
being one of the lucky one...
Misery now went round and informed all the men
with the exception of Crass, Owen, Slyme and Sawkins--that they would have =
to
stand off that night. He told them=
that
the firm had several jobs in view--work they had tendered for and hoped to =
get,
and said they could look round after Christmas and he might--possibly--be a=
ble
to start some of them again. They would be paid at the office
tomorrow--Saturday--at one o'clock as usual, but if any of them wished they
could have their money tonight. The men thanked him, and most of them said =
they
would come for their wages at the usual pay-time, and would call round as he
suggested, after the holidays, to see if there was anything to do.
In all, fifteen men--including Philpot, Harlow,
Easton and Ned Dawson, were to 'stand off' that night. They took their dismissal stolidly, wit=
hout
any remark, some of them even with an affectation of indifference, but there
were few attempts at conversation afterwards. The little work that remained=
to
be done they did in silence, every man oppressed by the same terror--the dr=
ead
of the impending want, the privation and unhappiness that they knew they and
their families would have to suffer during the next few months.
Bundy and his mate Dawson were working in the
kitchen fixing the new range in place of the old one which they had taken
out. They had been engaged on this=
job
all day, and their hands and faces and clothes were covered with soot, which
they had also contrived to smear and dab all over the surfaces of the doors=
and
other woodwork in the room, much to the indignation of Crass and Slyme, who=
had
to wash it all off before they could put on the final coat of paint.
'You can't help makin' a little mess on a job =
of
this kind, you know,' remarked Bundy, as he was giving the finishing touche=
s to
the work, making good the broken parts of the wall with cement, whilst his =
mate
was clearing away the debris.
'Yes; but there's no need to claw 'old of the bloody doors every time you goes in and out,' snarled Crass, 'and you could 'ave put yer tools on the floor instead of makin' a bench of the dresser.'<= o:p>
'You can 'ave the bloody place all to yerself =
in
about five minutes,' replied Bundy, as he assisted to lift a sack of cement
weighing about two hundredweight on to Dawson's back. 'We're finished now.'
When they had cleared away all the dirt and
fragments of bricks and mortar, while Crass and Slyme proceeded with the
painting, Bundy and Dawson loaded up their hand-cart with the old range and=
the
bags of unused cement and plaster, which they took back to the yard. Meanti=
me,
Misery was wandering about the house and gounds like an evil spirit seeking
rest and finding none. He stood fo=
r some
time gloomily watching the four gardeners, who were busily at work laying s=
trips
of turf, mowing the lawn, rolling the gravel paths and trimming the trees a=
nd
bushes. The boy Bert, Philpot, Har=
low,
Easton and Sawkins were loading a hand-cart with ladders and empty paint-po=
ts
to return to the yard. Just as they were setting out, Misery stopped them,
remarking that the cart was not half loaded--he said it would take a month =
to
get all the stuff away if they went on like that; so by his directions they
placed another long ladder on top of the pile and once more started on their
way, but before they had gone two dozen yards one of the wheels of the cart
collapsed and the load was scattered over the roadway. Bert was at the same
side of the cart as the wheel that broke and he was thrown violently to the
ground, where he lay half stunned, in the midst of the ladders and planks. =
When they got him out they were astonish=
ed to
find that, thanks to the special Providence that watches over all small boy=
s,
he was almost unhurt--just a little dazed, that was all; and by the time
Sawkins returned with another cart, Bert was able to help to gather up the
fallen paint-pots and to accompany the men with the load to the yard. At the corner of the road they paused t=
o take
a last look at the 'job'.
'There it stands!' said Harlow, tragically,
extending his arm towards the house.
'There it stands! A job tha=
t if
they'd only have let us do it properly, couldn't 'ave been done with the nu=
mber
of 'ands we've 'ad, in less than four months; and there it is, finished, me=
ssed
up, slobbered over and scamped, in nine weeks!'
'Yes, and now we can all go to 'ell,' said
Philpot, gloomily.
At the yard they found Bundy and his mate, Ned
Dawson, who helped them to hang up the ladders in their usual places. Philpot was glad to get out of assistin=
g to
do this, for he had contracted a rather severe attack of rheumatism when
working outside at the 'Cave'. Whi=
lst
the others were putting the ladders away he assisted Bert to carry the
paint-pots and buckets into the paint shop, and while there he filled a sma=
ll
medicine bottle he had brought with him for the purpose, with turpentine fr=
om
the tank. He wanted this stuff to =
rub
into his shoulders and legs, and as he secreted the bottle in the inner poc=
ket
of his coat, he muttered: 'This is where we gets some of our own back.'
They took the key of the yard to the office an=
d as
they separated to go home Bundy suggested that the best thing they could do
would be to sew their bloody mouths up for a few months, because there was =
not
much probability of their getting another job until about March.
The next morning while Crass and Slyme were
finishing inside, Owen wrote the two gates.
On the front entrance 'The Cave' and on the back 'Tradesmens Entranc=
e',
in gilded letters. In the meantime=
, Sawkins
and Bert made several journeys to the Yard with the hand-cart.
Crass--working in the kitchen with Slyme--was =
very
silent and thoughtful. Ever since =
the
job was started, every time Mr Sweater had visited the house to see what
progress was being made, Crass had been grovelling to him in the hope of
receiving a tip when the work was finished.
He had been very careful to act upon any suggestions that Sweater had
made from time to time and on several occasions had taken a lot of trouble =
to
get just the right tints of certain colours, making up a number of different
shades and combinations, and doing parts of the skirtings or mouldings of r=
ooms
in order that Mr Sweater might see exactly--before they went on with it--wh=
at
it would look like when finished. =
He
made a great pretence of deferring to Sweater's opinion, and assured him th=
at
he did not care how much trouble he took as long as he--Sweater--was
pleased. In fact, it was no troubl=
e at
all: it was a pleasure. As the work
neared completion, Crass began to speculate upon the probable amount of the
donation he would receive as the reward of nine weeks of cringing, fawning,
abject servility. He thought it qu=
ite
possible that he might get a quid: it would not be too much, considering all
the trouble he had taken. It was w=
ell
worth it. At any rate, he felt cer=
tain
that he was sure to get ten bob; a gentleman like Mr Sweater would never ha=
ve
the cheek to offer less. The more =
he
thought about it the more improbable it appeared that the amount would be l=
ess
than a quid, and he made up his mind that whatever he got he would take goo=
d care
that none of the other men knew anything about it. HE was the one who had h=
ad
all the worry of the job, and he was the only one entitled to anything there
was to be had. Besides, even if he=
got a
quid, by the time you divided that up amongst a dozen--or even amongst two =
or
three--it would not be worth having.
At about eleven o'clock Mr Sweater arrived and
began to walk over the house, followed by Crass, who carried a pot of paint=
and
a small brush and made believe to be 'touching up' and finishing off parts =
of
the work. As Sweater went from one=
room
to another Crass repeatedly placed himself in the way in the hope of being
spoken to, but Sweater took no notice of him whatever. Once or twice Crass's heart began to be=
at
quickly as he furtively watched the great man and saw him thrust his thumb =
and
finger into his waistcoat pocket, but on each occasion Sweater withdrew his
hand with nothing in it. After a w=
hile,
observing that the gentleman was about to depart without having spoken, Cra=
ss
determined to break the ice himself.
'It's a little better weather we're 'avin' now,
sir.'
'Yes,' replied Sweater.
'I was beginnin' to be afraid as I shouldn't be
hable to git heverything finished in time for you to move in before Christm=
as,
sir,' Crass continued, 'but it's hall done now, sir.'
Sweater made no reply.
'I've kept the fire agoin' in hall the rooms h=
as
you told me, sir,' resumed Crass after a pause.
'I think you'll find as the place is nice and dry, sir; the honly pl=
aces
as is a bit damp is the kitchen and scullery and the other rooms in the
basement, sir, but of course that's nearly halways the case, sir, when the
rooms is partly hunderground, sir.
'But of course it don't matter so much about t=
he
basement, sir, because it's honly the servants what 'as to use it, sir, and
even down there it'll be hall right hin the summer, sir.'
One would scarcely think, from the contemptuous
way in which he spoke of 'servants' that Crass's own daughter was 'in servi=
ce',
but such was the case.
'Oh, yes, there's no doubt about that,' replied
Sweater as he moved towards the door; 'there's no doubt it will be dry enou=
gh
in the summer. Good morning.'
'Good morning to YOU, sir,' said Crass, follow=
ing
him. 'I 'opes as you're pleased wi=
th all
the work, sir; everything satisfactory, sir.'
'Oh, yes. =
span>I
think it looks very nice; very nice indeed; I'm very pleased with it,' said
Sweater affably. 'Good morning.'
'Good morning, sir,' replied the foreman with a
sickly smile as Sweater departed.
When the other was gone, Crass sat down deject=
edly
on the bottom step of the stairs, overwhelmed with the ruin of his hopes and
expectations. He tried to comfort himself with the reflection that all hope=
was
not lost, because he would have to come to the house again on Monday and Tu=
esday
to fix the venetian blinds; but all the same he could not help thinking tha=
t it
was only a very faint hope, for he felt that if Sweater had intended giving
anything he would have done so today; and it was very improbable that he wo=
uld
see Sweater on Monday or Tuesday at all, for the latter did not usually vis=
it
the job in the early part of the week.
However, Crass made up his mind to hope for the best, and, pulling
himself together, he presently returned to the kitchen, where he found Slyme
and Sawkins waiting for him. He ha=
d not
mentioned his hopes of a tip to either of them, but they did not need any
telling and they were both determined to have their share of whatever he go=
t.
They eyed him keenly as he entered.
'What did 'e give yer?' demanded Sawkins, going
straight to the point.
'Give me?' replied Crass. 'Nothing!'
Slyme laughed in a sneering, incredulous way, =
but
Sawkins was inclined to be abusive. He
averred that he had been watching Crass and Sweater and had seen the latter=
put
his thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket as he walked into the
dining-room, followed by Crass. It=
took
the latter a long time to convince his two workmates of the truth of his own
account, but he succeeded at last, and they all three agreed that Old Sweat=
er
was a sanguinary rotter, and they lamented over the decay of the good
old-fashioned customs.
'Why, at one time o' day,' said Crass, 'only a=
few
years ago, if you went to a gentleman's 'ouse to paint one or two rooms you
could always be sure of a bob or two when you'd finished.'
By half past twelve everything was squared up,
and, having loaded up the hand-cart with all that remained of the materials,
dirty paint-pots and plant, they all set out together for the yard, to put =
all
the things away before going to the office for their money. Sawkins took the
handle of the cart, Slyme and Crass walked at one side and Owen and Bert at=
the
other. There was no need to push, =
for
the road was downhill most of the way; so much so that they had all to help=
to
hold back the cart, which travelled so rapidly that Bert found it difficult=
to
keep pace with the others and frequently broke into a trot to recover lost
ground, and Crass--being fleshy and bloated with beer, besides being unused=
to
much exertion--began to perspire and soon appealed to the others not to let=
it
go so fast--there was no need to get done before one o'clock.
It wa=
s an
unusually fine day for the time of year, and as they passed along the Grand
Parade--which faced due south--they felt quite warm. The Parade was crowded
with richly dressed and bejewelled loafers, whose countenances in many
instances bore unmistakable signs of drunkenness and gluttony. Some of the females had tried to concea=
l the
ravages of vice and dissipation by coating their faces with powder and
paint. Mingling with and part of t=
his
crowd were a number of well-fed-looking individuals dressed in long garment=
s of
black cloth of the finest texture, and broad-brimmed soft felt hats. Most of these persons had gold rings on=
their
soft white fingers and glove-like kid or calfskin boots on their feet. They belonged to the great army of impo=
sters
who obtain an easy living by taking advantage of the ignorance and simplici=
ty
of their fellow-men, and pretending to be the 'followers' and 'servants' of=
the
lowly Carpenter of Nazareth--the Man of Sorrows, who had not where to lay H=
is
head.
None of these black-garbed 'disciples' were
associating with the groups of unemployed carpenters, bricklayers, plastere=
rs,
and painters who stood here and there in the carriage-way dressed in mean a=
nd
shabby clothing and with faces pale with privation. Many of these latter were known to our
friends with the cart, and nodded to them as they passed. Now and then some=
of
them came over and walked a little distance by their side, inquiring whether
there was any news of another job at Rushton's.
When they were about half-way down the Parade,
just near the Fountain, Crass and his mates encountered a number of men on
whose arms were white bands with the word 'Collector' in black letters. They carried collecting boxes and accos=
ted
the people in the street, begging for money for the unemployed. These men were a kind of skirmishers fo=
r the
main body, which could be seen some distance behind.
As the procession drew near, Sawkins steered t=
he
cart into the kerb and halted as they went past. There were about three hundred men
altogether, marching four abreast. They
carried three large white banners with black letters, 'Thanks to our Subscr=
ibers'
'In aid of Genuine Unemployed', 'The Children must be Fed'. Although there were a number of artisan=
s in
the procession, the majority of the men belonged to what is called the
unskilled labourer class. The skil=
led
artisan does not as a rule take part in such a procession except as a very =
last
resource... And all the time he st=
rives
to keep up an appearance of being well-to-do, and would be highly indignant=
if
anyone suggested that he was really in a condition of abject, miserable
poverty. Although he knows that his children are often not so well fed as a=
re
the pet dogs and cats of his 'betters', he tries to bluff his neighbours in=
to
thinking that he has some mysterious private means of which they know nothi=
ng,
and conceals his poverty as if it were a crime.
Most of this class of men would rather starve than beg. Consequently=
not
more than a quarter of the men in the procession were skilled artisans; the
majority were labourers.
There was also a sprinkling of those unfortuna=
te
outcasts of society--tramps and destitute, drunken loafers. If the self-righteous hypocrites who de=
spise
these poor wretches had been subjected to the same conditions, the majority=
of
them would inevitably have become the same as these.
Haggard and pale, shabbily or raggedly dressed,
their boots broken and down at heel, they slouched past. Some of them stared about with a dazed =
or
half-wild expression, but most of them walked with downcast eyes or staring
blankly straight in front of them. They
appeared utterly broken-spirited, hopeless and ashamed...
'Anyone can see what THEY are,' sneered Crass,
'there isn't fifty genuine tradesmen in the whole crowd, and most of 'em
wouldn't work if they 'ad the offer of it.'
'That's just what I was thinkin',' agreed Sawk=
ins
with a laugh.
'There will be plenty of time to say that when
they have been offered work and have refused to do it,' said Owen.
'This sort of thing does the town a lot of 'ar=
m,'
remarked Slyme; 'it oughtn't to be allowed; the police ought to stop it.
'Bloody disgraceful, I call it,' said Crass,
'marchin' along the Grand Parade on a beautiful day like this, just at the =
very
time when most of the gentry is out enjoyin' the fresh hair.'
'I suppose you think they ought to stay at home
and starve quietly,' said Owen. 'I=
don't
see why these men should care what harm they do to the town; the town doesn=
't
seem to care much what becomes of THEM.'
'Do you believe in this sort of thing, then?'
asked Slyme.
'No; certainly not. I don't believe in begging as a favour =
for
what one is entitled to demand as a right from the thieves who have robbed =
them
and who are now enjoying the fruits of their labour. From the look of shame on their faces y=
ou
might think that they were the criminals instead of being the victims.'
'Well you must admit that most of them is very
inferior men,' said Crass with a self-satisfied air. 'There's very few mechanics amongst em.=
'
'What about it if they are? What difference does that make?' replied
Owen. 'They're human beings, and t=
hey
have as much right to live as anyone else.
What is called unskilled labour is just as necessary and useful as y=
ours
or mine. I am no more capable of d=
oing
the "unskilled" labour that most of these men do than most of them
would be capable of doing my work.'
'Well, if they was skilled tradesmen, they mig=
ht
find it easier to get a job,' said Crass.
Owen laughed offensively.
'Do you mean to say you think that if all these
men could be transformed into skilled carpenters, plasterers, bricklayers, =
and
painters, that it would be easier for all those other chaps whom we passed a
little while ago to get work? Is it
possible that you or any other sane man can believe anything so silly as th=
at?'
Crass did not reply.
'If there is not enough work to employ all the
mechanics whom we see standing idle about the streets, how would it help th=
ese
labourers in the procession if they could all become skilled workmen?'
Still Crass did not answer, and neither Slyme =
nor
Sawkins came to his assistance.
'If that could be done,' continued Owen, 'it w=
ould
simply make things worse for those who are already skilled mechanics. A greater number of skilled workers--ke=
ener
competition for skilled workmen's jobs--a larger number of mechanics out of
employment, and consequently, improved opportunities for employers to reduce
wages. That is probably the reason=
why
the Liberal Party--which consists for the most part of exploiters of
labour--procured the great Jim Scalds to tell us that improved technical
education is the remedy for unemployment and poverty.'
'I suppose you think Jim Scalds is a bloody fo=
ol,
the same as everybody else what don't see things YOUR way?' said Sawkins.
'I should think he was a fool if I thought he
believed what he says. But I don't think he believes it. He says it because he thinks the majori=
ty of
the working classes are such fools that they will believe him. If he didn't think that most of us are =
fools
he wouldn't tell us such a yarn as that.'
'And I suppose you think as 'is opinion ain't =
far
wrong,' snarled Crass.
'We shall be better able to judge of that after
the next General Election,' replied Owen.
'If the working classes again elect a majority of Liberal or Tory
landlords and employers to rule over them, it will prove that Jim Scalds'
estimate of their intelligence is about right.'
'Well, anyhow,' persisted Slyme, 'I don't think
it's a right thing that they should be allowed to go marchin' about like
that--driving visitors out of the town.'
'What do you think they ought to do, then?'
demanded Owen.
'Let the b--rs go to the bloody workhouse!'
shouted Crass.
'But before they could be received there they
would have to be absolutely homeless and destitute, and then the ratepayers
would have to keep them. It costs =
about
twelve shillings a week for each inmate, so it seems to me that it would be
more sensible and economical for the community to employ them on some
productive work.'
They had by this time arrived at the yard. The steps and ladders were put away in =
their
places and the dirty paint-pots and pails were placed in the paint-shop on =
the
bench and on the floor. With what =
had
previously been brought back there were a great many of these things, all
needing to be cleaned out, so Bert at any rate stood in no danger of being =
out
of employment for some time to come.
When they were paid at the office, Owen on ope=
ning
his envelope found it contained as usual, a time sheet for the next week, w=
hich
meant that he was not 'stood off' although he did not know what work there
would be to do. Crass and Slyme we=
re
both to go to the 'Cave' to fix the venetian blinds, and Sawkins also was to
come to work as usual.
Durin=
g the
next week Owen painted a sign on the outer wall of one of the workshops at =
the
yard, and he also wrote the name of the firm on three of the handcarts.
These and other odd jobs kept him employed a f=
ew
hours every day, so that he was not actually out of work.
One afternoon--there being nothing to do--he w=
ent
home at three o'clock, but almost as soon as he reached the house Bert White
came with a coffin-plate which had to be written at once. The lad said he had been instructed to =
wait
for it.
Nora gave the boy some tea and bread and butte=
r to
eat whilst Owen was doing the coffin-plate, and presently Frankie--who had =
been
playing out in the street--made his appearance.
The two boys were already known to each other, for Bert had been the=
re
several times before--on errands similar to the present one, or to take les=
sons
on graining and letter-painting from Owen.
'I'm going to have a party next Monday--after
Christmas,' remarked Frankie. 'Mot=
her
told me I might ask you if you'll come?'
'All right,' said Bert; 'and I'll bring my
Pandoramer.'
'What is it?
Is it alive?' asked Frankie with a puzzled look.
'Alive! No,
of course not,' replied Bert with a superior air. 'It's a show, like they have at the
Hippodrome or the Circus.'
'How big is it?'
'Not very big: it's made out of a sugar-box. I made it myself. It's not quite finished yet, but I shal=
l get
it done this week. There's a band =
as
well, you know. I do that part with
this.'
'This' was a large mouth organ which he produc=
ed
from the inner pocket of his coat.
'Play something now.'
Bert accordingly played, and Frankie sang at t=
he
top of his voice a selection of popular songs, including 'The Old Bull and
Bush', 'Has Anyone seen a German Band?', 'Waiting at the Church' and
finally--possibly as a dirge for the individual whose coffin-plate Owen was=
writing--'Goodbye,
Mignonette' and 'I wouldn't leave my little wooden hut for you'.
'You don't know what's in that,' said Frankie,
referring to a large earthenware bread-pan which Nora had just asked Owen to
help her to lift from the floor on to one of the chairs. The vessel in question was covered with=
a
clean white cloth.
'Christmas pudding,' replied Bert, promptly.
'Guessed right first time!' cried Frankie. 'We got the things out of the Christmas=
Club
on Saturday. We've been paying in =
ever
since last Christmas. We're going =
to mix
it now, and you can have a stir too if you like, for luck.'
Whilst they were stirring the pudding, Frankie
several times requested the others to feel his muscle: he said he felt sure
that he would soon be strong enough to go out to work, and he explained to =
Bert
that the extraordinary strength he possessed was to be attributed to the fa=
ct
that he lived almost exclusively on porridge and milk.
For the rest of the week, Owen continued to wo=
rk
down at the yard with Sawkins, Crass, and Slyme, painting some of the ladde=
rs,
steps and other plant belonging to the firm.
These things had to have two coats of paint and the name Rushton &am=
p;
Co. written on them. As soon as th=
ey had
got some of them second-coated, Owen went on with the writing, leaving the
painting for the others, so as to share the work as fairly as possible. Several times during the week one or ot=
her of
them was taken away to do some other work; once Crass and Slyme had to go a=
nd
wash off and whiten a ceiling somewhere, and several times Sawkins was sent=
out
to assist the plumbers.
Every day some of the men who had been 'stood =
off'
called at the yard to ask if any other 'jobs' had 'come in'. From these callers they heard all the
news. Old Jack Linden had not succ=
eeded
in getting anything to do at the trade since he was discharged from Rushton=
's,
and it was reported that he was trying to earn a little money by hawking
bloaters from house to house. As f=
or
Philpot, he said that he had been round to nearly all the firms in the town=
and
none of them had any work to speak of.
Newman--the man whom the reader will remember =
was
sacked for taking too much pains with his work--had been arrested and sente=
nced
to a month's imprisonment because he had not been able to pay his poor rate=
s,
and the Board of Guardians were allowing his wife three shillings a week to
maintain herself and the three children.
Philpot had been to see them, and she told him that the landlord was
threatening to turn them into the street; he would have seized their furnit=
ure
and sold it if it had been worth the expense of the doing.
'I feel ashamed of meself,' Philpot added in
confidence to Owen, 'when I think of all the money I chuck away on beer.
'It ain't so much that I likes the beer, you
know,' he continued; 'it's the company.
When you ain't got no 'ome, in a manner o' speakin', like me, the pu=
b's
about the only place where you can get a little enjoyment. But you ain't very welcome there unless=
you
spends your money.'
'Is the three shillings all they have to live =
on?'
'I think she goes out charin' when she can get
it,' replied Philpot, 'but I don't see as she can do a great deal o' that w=
ith
three young 'uns to look after, and from what I hear of it she's only just =
got
over a illness and ain't fit to do much.'
'My God!' said Owen.
'I'll tell you what,' said Philpot. 'I've been thinking we might get up a b=
it of
a subscription for 'em. There's se=
veral
chaps in work what knows Newman, and if they was each to give a trifle we c=
ould
get enough to pay for a Christmas dinner, anyway. I've brought a sheet of foolscap with m=
e, and
I was goin' to ask you to write out the heading for me.'
As there was no pen available at the workshop,
Philpot waited till four o'clock and then accompanied Owen home, where the
heading of the list was written. O=
wen
put his name down for a shilling and Philpot his for a similar amount.
Philpot stayed to tea and accepted an invitati=
on
to spend Christmas Day with them, and to come to Frankie's party on the Mon=
day
after.
The next morning Philpot brought the list to t=
he
yard and Crass and Slyme put their names down for a shilling each, and Sawk=
ins
for threepence, it being arranged that the money was to be paid on
payday--Christmas Eve. In the mean=
time,
Philpot was to see as many as he could of those who were in work, at other
firms and get as many subscriptions as possible.
At pay-time on Christmas Eve Philpot turned up
with the list and Owen and the others paid him the amounts they had put the=
ir
names down for. From other men he had succeeded in obtaining nine and sixpe=
nce,
mostly in sixpences and threepences.
Some of this money he had already received, but for the most part he=
had
made appointments with the subscribers to call at their homes that
evening. It was decided that Owen =
should
accompany him and also go with him to hand over the money to Mrs Newman.
It took them nearly three hours to get in all =
the
money, for the places they had to go to were in different localities, and in
one or two cases they had to wait because their man had not yet come home, =
and
sometimes it was not possible to get away without wasting a little time in
talk. In three instances those who had put their names down for threepence
increased the amount to sixpence and one who had promised sixpence gave a
shilling. There were two items of
threepence each which they did not get at all, the individuals who had put
their names down having gone upon the drunk.
Another cause of delay was that they met or called on several other =
men
who had not yet been asked for a subscription, and there were several
others--including some members of the Painters Society whom Owen had spoken=
to
during the week--who had promised him to give a subscription. In the end they succeeded in increasing=
the
total amount to nineteen and ninepence, and they then put three-halfpence e=
ach
to make it up to a pound.
The Newmans lived in a small house the rent of
which was six shillings per week and taxes.
To reach the house one had to go down a dark and narrow passage betw=
een
two shops, the house being in a kind of well, surrounded by the high walls =
of
the back parts of larger buildings--chiefly business premises and offices.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The air did not circulate very freely i=
n this
place, and the rays of the sun never reached it. In the summer the atmosphere was close =
and
foul with the various odours which came from the back-yards of the adjoining
buildings, and in the winter it was dark and damp and gloomy, a culture-gro=
und
for bacteria and microbes. The maj=
ority
of those who profess to be desirous of preventing and curing the disease ca=
lled
consumption must be either hypocrites or fools, for they ridicule the
suggestion that it is necessary first to cure and prevent the poverty that
compels badly clothed and half-starved human beings to sleep in such dens as
this.
The front door opened into the living-room or,
rather, kitchen, which was dimly lighted by a small paraffin lamp on the ta=
ble,
where were also some tea-cups and saucers, each of a different pattern, and=
the
remains of a loaf of bread. The
wallpaper was old and discoloured; a few almanacs and unframed prints were
fixed to the walls, and on the mantelshelf were some cracked and worthless
vases and ornaments. At one time t=
hey
had possessed a clock and an overmantel and some framed pictures, but they =
had
all been sold to obtain money to buy food. Nearly everything of any value h=
ad
been parted with for the same reason--the furniture, the pictures, the
bedclothes, the carpet and the oilcloth, piece by piece, nearly everything =
that
had once constituted the home--had been either pawned or sold to buy food o=
r to
pay rent during the times when Newman was out of work--periods that had
recurred during the last few years with constantly increasing frequency and
duration. Now there was nothing le=
ft but
these few old broken chairs and the deal table which no one would buy; and
upstairs, the wretched bedsteads and mattresses whereon they slept at night,
covering themselves with worn-out remnants of blankets and the clothes they
wore during the day.
In answer to Philpot's knock, the door was ope=
ned
by a little girl about seven years old, who at once recognized Philpot, and
called out his name to her mother, and the latter came also to the door,
closely followed by two other children, a little, fragile-looking girl about
three, and a boy about five years of age, who held on to her skirt and peer=
ed
curiously at the visitors. Mrs New=
man
was about thirty, and her appearance confirmed the statement of Philpot that
she had only just recovered from an illness; she was very white and thin and
dejected-looking. When Philpot exp=
lained
the object of their visit and handed her the money, the poor woman burst in=
to
tears, and the two smaller children--thinking that this piece of paper
betokened some fresh calamity--began to cry also. They remembered that all their troubles=
had
been preceded by the visits of men who brought pieces of paper, and it was =
rather
difficult to reassure them.
That evening, after Frankie was asleep, Owen a=
nd
Nora went out to do their Christmas marketing.
They had not much money to spend, for Owen had brought home only
seventeen shillings. He had worked
thirty-three hours--that came to nineteen and threepence--one shilling and
threehalfpence had gone on the subscription list, and he had given the rest=
of
the coppers to a ragged wreck of a man who was singing a hymn in the
street. The other shilling had been
deducted from his wages in repayment of a 'sub' he had had during the week.=
There was a great deal to be done with this
seventeen shillings. First of all there was the rent--seven shillings--that
left ten. Then there was the week's bread bill--one and threepence. They had a pint of milk every day, chie=
fly
for the boy's sake--that came to one and two.
Then there was one and eight for a hundredweight of coal that had be=
en
bought on credit. Fortunately, the=
re
were no groceries to buy, for the things they had obtained with their Chris=
tmas
Club money would be more than sufficient for the ensuing week.
Frankie's stockings were all broken and beyond
mending, so it was positively necessary to buy him another pair for fivepen=
ce
three-farthings. These stockings w=
ere
not much good--a pair at double the price would have been much cheaper, for
they would have lasted three or four times longer; but they could not affor=
d to
buy the dearer kind. It was just t=
he
same with the coal: if they had been able to afford it, they could have bou=
ght
a ton of the same class of coal for twenty-six shillings, but buying it as =
they
did, by the hundredweight, they had to pay at the rate of thirty-three
shillings and fourpence a ton. It =
was
just the same with nearly everything else.
This is how the working classes are robbed. Although their incomes are the lowest, =
they
are compelled to buy the most expensive articles--that is, the lowest-priced
articles. Everybody knows that good
clothes, boots or furniture are really the cheapest in the end, although th=
ey
cost more money at first; but the working classes can seldom or never affor=
d to
buy good things; they have to buy cheap rubbish which is dear at any price.=
Six weeks previously Owen bought a pair of
second-hand boots for three shillings and they were now literally falling to
pieces. Nora's shoes were in much =
the
same condition, but, as she said, it did not matter so much about hers beca=
use
there was no need for her to go out if the weather were not fine.
In addition to the articles already mentioned,
they had to spend fourpence for half a gallon of paraffin oil, and to put
sixpence into the slot of the gas-stove.
This reduced the money to five and sevenpence farthing, and of this =
it
was necessary to spend a shilling on potatoes and other vegetables.
They both needed some new underclothing, for w=
hat
they had was so old and worn that it was quite useless for the purpose it w=
as
supposed to serve; but there was no use thinking of these things, for they =
had
now only four shillings and sevenpence farthing left, and all that would be
needed for toys. They had to buy
something special for Frankie for Christmas, and it would also be necessary=
to
buy something for each of the children who were coming to the party on the
following Monday. Fortunately, there was no meat to buy, for Nora had been
paying into the Christmas Club at the butcher's as well as at the
grocer's. So this necessary was al=
ready
paid for.
They stopped to look at the display of toys at
Sweater's Emporium. For several days past Frankie had been talking of the
wonders contained in these windows, so they wished if possible to buy him
something here. They recognized many of the things from the description the=
boy
had given of them, but nearly everything was so dear that for a long time t=
hey looked
in vain for something it would be possible to buy.
'That's the engine he talks so much about,' sa=
id
Non, indicating a model railway locomotive; that one marked five shillings.=
'
'It might just as well be marked five pounds as
far as we're concerned,' replied Owen.
As they were speaking, one of the salesmen
appeared at the back of the window and, reaching forward, removed the
engine. It was probably the last o=
ne of
the kind and had evidently just been sold.
Owen and Nora experienced a certain amount of consolation in knowing
that even if they had the money they would not have been able to buy it.
After lengthy consideration, they decided on a
clockwork engine at a shilling, but the other toys they resolved to buy at a
cheaper shop. Nora went into the Emporium to get the toy and whilst Owen was
waiting for her Mr and Mrs Rushton came out.
They did not appear to see Owen, who observed that the shape of one =
of
several parcels they carried suggested that it contained the engine that had
been taken from the window a little while before.
When Nora returned with her purchase, they wen=
t in
search of a cheaper place and after a time they found what they wanted. For sixpence they bought a cardboard bo=
x that
had come all the way from Japan and contained a whole family of dolls--fath=
er,
mother and four children of different sizes.
A box of paints, threepence: a sixpenny tea service, a threepenny
drawing slate, and a rag doll, sixpence.
On their way home they called at a greengrocer=
's
where Owen had ordered and paid for a small Christmas tree a few weeks befo=
re;
and as they were turning the corner of the street where they lived they met
Crass, half-drunk, with a fine fat goose slung over his shoulder by its nec=
k.
He greeted Owen jovially and held up the bird for their inspection.
'Not a bad tanner's-worth, eh?' he
hiccoughed. 'This makes two we've
got. I won this and a box of
cigars--fifty--for a tanner, and the other one I got out of the Club at our=
Church
Mission 'all: threepence a week for twenty-eight weeks; that makes seven
bob. But,' he added,
confidentially,''you couldn't buy 'em for that price in a shop, you know. They costs the committee a good bit mor=
e nor
that--wholesale; but we've got some rich gents on our committee and they ma=
kes
up the difference,' and with a nod and a cunning leer he lurched off.
Frankie was sleeping soundly when they reached
home, and so was the kitten, which was curled up on the quilt on the foot of
the bed. After they had had some supper, although it was after eleven o'clo=
ck,
Owen fixed the tree in a large flower-pot that had served a similar purpose
before, and Nora brought out from the place where it had been stored away s=
ince
last Christmas a cardboard box containing a lot of glittering tinsel
ornaments--globes of silvered or gilded or painted glass, birds, butterflies
and stars. Some of these things ha=
d done
duty three Christmases ago and although they were in some instances slightly
tarnished most of them were as good as new.
In addition to these and the toys they had bought that evening they =
had
a box of bon-bons and a box of small coloured wax candles, both of which had
formed part of the things they got from the grocer's with the Christmas Club
money; and there were also a lot of little coloured paper bags of sweets, a=
nd a
number of sugar and chocolate toys and animals which had been bought two or
three at a time for several weeks past and put away for this occasion. There was something suitable for each c=
hild
that was coming, with the exception of Bert White; they had intended to inc=
lude
a sixpenny pocket knife for him in their purchases that evening, but as they
had not been able to afford this Owen decided to give him an old set of ste=
el
graining combs which he knew the lad had often longed to possess. The tin case containing these tools was
accordingly wrapped in some red tissue paper and hung on the tree with the
other things.
They moved about as quietly as possible so as =
not
to disturb those who were sleeping in the rooms beneath, because long before
they were finished the people in the other parts of the house had all retir=
ed
to rest, and silence had fallen on the deserted streets outside. As they were putting the final touches =
to
their work the profound stillness of the night was suddenly broken by the v=
oices
of a band of carol-singers.
The sound overwhelmed them with memories of ot=
her
and happier times, and Nora stretched out her hands impulsively to Owen, who
drew her close to his side.
They had been married just over eight years, a=
nd
although during all that time they had never been really free from anxiety =
for
the future, yet on no previous Christmas had they been quite so poor as now.
During the last few years periods of unemployment had gradually become more
frequent and protracted, and the attempt he had made in the early part of t=
he
year to get work elsewhere had only resulted in plunging them into even gre=
ater
poverty than before. But all the s=
ame
there was much to be thankful for: poor though they were, they were far bet=
ter
off than many thousands of others: they still had food and shelter, and they
had each other and the boy.
Before they went to bed Owen carried the tree =
into
Frankie's bedroom and placed it so that he would be able to see it in all i=
ts
glittering glory as soon as he awoke on Christmas morning.
Altho=
ugh
the party was not supposed to begin till six o'clock, Bert turned up at half
past four, bringing the 'Pandoramer' with him.
At about half past five the other guests began=
to
arrive. Elsie and Charley Linden c=
ame
first, the girl in a pretty blue frock trimmed with white lace, and Charley
resplendent in a new suit, which, like his sister's dress, had been made ou=
t of
somebody's cast-off clothes that had been given to their mother by a visiti=
ng
lady. It had taken Mrs Linden many=
hours
of hard work to contrive these garments; in fact, more time than the things
were worth, for although they looked all right--especially Elsie's--the stu=
ff
was so old that it would not wear very long: but this was the only way in w=
hich
she could get clothes for the children at all: she certainly could not affo=
rd
to buy them any. So she spent hours and hours making things that she knew w=
ould
fall to pieces almost as soon as they were made.
After these came Nellie, Rosie and Tommy
Newman. These presented a much less
prosperous appearance than the other two.
Their mother was not so skilful at contriving new clothes out of old=
. Nellie was wearing a grown-up woman's b=
louse,
and by way of ulster she had on an old-fashioned jacket of thick cloth with
large pearl buttons. This was also=
a
grown-up woman's garment: it was shaped to fit the figure of a tall woman w=
ith
wide shoulders and a small waist; consequently, it did not fit Nellie to pe=
rfection. The waist reached below the poor child's
hips.
Tommy was arrayed in the patched remains of wh=
at
had once been a good suit of clothes.
They had been purchased at a second-hand shop last summer and had be=
en
his 'best' for several months, but they were now much too small for him.
Little Rosie--who was only just over three yea=
rs
old--was better off than either of the other two, for she had a red cloth d=
ress
that fitted her perfectly: indeed, as the district visitor who gave it to h=
er
mother had remarked, it looked as if it had been made for her.
'It's not much to look at,' observed Nellie,
referring to her big jacket, but all the same we was very glad of it when t=
he
rain came on.'
The coat was so big that by withdrawing her ar=
ms
from the sleeves and using it as a cloak or shawl she had managed to make i=
t do
for all three of them.
Tommy's boots were so broken that the wet had =
got
in and saturated his stockings, so Nora made him take them all off and wear
some old ones of Frankie's whilst his own were drying at the fire.
Philpot, with two large paper bags full of ora=
nges
and nuts, arrived just as they were sitting down to tea--or rather cocoa--f=
or
with the exception of Bert all the children expressed a preference for the
latter beverage. Bert would have l=
iked
to have cocoa also, but hearing that the grown-ups were going to have tea, =
he
thought it would be more manly to do the same.
This question of having tea or cocoa for tea became a cause of much
uproarious merriment on the part of the children, who asked each other
repeatedly which they liked best, 'tea tea?' or 'cocoa tea?' They thought it so funny that they said=
it
over and over again, screaming with laughter all the while, until Tommy got=
a
piece of cake stuck in his throat and became nearly black in the face, and =
then
Philpot had to turn him upside down and punch him in the back to save him f=
rom
choking to death. This rather sobe=
red
the others, but for some time afterwards whenever they looked at each other
they began to laugh afresh because they thought it was such a good joke.
When they had filled themselves up with the
'cocoa-tea' and cakes and bread and jam, Elsie Linden and Nellie Newman hel=
ped
to clear away the cups and saucers, and then Owen lit the candles on the
Christmas tree and distributed the toys to the children, and a little while
afterwards Philpot--who had got a funny-looking mask out of one of the
bon-bons--started a fine game pretending to be a dreadful wild animal which=
he
called a Pandroculus, and crawling about on all fours, rolled his goggle ey=
es
and growled out he must have a little boy or girl to eat for his supper.
He looked so terrible that although they knew =
it
was only a joke they were almost afraid of him, and ran away laughing and
screaming to shelter themselves behind Nora or Owen; but all the same, when=
ever
Philpot left off playing, they entreated him to 'be it again', and so he ha=
d to
keep on being a Pandroculus, until exhaustion compelled him to return to his
natural form.
After this they all sat round the table and ha=
d a
game of cards; 'Snap', they called it, but nobody paid much attention to the
rules of the game: everyone seemed to think that the principal thing to do =
was
to kick up as much row as possible.
After a while Philpot suggested a change to 'Beggar my neighbour', a=
nd
won quite a lot of cards before they found out that he had hidden all the j=
acks
in the pocket of his coat, and then they mobbed him for a cheat. He might have been seriously injured if=
it
had not been for Bert, who created a diversion by standing on a chair and
announcing that he was about to introduce to their notice 'Bert White's
World-famed Pandorama' as exhibited before all the nobility and crowned hea=
ds
of Europe, England, Ireland and Scotland, including North America and Wales=
.
Loud cheers greeted the conclusion of Bert's
speech. The box was placed on the =
table,
which was then moved to the end of the room, and the chairs were ranged in =
two
rows in front.
The 'Pandorama' consisted of a stage-front mad=
e of
painted cardboard and fixed on the front of a wooden box about three feet l=
ong
by two feet six inches high, and about one foot deep from back to front.
Just behind the wings of the stage-front at ea=
ch
end of the box--was an upright roller, and the long strip of pictures was
rolled up on this. The upper ends of the rollers came through the top of the
box and had handles attached to them.
When these handles were turned the pictures passed across the stage,
unrolling from one roller and rolling on to the other, and were illuminated=
by
the light of three candles placed behind.
The idea of constructing this machine had been
suggested to Bert by a panorama entertainment he had been to see some time
before.
'The Style of the decorations,' he remarked,
alluding to the painted stage-front, 'is Moorish.'
He lit the candles at the back of the stage an=
d,
having borrowed a tea-tray from Nora, desired the audience to take their
seats. When they had all done so, =
he
requested Owen to put out the lamp and the candles on the tree, and then he
made another speech, imitating the manner of the lecturer at the panorama
entertainment before mentioned.
'Ladies and Gentlemen: with your kind permissi=
on I
am about to hinterduce to your notice some pitchers of events in different
parts of the world. As each pitcher
appears on the stage I will give a short explanation of the subject, and
afterwards the band will play a suitable collection of appropriated music,
consisting of hymns and all the latest and most popular songs of the day, a=
nd
the audience is kindly requested to join in the chorus.
'Our first scene,' continued Bert as he turned=
the
handles and brought the picture into view, 'represents the docks at
Southampton; the magnificent steamer which you see lying alongside the shor=
e is
the ship which is waiting to take us to foreign parts. As we have already paid our fare, we wi=
ll now
go on board and set sail.'
As an accompaniment to this picture Bert played
the tune of 'Goodbye, Dolly, I must leave you', and by the time the audience
had finished singing the chorus he=
had
rolled on another scene, which depicted a dreadful storm at sea, with a lar=
ge
ship evidently on the point of foundering.
The waves were running mountains high and the inky clouds were riven=
by
forked lightning. To increase the
terrifying effect, Bert rattled the tea tray and played 'The Bay of Biscay',
and the children sung the chorus whilst he rolled the next picture into vie=
w.
This scene showed the streets of a large city; mounted police with drawn sw=
ords
were dispersing a crowd: several men had been ridden down and were being
trampled under the hoofs of the horses, and a number of others were bleeding
profusely from wounds on the head and face.
'After a rather stormy passage we arrives safe=
ly
at the beautiful city of Berlin, in Germany, just in time to see a processi=
on
of unemployed workmen being charged by the military police. This picture is hintitled "Tariff =
Reform
means Work for All".'
As an appropriate musical selection Bert played
the tune of a well-known song, and the children sang the words:
'To
be there! to be there! Oh, =
I knew
what it was to be there! An=
d when
they tore me clothes, Black=
ed me
eyes and broke me nose, The=
n I
knew what it was to be there!'
During the singing Bert turned the handles
backwards and again brought on the picture of the storm at sea.
'As we don't want to get knocked on the 'ed, we
clears out of Berlin as soon as we can--whiles we're safe--and once more
embarks on our gallint ship' and after a few more turns of the 'andle we fi=
nds
ourselves back once more in Merry Hingland, where we see the inside of a bl=
acksmith's
shop with a lot of half-starved women making iron chains. They work seventy hours a week for seven
shillings. Our next scene is hinti=
tled
"The Hook and Eye Carders".
'Ere we see the inside of a room in Slumtown, with a mother and three
children and the old grandmother sewin' hooks and eyes on cards to be sold =
in
drapers' shops. It ses underneath =
the
pitcher that 384 hooks and 384 eyes has to be joined together and sewed on
cards for one penny.'
While this picture was being rolled away the b=
and
played and the children sang with great enthusiasm:
'Rule, Brittania, Brittania rules the waves! Britons, never, never, never sha=
ll be
slaves!'
'Our next picture is called "An Englishma=
n's
Home". 'Ere we see the inside=
of
another room in Slumtown, with the father and mother and four children sitt=
ing
down to dinner--bread and drippin' and tea.
It ses underneath the pitcher that there's Thirteen millions of peop=
le
in England always on the verge of starvation.
These people that you see in the pitcher might be able to get a bett=
er
dinner than this if it wasn't that most of the money wot the bloke earns 'a=
s to
pay the rent. Again we turns the 'andle and presently we comes to another v=
ery
beautiful scene--"Early Morning in Trafalgar Square". 'Ere we see a lot of Englishmen who hav=
e been
sleepin' out all night because they ain't got no 'omes to go to.'
As a suitable selection for this picture, Bert
played the tune of a music-hall song, the words of which were familiar to a=
ll
the youngsters, who sang at the top of their voices:
'I
live in Trafalgar Square, W=
ith
four lions to guard me, Pic=
tures
and statues all over the place,
Lord Nelson staring me straight in the face, Of course it's rather draughty,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But still I'm sure you'll agree,=
If it's good enough for Lord
Nelson, It's quite good eno=
ugh
for me.'
'Next we 'ave a view of the dining-hall at the
Topside Hotel in London, where we see the tables set for a millionaires'
banquet. The forks and spoons is m=
ade of
solid gold and the plates is made of silver.
The flowers that you see on the tables and 'angin' down from the cei=
lin'
and on the walls is worth £2,000 and it cost the bloke wot give the supper =
over
£30,000 for this one beano. A few =
more
turns of the 'andle shows us another glorious banquet--the King of Rhineland
being entertained by the people of England.
Next we finds ourselves looking on at the Lord Mayor's supper at the
Mansion House. All the fat men tha=
t you
see sittin' at the tables is Liberal and Tory Members of Parlimint. After this we 'ave a very beautiful pit=
cher
hintitled "Four footed Haristocrats".
'Ere you see Lady Slumrent's pet dogs sittin' up on chairs at their
dinner table with white linen napkins tied round their necks, eatin' orf si=
lver
plates like human people and being waited on by real live waiters in heveni=
ng
dress. Lady Slumrent is very fond =
of her
pretty pets and she does not allow them to be fed on anything but the very =
best
food; they gets chicken, rump steak, mutton chops, rice pudding, jelly and
custard.'
'I wished I was a pet dog, don't you?' remarked
Tommy Newman to Charley Linden.
'Not arf!' replied Charley.
'Here we see another unemployed procession,'
continued Bert as he rolled another picture into sight; '2,000 able-bodied =
men
who are not allowed to work. Next =
we see
the hinterior of a Hindustrial 'Ome--Blind children and cripples working for
their living. Our next scene is ca=
lled
"Cheap Labour". 'Ere we =
see a
lot of small boys about twelve and thirteen years old bein' served out with
their Labour Stifficats, which gives 'em the right to go to work and earn m=
oney
to help their unemployed fathers to pay the slum rent.
'Once more we turns the 'andle and brings on o=
ne
of our finest scenes. This lovely pitcher is hintitled "The Hangel of
Charity", and shows us the beautiful Lady Slumrent seated at the table=
in
a cosy corner of 'er charmin' boodore, writin' out a little cheque for the
relief of the poor of Slumtown.
'Our next scene is called "The Rival
Candidates, or, a Scene during the General Election". On the left you will observe, standin' =
up in
a motor car, a swell bloke with a eyeglass stuck in one eye, and a overcoat
with a big fur collar and cuffs, addressing the crowd: this is the Honourab=
le
Augustus Slumrent, the Conservative candidate.
On the other side of the road we see another motor car and another s=
well
bloke with a round pane of glass in one eye and a overcoat with a big fur
collar and cuffs, standing up in the car and addressin' the crowd. This is =
Mr
Mandriver, the Liberal candidate. =
The
crowds of shabby-lookin' chaps standin' round the motor cars wavin' their '=
ats
and cheerin' is workin' men. Both =
the
candidates is tellin' 'em the same old story, and each of 'em is askin' the
workin' men to elect 'im to Parlimint, and promisin' to do something or oth=
er
to make things better for the lower horders.'
As an appropriate selection to go with this
picture, Bert played the tune of a popular song, the words being well known=
to
the children, who sang enthusiastically, clapping their hands and stamping
their feet on the floor in time with the music:
'We've both been there before, =
Many a time, many a time!
We've both been there before, =
Many a time! Where m=
any a
gallon of beer has gone. To
colour his nose and mine, W=
e've
both been there before, Man=
y a
time, many a time!'
At the conclusion of the singing, Bert turned
another picture into view.
''Ere we 'ave another election scene. At each side we see the two candidates =
the
same as in the last pitcher. In the
middle of the road we see a man lying on the ground, covered with blood, wi=
th a
lot of Liberal and Tory working men kickin' 'im, jumpin' on 'im, and stampi=
n'
on 'is face with their 'obnailed boots.
The bloke on the ground is a Socialist, and the reason why they're
kickin' 'is face in is because 'e said that the only difference between
Slumrent and Mandriver was that they was both alike.'
While the audience were admiring this picture,
Bert played another well-known tune, and the children sang the words:
'Two
lovely black eyes, Oh what a
surprise! Only for telling =
a man
he was wrong, Two lovely bl=
ack
eyes.'
Bert continued to turn the handles of the roll=
ers
and a long succession of pictures passed across the stage, to the delight of
the children, who cheered and sang as occasion demanded, but the most
enthusiastic outburst of all greeted the appearance of the final picture, w=
hich
was a portrait of the King. Direct=
ly the
children saw it--without waiting for the band--they gave three cheers and b=
egan
to sing the chorus of the National Anthem.
A round of applause for Bert concluded the
Pandorama performance; the lamp and the candles of the Christmas tree were
relit--for although all the toys had been taken off, the tree still made a =
fine
show with the shining glass ornaments--and then they had some more games; b=
lind
man's buff, a tug-of-war--in which Philpot was defeated with great laughter=
--and
a lot of other games. And when the=
y were
tired of these, each child 'said a piece' or sung a song, learnt specially =
for
the occasion. The only one who had=
not
come prepared in this respect was little Rosie, and even she--so as to be t=
he
same as the others--insisted on reciting the only piece she knew. Kneeling on the hearthrug, she put her =
hands
together, palm to palm, and shutting her eyes very tightly she repeated the
verse she always said every night before going to bed:
'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, =
Look on me, a little child.
Pity my simplicity, =
Suffer
me to come to Thee.'
Then she stood up and kissed everyone in turn,=
and
Philpot crossed over and began looking out of the window, and coughed, and =
blew
his nose, because a nut that he had been eating had gone down the wrong way=
.
Most of them were by this time quite tired out=
, so
after some supper the party broke up.
Although they were nearly all very sleepy, none of them were very
willing to go, but they were consoled by the thought of another entertainme=
nt
to which they were going later on in the week--the Band of Hope Tea and Pri=
ze
Distribution at the Shining Light Chapel.
Bert undertook to see Elsie and Charley safely
home, and Philpot volunteered to accompany Nellie and Tommy Newman, and to
carry Rosie, who was so tired that she fell asleep on his shoulder before t=
hey
left the house.
As they were going down the stairs Frankie hel=
d a
hurried consultation with his mother, with the result that he was able to s=
hout
after them an invitation to come again next Christmas.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>Chapter 30 - The Brigands hold a Council of War<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
It be=
ing
now what is usually called the festive season--possibly because at this per=
iod
of the year a greater number of people are suffering from hunger and cold t=
han
at any other time--the reader will not be surprised at being invited to ano=
ther
little party which took place on the day after the one we have just left. The scene was Mr Sweater's office. Mr Sweater was seated at his desk, but =
with
his chair swung round to enable him to face his guests--Messrs Rushton, Did=
lum,
and Grinder, who were also seated.
'Something will 'ave to be done, and that very
soon,' Grinder was saying. 'We can=
't go
on much longer as we're doing at present.
For my part, I think the best thing to do is to chuck up the sponge =
at
once; the company is practically bankrupt now, and the longer we waits the
worser it will be.'
'That's just my opinion,' said Didlum
dejectedly. 'If we could supply the
electric light at the same price as gas, or a little cheaper, we might have
some chance; but we can't do it. T=
he
fact is that the machinery we've got is no dam good; it's too small and it's
wore out, consequently the light we supply is inferior to gas and costs mor=
e.'
'Yes, I think we're fairly beaten this time,' =
said
Rushton. 'Why, even if the Gas Coy
hadn't moved their works beyond the borough boundary, still we shouldn't 'a=
ve
been hable to compete with 'em.'
'Of course not,' said Grinder. 'The truth of the matter is just wot Di=
dlum
says. Our machinery is too small, =
it's
worn hout, and good for nothing but to be throwed on the scrap-heap. So there's only one thing left to do an=
d that
is--go into liquidation.'
'I don't see it,' remarked Sweater.
'Well, what do you propose, then?' demanded
Grinder. 'Reconstruct the company?=
Ask the shareholders for more money?
'Nor me neither,' said Rushton.
'Dead orf!' remarked Didlum, very decidedly.
Sweater laughed quietly. 'I'm not such a fool as to suggest anyt=
hing
of that sort,' he said. 'You seem =
to forget
that I am one of the largest shareholders myself. No.
What I propose is that we Sell Out.'
'Sell out!' replied Grinder with a contemptuous
laugh in which the others joined. =
'Who's
going to buy the shares of a concern that's practically bankrupt and never =
paid
a dividend?'
'I've tried to sell my little lot several times
already,' said Didlum with a sickly smile, 'but nobody won't buy 'em.'
'Who's to buy?' repeated Sweater, replying to
Grinder. 'The municipality of
course! The ratepayers. Why shouldn't Mugsborough go in for Soc=
ialism
as well as other towns?'
Rushton, Didlum and Grinder fairly gasped for
breath: the audacity of the chief's proposal nearly paralysed them.
'I'm afraid we should never git away with it,'
ejaculated Didlum, as soon as he could speak.
'When the people tumbled to it, there'd be no hend of a row.'
'PEOPLE!
ROW!' replied Sweater, scornfully.
'The majority of the people will never know anything about it! Liste=
n to
me--'
'Are you quite sure as we can't be over'eard?'=
interrupted
Rushton, glancing nervously at the door and round the office.
'It's all right,' answered Sweater, who
nevertheless lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and the others drew the=
ir
chairs closer and bent forward to listen.
'You know we still have a little money in hand:
well, what I propose is this: At the annual meeting, which, as you know, co=
mes
off next week, we'll arrange for the Secretary to read a highly satisfactory
report, and we'll declare a dividend of 15 per cent--we can arrange it some=
how
between us. Of course, we'll have =
to
cook the accounts a little, but I'll see that it's done properly. The other shareholders are not going to=
ask
any awkward questions, and we all understand each other.'
Sweater paused, and regarded the other three
brigands intently. 'Do you follow =
me?'
he asked.
'Yes, yes,' said Didlum eagerly. 'Go on with it.' And Rushton and Grinder nodded assent.<= o:p>
'Afterwards,' resumed Sweater, 'I'll arrange f= or a good report of the meeting to appear in the Weekly Ananias. I'll instruct the Editor to write it him= self, and I'll tell him just what to say. I'll also get him to write a leading article about it, saying that electricity is sure to supersede gas for lighting purposes in the very near future. Then t= he article will go on to refer to the huge profits made by the Gas Coy and to = say how much better it would have been if the town had bought the gasworks years ago, so that those profits might have been used to reduce the rates, the sa= me as has been done in other towns. Finally, the article will declare that it'= s a great pity that the Electric Light Supply should be in the hands of a priva= te company, and to suggest that an effort be made to acquire it for the town.<= o:p>
'In the meantime we can all go about--in a very
quiet and judicious way, of course--bragging about what a good thing we've =
got,
and saying we don't mean to sell. =
We
shall say that we've overcome all the initial expenses and difficulties
connected with the installation of the works--that we are only just beginni=
ng
to reap the reward of our industry and enterprise, and so on.
'Then,' continued the Chief, 'we can arrange f=
or
it to be proposed in the Council that the Town should purchase the Electric
Light Works.'
'But not by one of us four, you know,' said Gr=
inder
with a cunning leer.
'Certainly not; that would give the show away =
at
once. There are, as you know--seve=
ral
members of the Band who are not shareholders in the company; we'll get some=
of
them to do most of the talking. We,
being the directors of the company, must pretend to be against selling, and
stick out for our own price; and when we do finally consent we must make out
that we are sacrificing our private interests for the good of the Town. We'll get a committee appointed--we'll =
have
an expert engineer down from London--I know a man that will suit our purpose
admirably--we'll pay him a trifle and he'll say whatever we tell him to--and
we'll rush the whole business through before you can say "Jack
Robinson", and before the rate-payers have time to realize what's being
done. Not that we need worry ourse=
lves
much about them. Most of them take no interest in public affairs, but even =
if
there is something said, it won't matter much to us once we've got the mone=
y. It'll
be a nine days' wonder and then we'll hear no more of it.'
As the Chief ceased speaking, the other brigan=
ds
also remained silent, speechless with admiration of his cleverness.
'Well, what do you think of it?' he asked.
'Think of it!' cried Grinder,
enthusiastically. 'I think it's sp=
lendid! Nothing could be better. If we can honly git away with it, I rec=
kon
it'll be one of the smartest thing we've ever done.'
'Smart ain't the word for it,' observed Rushto=
n.
'There's no doubt it's a grand idear!' exclaim=
ed
Didlum, 'and I've just thought of something else that might be done to help=
it
along. We could arrange to 'ave a lot of letters sent "To the Editor of
the Obscurer" and "To the Editor of the Ananias," and "=
To
the Editor of the Weekly Chloroform" in favour of the scheme.'
'Yes, that's a very good idea,' said Grinder.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'For that matter the editors could writ=
e them
to themselves and sign them "Progress", "Ratepayer",
"Advance Mugsborough", and sich-like.'
'Yes, that's all right,' said the Chief,
thoughtfully, 'but we must be careful not to overdo it; of course there will
have to be a certain amount of publicity, but we don't want to create too m=
uch
interest in it.'
'Come to think of it,' observed Rushton
arrogantly, 'why should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the
ratepayers at all? Why should we t=
rouble
to fake the books, or declare a dividend or 'ave the harticles in the paper=
s or
anything else? We've got the game =
in our
own 'ands; we've got a majority in the Council, and, as Mr Sweater ses, very
few people even take the trouble to read the reports of the meetings.'
'Yes, that's right enough,' said Grinder. 'But it's just them few wot would make =
a lot
of trouble and talk; THEY'RE the very people we 'as to think about. If we can only manage to put THEM in a =
fog
we'll be all right, and the way to do it is as Mr Sweater proposes.'
'Yes, I think so,' said the Chief. 'We must be very careful. I can work it all right in the Ananias =
and
the Chloroform, and of course you'll see that the Obscurer backs us up.'
'I'll take care of that,' said Grinder, grimly=
.
The three local papers were run by limited
companies. Sweater held nearly all=
the
shares of the Ananias and of the Weekly Chloroform, and controlled their po=
licy
and contents. Grinder occupied the=
same
position with regard to the Obscurer.
The editors were a sort of marionettes who danced as Sweater and Gri=
nder
pulled the strings.
'I wonder how Dr Weakling will take it?' remar=
ked
Rushton.
'That's the very thing I was just thinkin' abo=
ut,'
cried Didlum. 'Don't you think it would be a good plan if we could arrange =
to
'ave somebody took bad--you know, fall down in a fit or something in the st=
reet
just outside the Town 'All just before the matter is brought forward in the
Council, and then 'ave someone to come and call 'im out to attend to the pa=
rty
wot's ill, and keep 'im out till the business is done.'
'Yes, that's a capital idear,' said Grinder
thoughtfully. 'But who could we ge=
t to
'ave the fit? It would 'ave to be
someone we could trust, you know.'
''Ow about Rushton? You wouldn't mind doin' it, would yer?'
inquired Didlum.
'I should strongly object,' said Rushton
haughtily. He regarded the suggest=
ion
that he should act such an undignified part, as a kind of sacrilege.
'Then I'll do it meself if necessary,' said Di=
dlum. 'I'm not proud when there's money to be=
made;
anything for an honest living.'
'Well, I think we're all agreed, so far,' rema=
rked
Sweater. The others signified asse=
nt.
'And I think we all deserve a drink,' the Chief
continued, producing a decanter and a box of cigars from a cupboard by the =
side
of his desk. 'Pass that water bottle from behind you, Didlum.'
'I suppose nobody won't be comin' in?' said the
latter, anxiously. 'I'm a teetotaler, you know.'
'Oh, it's all right,' said Sweater, taking four
glasses out of the cupboard and pouring out the whisky. 'I've given orders that we're not to be
disturbed for anyone. Say when.'
'Well, 'ere's success to Socialism,' cried
Grinder, raising his glass, and taking a big drink.
'Amen--'ear, 'ear, I mean,' said Didlum, hasti=
ly
correcting himself.
'Wot I likes about this 'ere business is that
we're not only doin' ourselves a bit of good,' continued Grinder with a lau=
gh,
'we're not only doin' ourselves a bit of good, but we're likewise doin' the
Socialists a lot of 'arm. When the
ratepayers 'ave bought the Works, and they begins to kick up a row because
they're losin' money over it--we can tell 'em that it's Socialism! And then they'll say that if that's Soc=
ialism
they don't want no more of it.'
The other brigands laughed gleefully, and some=
of
Didlum's whisky went down the wrong way and nearly sent him into a fit.
'You might as well kill a man at once,' he
protested as he wiped the tears from his eyes, 'you might as well kill a ma=
n at
once as choke 'im to death.'
'And now I've got a bit of good news for you,'
said the Chief as he put his empty glass down.
The others became serious at once.
'Although we've had a very rough time of it in=
our
contest with the Gasworks Company, and although we've got the worst of it, =
it
hasn't been all lavender for them, you know.
They've not enjoyed themselves either: we hit them pretty hard when =
we
put up the coal dues.'
'A damn good job too,' said Grinder malignantl=
y.
'Well,' continued Sweater, 'they're just as si=
ck of
the fight as they want to be, because of course they don't know exactly how
badly we've been hit. For all they=
know,
we could have continued the struggle indefinitely: and--well, to make a long
story short, I've had a talk with the managing director and one or two othe=
rs,
and they're willing to let us in with them.
So that we can put the money we get for the Electric Light Works into
gas shares!'
This was such splendid news that they had anot=
her
drink on the strength of it, and Didlum said that one of the first things t=
hey
would have to do would be to totally abolish the Coal Dues, because they pr=
essed
so hard on the poor.
About=
the
end of January, Slyme left Easton's. The
latter had not succeeded in getting anything to do since the work at 'The C=
ave'
was finished, and latterly the quality of the food had been falling off. The
twelve shillings Slyme paid for his board and lodging was all that Ruth had=
to
keep house with. She had tried to =
get
some work to do herself, but generally without success; there were one or t=
wo
jobs that she might have had if she had been able to give her whole time to
them, but of course that was not possible; the child and the housework had =
to
be attended to, and Slyme's meals had to be prepared. Nevertheless, she
contrived to get away several times when she had a chance of earning a few
shillings by doing a day's charing for some lady or other, and then she left
everything in such order at home that Easton was able to manage all right w=
hile
she was away. On these occasions, =
she
usually left the baby with Owen's wife, who was an old schoolmate of hers. =
Nora
was the more willing to render her this service because Frankie used to be =
so
highly delighted whenever it happened.
He never tired of playing with the child, and for several days
afterwards he used to worry his mother with entreaties to buy a baby of the=
ir
own.
Easton earned a few shillings occasionally; now
and then he got a job to clean windows, and once or twice he did a few days=
' or
hours' work with some other painter who had been fortunate enough to get a
little job 'on his own'--such as a ceiling to wash and whiten, or a room or=
two
to paint; but such jobs were few.
Sometimes, when they were very hard up, they s=
old
something; the Bible that used to lie on the little table in the bay window=
was
one of the first things to be parted with.
Ruth erased the inscription from the fly-leaf and then they sold the
book at a second-hand shop for two shillings.
As time went on, they sold nearly everything that was saleable, exce=
pt
of course, the things that were obtained on the hire system.
Slyme could see that they were getting very mu=
ch
into debt and behind with the rent, and on two occasions already Easton had
borrowed five shillings from him, which he might never be able to pay
back. Another thing was that Slyme=
was
always in fear that Ruth--who had never wholly abandoned herself to
wrongdoing--might tell Easton what had happened; more than once she had tal=
ked
of doing so, and the principal reason why she refrained was that she knew t=
hat
even if he forgave her, he could never think the same of her as before. Slyme repeatedly urged this view upon h=
er,
pointing out that no good could result from such a confession.
Latterly the house had become very
uncomfortable. It was not only tha=
t the
food was bad and that sometimes there was no fire, but Ruth and Easton were
nearly always quarrelling about something or other. She scarcely spoke to S=
lyme
at all, and avoided sitting at the table with him whenever possible. He was in constant dread that Easton mi=
ght
notice her manner towards him, and seek for some explanation. Altogether the
situation was so unpleasant that Slyme determined to clear out. He made the excuse that he had been off=
ered a
few weeks' work at a place some little distance outside the town. After he was gone they lived for several
weeks in semi-starvation on what credit they could get and by selling the
furniture or anything else they possessed that could be turned into money.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The things out of Slyme's room were sold
almost directly he left.
Old J=
ack
Linden had tried hard to earn a little money by selling bloaters, but they
often went bad, and even when he managed to sell them all the profit was so
slight that it was not worth doing.
Before the work at 'The Cave' was finished,
Philpot was a good friend to them; he frequently gave old Jack sixpence or a
shilling and often brought a bag of cakes or buns for the children. Sometimes he came to tea with them on S=
undays
as an excuse for bringing a tin of salmon.
Elsie and Charley frequently went to Owen's ho=
use
to take tea with Frankie; in fact, whilst Owen had anything to do, they alm=
ost
lived there, for both Owen and Nora, knowing that the Lindens had nothing t=
o live
on except the earnings of the young woman, encouraged the children to come
often.
Old Jack made some hopeless attempts to get
work--work of any kind, but nobody wanted him; and to make things worse, his
eyesight, which had been failing for a long time, became very bad. Once he was given a job by a big provis=
ion
firm to carry an advertisement about the streets. The man who had been carr=
ying
it before--an old soldier--had been sacked the previous day for getting dru=
nk
while on duty. The advertisement w=
as not
an ordinary pair of sandwich boards, but a sort of box without any bottom or
lid, a wooden frame, four sides covered with canvas, on which were pasted
printed bills advertising margarine. Each side of this box or frame was rat=
her
larger than an ordinary sandwich board.
Old Linden had to get inside this thing and ca=
rry
it about the streets; two straps fixed across the top of the frame and pass=
ing
one over each of his shoulders enabled him to carry it. It swayed about a good deal as he walked
along, especially when the wind caught it, but there were two handles insid=
e to
hold it steady by. The pay was
eighteenpence a day, and he had to travel a certain route, up and down the
busiest streets.
At first the frame did not feel very heavy, but
the weight seemed to increase as the time went on, and the straps hurt his
shoulders. He felt very much asham=
ed,
also, whenever he encountered any of his old mates, some of whom laughed at
him.
In consequence of the frame requiring so much
attention to keep it steady, and being unused to the work, and his sight so
bad, he several times narrowly escaped being run over. Another thing that added to his embarra=
ssment
was the jeering of the other sandwichmen, the loafers outside the public
houses, and the boys, who shouted 'old Jack in the box' after him. Sometimes the boys threw refuse at the =
frame,
and once a decayed orange thrown by one of them knocked his hat off.
By the time evening came he was scarcely able =
to
stand for weariness. His shoulders, his legs and his feet ached terribly, a=
nd
as he was taking the thing back to the shop he was accosted by a ragged,
dirty-looking, beer-sodden old man whose face was inflamed with drink and
fury. 'This was the old soldier wh=
o had
been discharged the previous day. =
He cursed
and swore in the most awful manner and accused Linden of 'taking the bread =
out
of his mouth', and, shaking his fist fiercely at him, shouted that he had a
good mind to knock his face through his head and out of the back of his nec=
k. He might possibly have tried to put this
threat into practice but for the timely appearance of a policeman, when he
calmed down at once and took himself off.
Jack did not go back the next day; he felt tha=
t he
would rather starve than have any more of the advertisement frame, and after
this he seemed to abandon all hope of earning money: wherever he went it was
the same--no one wanted him. So he=
just
wandered about the streets aimlessly, now and then meeting an old workmate =
who
asked him to have a drink, but this was not often, for nearly all of them w=
ere
out of work and penniless.
Durin=
g most
of this time, Jack Linden's daughter-in-law had 'Plenty of Work', making
blouses and pinafores for Sweater & Co.
She had so much to do that one might have thought that the Tory
Millennium had arrived, and that Tariff Reform was already an accomplished
fact.
She had Plenty of Work.
At first they had employed her exclusively on =
the
cheapest kind of blouses--those that were paid for at the rate of two shill=
ings
a dozen, but they did not give her many of that sort now. She did the work so neatly that they ke=
pt her
busy on the better qualities, which did not pay her so well, because althou=
gh
she was paid more per dozen, there was a great deal more work in them than =
in
the cheaper kinds. Once she had a very special one to make, for which she w=
as
paid six shillings; but it took her four and a half days--working early and
late--to do it. The lady who bought this blouse was told that it came from
Paris, and paid three guineas for it.
But of course Mrs Linden knew nothing of that, and even if she had
known, it would have made no difference to her.
Most of the money she earned went to pay the r=
ent,
and sometimes there was only two or three shillings left to buy food for al=
l of
them: sometimes not even so much, because although she had Plenty of Work s=
he
was not always able to do it. Ther=
e were
times when the strain of working the machine was unendurable: her shoulders
ached, her arms became cramped, and her eyes pained so that it was impossib=
le
to continue. Then for a change she=
would
leave the sewing and do some housework.
Once, when they owed four weeks' rent, the age=
nt
was so threatening that they were terrified at the thought of being sold up=
and
turned out of the house, and so she decided to sell the round mahogany table
and some of the other things out of the sitting-room. Nearly all the furniture that was in the
house now belonged to her, and had formed her home before her husband
died. The old people had given mos=
t of
their things away at different times to their other sons since she had come=
to
live there. These men were all mar=
ried
and all in employment. One was a fitter at the gasworks; the second was a
railway porter, and the other was a butcher; but now that the old man was o=
ut
of work they seldom came to the house.
The last time they had been there was on Christmas Eve, and then the=
re
had been such a terrible row between them that the children had been awaken=
ed
by it and frightened nearly out of their lives.
The cause of the row was that some time previously they had mutually
agreed to each give a shilling a week to the old people. They had done this=
for
three weeks and after that the butcher had stopped his contribution: it had
occurred to him that he was not to be expected to help to keep his brother's
widow and her children. If the old
people liked to give up the house and go to live in a room somewhere by
themselves, he would continue paying his shilling a week, but not
otherwise. Upon this the railway p=
orter
and the gas-fitter also ceased paying.
They said it wasn't fair that they should pay a shilling a week each
when the butcher--who was the eldest and earned the best wages--paid nothin=
g. Provided he paid, they would pay; but i=
f he
didn't pay anything, neither would they.
On Christmas Eve they all happened to come to the house at the same
time; each denounced the others, and after nearly coming to blows they all =
went
away raging and cursing and had not been near the place since.
As soon as she decided to sell the things, Mary
went to Didlum's second-hand furniture store, and the manager said he would=
ask
Mr Didlum to call and see the table and other articles. She waited anxiously all the morning, b=
ut he
did not appear, so she went once more to the shop to remind him. When he did come at last he was very
contemptuous of the table and of everything else she offered to sell. Five
shillings was the very most he could think of giving for the table, and even
then he doubted whether he would ever get his money back. Eventually he gave her thirty shillings=
for
the table, the overmantel, the easy chair, three other chairs and the two b=
est
pictures--one a large steel engraving of 'The Good Samaritan' and the other
'Christ Blessing Little Children'.
He paid the money at once; half an hour afterw=
ards
the van came to take the things away, and when they were gone, Mary sank do=
wn
on the hearthrug in the wrecked room and sobbed as if her heart would break=
.
This was the first of several similar transact=
ions. Slowly, piece by piece, in order to buy=
food
and to pay the rent, the furniture was sold.
Every time Didlum came he affected to be doing them a very great fav=
our by
buying the things at all. Almost a=
n act
of charity. He did not want them. Business was so bad: it might be years b=
efore
he could sell them again, and so on.
Once or twice he asked Mary if she did not want to sell the clock--t=
he
one that her late husband had made for his mother, but Mary shrank from the
thought of selling this, until at last there was nothing else left that Did=
lum
would buy, and one week, when Mary was too ill to do any needlework--it had=
to
go. He gave them ten shillings for it.
Mary had expected the old woman to be heartbro=
ken
at having to part with this clock, but she was surprised to see her almost
indifferent. The truth was, that lately both the old people seemed stunned,=
and
incapable of taking an intelligent interest in what was happening around th=
em,
and Mary had to attend to everything.
From time to time nearly all their other
possessions--things of inferior value that Didlum would not look at, she
carried out and sold at small second-hand shops in back streets or pledged =
at
the pawn-broker's. The feather pil=
lows,
sheets, and blankets: bits of carpet or oilcloth, and as much of their clot=
hing
as was saleable or pawnable. They =
felt
the loss of the bedclothes more than anything else, for although all the
clothes they wore during the day, and all the old clothes and dresses in the
house, and even an old coloured tablecloth, were put on the beds at night, =
they
did not compensate for the blankets, and they were often unable to sleep on
account of the intense cold.
A lady district visitor who called occasionally
sometimes gave Mary an order for a hundredweight of coal or a shillingswort=
h of
groceries, or a ticket for a quart of soup, which Elsie fetched in the even=
ing
from the Soup Kitchen. But this wa=
s not
very often, because, as the lady said, there were so many cases similar to
theirs that it was impossible to do more than a very little for any one of
them.
Sometimes Mary became so weak and exhausted
through overwork, worry, and lack of proper food that she broke down altoge=
ther
for the time being, and positively could not do any work at all. Then she used to lie down on the bed in=
her
room and cry.
Whenever she became like this, Elsie and Charl=
ey
used to do the housework when they came home from school, and make tea and
toast for her, and bring it to the bedside on a chair so that she could eat
lying down. When there was no marg=
arine
or dripping to put on the toast, they made it very thin and crisp and prete=
nded
it was biscuit.
The children rather enjoyed these times; the q=
uiet
and leisure was so different from other days when their mother was so busy =
she
had no time to speak to them.
They would sit on the side of the bed, the old
grandmother in her chair opposite with the cat beside her listening to the
conversation and purring or mewing whenever they stroked it or spoke to
it. They talked principally of the
future. Elsie said she was going t=
o be a
teacher and earn a lot of money to bring home to her mother to buy things w=
ith.
Charley was thinking of opening a grocer's shop and having a horse and cart=
. When one has a grocer's shop, there is =
always
plenty to eat; even if you have no money, you can take as much as you like =
out
of your shop--good stuff, too, tins of salmon, jam, sardines, eggs, cakes,
biscuits and all those sorts of things--and one was almost certain to have =
some
money every day, because it wasn't likely that a whole day would go by with=
out
someone or other coming into the shop to buy something. When delivering the groceries with the =
horse
and cart, he would give rides to all the boys he knew, and in the summertim=
e,
after the work was done and the shop shut up, Mother and Elsie and Granny c=
ould
also come for long rides into the country.
The old grandmother--who had latterly become q=
uite
childish--used to sit and listen to all this talk with a superior air. Sometimes she argued with the children =
about
their plans, and ridiculed them. S=
he
used to say with a chuckle that she had heard people talk like that
before--lots of times--but it never came to nothing in the end.
One week about the middle of February, when th=
ey
were in very sore straits indeed, old Jack applied to the secretary of the
Organized Benevolence Society for assistance.
It was about eleven o'clock in the morning when he turned the corner=
of
the street where the office of the society was situated and saw a crowd of
about thirty men waiting for the doors to be opened in order to apply for s=
oup
tickets. Some of these men were of the tramp or the drunken loafer class; s=
ome
were old, broken-down workmen like himself, and others were labourers weari=
ng
corduroy or moleskin trousers with straps round their legs under their knee=
s.
Linden waited at a distance until all these we=
re
gone before he went in. The secret=
ary
received him sympathetically and gave him a big form to fill up, but as
Linden's eyes were so bad and his hand so unsteady the secretary very
obligingly wrote in the answers himself, and informed him that he would inq=
uire
into the case and lay his application before the committee at the next meet=
ing,
which was to be held on the following Thursday--it was then Monday.
Linden explained to him that they were actually
starving. He had been out of work =
for
sixteen weeks, and during all that time they had lived for the most part on=
the
earnings of his daughter-in-law, but she had not done anything for nearly a
fortnight now, because the firm she worked for had not had any work for her=
to
do. There was no food in the house=
and
the children were crying for something to eat.
All last week they had been going to school hungry, for they had had
nothing but dry bread and tea every day: but this week--as far as he could
see--they would not get even that. After
some further talk the secretary gave him two soup tickets and an order for a
loaf of bread, and repeated his promise to inquire into the case and bring =
it
before the committee.
As Jack was returning home he passed the Soup
Kitchen, where he saw the same lot of men who had been to the office of the
Organized Benevolence Society for the soup tickets. They were waiting in a long line to be =
admitted. The premises being so small, the propri=
etor
served them in batches of ten at a time.
On Wednesday the secretary called at the house,
and on Friday Jack received a letter from him to the effect that the case h=
ad
been duly considered by the committee, who had come to the conclusion that =
as
it was a 'chronic' case they were unable to deal with it, and advised him to
apply to the Board of Guardians. T=
his
was what Linden had hitherto shrunk from doing, but the situation was
desperate. They owed five weeks' r=
ent,
and to crown their misfortune his eyesight had become so bad that even if t=
here
had been any prospect of obtaining work it was very doubtful if he could ha=
ve
managed to do it. So Linden, feeli=
ng
utterly crushed and degraded, swallowed all that remained of his pride and =
went
like a beaten dog to see the relieving officer, who took him before the Boa=
rd,
who did not think it a suitable case for out-relief, and after some
preliminaries it was arranged that Linden and his wife were to go into the
workhouse, and Mary was to be allowed three shillings a week to help her to
support herself and the two children. As for Linden's sons, the Guardians
intimated their Intention of compelling them to contribute towards the cost=
of
their parents' maintenance.
Mary accompanied the old people to the gates of
their future dwelling-place, and when she returned home she found there a
letter addressed to J. Linden. It =
was
from the house agent and contained a notice to leave the house before the e=
nd
of the ensuing week. Nothing was s=
aid
about the rent that was due. Perha=
ps Mr
Sweater thought that as he had already received nearly six hundred pounds in
rent from Linden he could afford to be generous about the five weeks that w=
ere
still owing--or perhaps he thought there was no possibility of getting the
money. However that may have been,=
there
was no reference to it in the letter--it was simply a notice to clear out,
addressed to Linden, but meant for Mary.
It was about half past three o'clock in the
afternoon when she returned home and found this letter on the floor in the
front passage. She was faint with fatigue and hunger, for she had had nothi=
ng
but a cup of tea and a slice of bread that day, and her fare had not been m=
uch
better for many weeks past. The ch=
ildren
were at school, and the house--now almost destitute of furniture and without
carpets or oilcloth on the floors--was deserted and cold and silent as a to=
mb.
On the kitchen table were a few cracked cups and saucers, a broken knife, s=
ome
lead teaspoons, a part of a loaf, a small basin containing some dripping an=
d a
brown earthenware teapot with a broken spout. Near the table were two broken
kitchen chairs, one with the top cross-piece gone from the back, and the ot=
her
with no back to the seat at all. T=
he
bareness of the walls was relieved only by a coloured almanac and some paper
pictures which the children had tacked upon them, and by the side of the
fireplace was the empty wicker chair where the old woman used to sit. There=
was
no fire in the grate, and the cold hearth was untidy with an accumulation of
ashes, for during the trouble of these last few days she had not had time or
heart to do any housework. The flo=
or was
unswept and littered with scraps of paper and dust: in one corner was a hea=
p of
twigs and small branches of trees that Charley had found somewhere and brou=
ght
home for the fire.
The same disorder prevailed all through the ho=
use:
all the doors were open, and from where she stood in the kitchen she could =
see
the bed she shared with Elsie, with its heterogeneous heap of coverings.
As she stood there with the letter in her
hand--faint and weary in the midst of all this desolation, it seemed to her=
as
if the whole world were falling to pieces and crumbling away all around her=
.
Durin=
g the
months of January and February, Owen, Crass, Slyme and Sawkins continued to
work at irregular intervals for Rushton & Co., although--even when there
was anything to do--they now put in only six hours a day, commencing in the
morning and leaving off at four, with an hour's interval for dinner between
twelve and one. They finished the
'plant' and painted the front of Rushton's shop. When all this was completed, as no othe=
r work
came in, they all had to 'stand off' with the exception of Sawkins, who was
kept on because he was cheap and able to do all sorts of odd jobs, such as
unstopping drains, repairing leaky roofs, rough painting or lime-washing, a=
nd
he was also useful as a labourer for the plumbers, of whom there were now t=
hree
employed at Rushton's, the severe weather which had come in with January ha=
ving
made a lot of work in that trade. =
With
the exception of this one branch, practically all work was at a standstill.=
During this time Rushton & Co. had had sev=
eral
'boxing-up' jobs to do, and Crass always did the polishing of the coffins on
these occasions, besides assisting to take the 'box' home when finished and=
to
'lift in' the corpse, and afterwards he always acted as one of the bearers =
at
the funerals. For an ordinary class
funeral he usually put in about three hours for the polishing; that came to=
one
and nine. Taking home the coffin and lifting in the corpse, one
shilling--usually there were two men to do this besides Hunter, who always
accompanied them to superintend the work--attending the funeral and acting =
as
bearer, four shillings: so that altogether Crass made six shillings and
ninepence out of each funeral, and sometimes a little more. For instance, when there was an unusual=
ly
good-class corpse they had a double coffin and then of course there were two
'lifts in', for the shell was taken home first and the outer coffin perhaps=
a
day or two later: this made another shilling.
No matter how expensive the funeral was, the bearers never got any m=
ore
money. Sometimes the carpenter and=
Crass
were able to charge an hour or two more on the making and polishing of a co=
ffin
for a good job, but that was all. Sometimes, when there was a very cheap jo=
b,
they were paid only three shillings for attending as bearers, but this was =
not
often: as a rule they got the same amount whether it was a cheap funeral or=
an
expensive one. Slyme earned only f=
ive
shillings out of each funeral, and Owen only one and six--for writing the
coffin plate.
Sometimes there were three or four funerals in=
a
week, and then Crass did very well indeed.
He still had the two young men lodgers at his house, and although on=
e of
them was out of work he was still able to pay his way because he had some m=
oney
in the bank.
One of the funeral jobs led to a terrible row
between Crass and Sawkins. The cor=
pse
was that of a well-to-do woman who had been ill for a long time with cancer=
of
the stomach, and after the funeral Rushton & Co. had to clean and repai=
nt
and paper the room she had occupied during her illness. Although cancer is not supposed to be an
infectious disease, they had orders to take all the bedding away and have it
burnt. Sawkins was instructed to t=
ake a
truck to the house and get the bedding and take it to the town Refuse Destr=
uctor
to be destroyed. There were two fe=
ather
beds, a bolster and two pillows: they were such good things that Sawkins
secretly resolved that instead of taking them to the Destructor he would ta=
ke
them to a second-hand dealer and sell them.
As he was coming away from the house with the =
things
he met Hunter, who told him that he wanted him for some other work; so he w=
as
to take the truck to the yard and leave it there for the present; he could =
take
the bedding to the Destructor later on in the day. Sawkins did as Hunter ordered, and in t=
he
meantime Crass, who happened to be working at the yard painting some veneti=
an
blinds, saw the things on the truck, and, hearing what was to be done with
them, he also thought it was a pity that such good things should be destroy=
ed:
so when Sawkins came in the afternoon to take them away Crass told him he n=
eed
not trouble; 'I'm goin' to 'ave that lot, he said; 'they're too good to chu=
ck
away; there's nothing wrong with 'em.'
This did not suit Sawkins at all. He said he had been told to take them t=
o the
Destructor, and he was going to do so.
He was dragging the cart out of the yard when Crass rushed up and li=
fted
the bundle off and carried it into the paint-shop. Sawkins ran after him and they began to=
curse
and swear at each other; Crass accusing Sawkins of intending to take the th=
ings
to the marine stores and sell them. Sawkins seized hold of the bundle with =
the
object of replacing it on the cart, but Crass got hold of it as well and th=
ey
had a tussle for it--a kind of tug of war--reeling and struggling all over =
the
shop. cursing and swearing horribly all the time. Finally, Sawkins--being the better man =
of the
two--succeeded in wrenching the bundle away and put it on the cart again, a=
nd
then Crass hurriedly put on his coat and said he was going to the office to=
ask
Mr Rushton if he might have the things. Upon hearing this, Sawkins became so
infuriated that he lifted the bundle off the cart and, throwing it upon the
muddy ground, right into a pool of dirty water, trampled it underfoot; and
then, taking out his clasp knife, began savagely hacking and ripping the
ticking so that the feathers all came falling out. In a few minutes he had damaged the thi=
ngs
beyond hope of repair, while Crass stood by, white and trembling, watching =
the
proceedings but lacking the courage to interfere.
'Now go to the office and ask Rushton for 'em,=
if
you like!' shouted Sawkins. 'You c=
an
'ave 'em now, if you want 'em.'
Crass made no answer and, after a moment's
hesitation, went back to his work, and Sawkins piled the things on the cart
once more and took them away to the Destructor.
He would not be able to sell them now, but at any rate he had stopped
that dirty swine Crass from getting them.
When Crass went back to the paint-shop he found
there one of the pillows which had fallen out of the bundle during the
struggle. He took it home with him=
that
evening and slept upon it. It was =
a fine
pillow, much fuller and softer and more cosy than the one he had been
accustomed to.
A few days afterwards when he was working at t=
he
room where the woman died, they gave him some other things that had belonge=
d to
her to do away with, and amongst them was a kind of wrap of grey knitted wo=
ol.
Crass kept this for himself: it was just the thing to wrap round one's neck
when going to work on a cold morning, and he used it for that purpose all
through the winter. In addition to=
the
funerals, there was a little other work: sometimes a room or two to be pain=
ted
and papered and ceilings whitened, and once they had the outside of two sma=
ll
cottages to paint--doors and windows--two coats. All four of them worked at this job and=
it
was finished in two days. And so t=
hey
went on.
Some weeks Crass earned a pound or eighteen
shillings; sometimes a little more, generally less and occasionally nothing=
at all.
There was a lot of jealousy and ill-feeling
amongst them about the work. Slyme=
and
Crass were both aggrieved about Sawkins whenever they were idle, especially=
if
the latter were painting or whitewashing, and their indignation was shared =
by
all the others who were 'off'. Har=
low
swore horribly about it, and they all agreed that it was disgraceful that a
bloody labourer should be employed doing what ought to be skilled work for
fivepence an hour, while properly qualified men were 'walking about'. These other men were also incensed agai=
nst
Slyme and Crass because the latter were given the preference whenever there=
was
a little job to do, and it was darkly insinuated that in order to secure th=
is
preference these two were working for sixpence an hour. There was no love l=
ost
between Crass and Slyme either: Crass was furious whenever it happened that
Slyme had a few hours' work to do if he himself were idle, and if ever Crass
was working while Slyme was 'standing still' the latter went about amongst =
the
other unemployed men saying ugly things about Crass, whom he accused of bei=
ng a
'crawler'. Owen also came in for h=
is
share of abuse and blame: most of them said that a man like him should stick
out for higher wages whether employed on special work or not, and then he w=
ould
not get any preference. But all the
same, whatever they said about each other behind each other's backs, they w=
ere
all most friendly to each other when they met face to face.
Once or twice Owen did some work--such as grai=
ning
a door or writing a sign--for one or other of his fellow workmen who had
managed to secure a little job 'on his own', but putting it all together, t=
he
coffin-plates and other work at Rushton's and all, his earnings had not
averaged ten shillings a week for the last six weeks. Often they had no coal and sometimes no=
t even
a penny to put into the gas meter, and then, having nothing left good enoug=
h to
pawn, he sometimes obtained a few pence by selling some of his books to
second-hand book dealers. However, bad as their condition was, Owen knew th=
at
they were better off than the majority of the others, for whenever he went =
out
he was certain to meet numbers of men whom he had worked with at different
times, who said--some of them--that they had been idle for ten, twelve, fif=
teen
and in some cases for twenty weeks without having earned a shilling.
Owen used to wonder how they managed to contin=
ue
to exist. Most of them were wearing
other people's cast-off clothes, hats, and boots, which had in some instanc=
es
been given to their wives by 'visiting ladies', or by the people at whose
houses their wives went to work, charing.
As for food, most of them lived on such credit as they could get, an=
d on
the scraps of broken victuals and meat that their wives brought home from t=
he
places they worked at. Some of the=
m had
grown-up sons and daughters who still lived with them and whose earnings ke=
pt
their homes together, and the wives of some of them eked out a miserable
existence by letting lodgings.
The week before old Linden went into the workh=
ouse
Owen earned nothing, and to make matters worse the grocer from whom they
usually bought their things suddenly refused to let them have any more cred=
it.
Owen went to see him, and the man said he was very sorry, but he could not =
let
them have anything more without the money; he did not mind waiting a few we=
eks
for what was already owing, but he could not let the amount get any higher;=
his
books were full of bad debts already. In conclusion, he said that he hoped =
Owen
would not do as so many others had done and take his ready money
elsewhere. People came and got cre=
dit
from him when they were hard up, and afterwards spent their ready money at =
the
Monopole Company's stores on the other side of the street, because their go=
ods
were a trifle cheaper, and it was not fair. Owen admitted that it was not f=
air,
but reminded him that they always bought their things at his shop. The grocer, however, was inexorable; he
repeated several times that his books were full of bad debts and his own
creditors were pressing him. During
their conversation the shopkeeper's eyes wandered continually to the big st=
ore
on the other side of the street; the huge, gilded letters of the name 'Mono=
pole
Stores' seemed to have an irresistible attraction for him. Once he interrupted himself in the midd=
le of
a sentence to point out to Owen a little girl who was just coming out of the
Stores with a small parcel in her hand.
'Her father owes me nearly thirty shillings,' =
he
said, 'but they spend their ready money there.'
The front of the grocer's shop badly needed
repainting, and the name on the fascia, 'A. Smallman', was so faded as to be
almost indecipherable. It had been Owen's intention to offer to do this
work--the cost to go against his account--but the man appeared to be so har=
assed
that Owen refrained from making the suggestion.
They still had credit at the baker's, but they=
did
not take much bread: when one has had scarcely anything else but bread to e=
at
for nearly a month one finds it difficult to eat at all. That same day, when he returned home af=
ter
his interview with the grocer, they had a loaf of beautiful fresh bread, but
none of them could eat it, although they were hungry: it seemed to stick in
their throats, and they could not swallow it even with the help of a drink =
of
tea. But they drank the tea, which=
was
the one thing that enabled them to go on living.
The next week Owen earned eight shillings
altogether: a few hours he put in assisting Crass to wash off and whiten a
ceiling and paint a room, and there was one coffin-plate. He wrote the latter at home, and while =
he was
doing it he heard Frankie--who was out in the scullery with Nora--say to he=
r:
'Mother, how many more days to you think we'll
have to have only dry bread and tea?'
Owen's heart seemed to stop as he heard the
child's question and listened for Nora's answer, but the question was not t=
o be
answered at all just then, for at that moment they heard someone running up=
the
stairs and presently the door was unceremoniously thrown open and Charley L=
inden
rushed into the house, out of breath, hatless, and crying piteously. His clothes were old and ragged; they h=
ad
been patched at the knees and elbows, but the patches were tearing away from
the rotting fabric into which they had been sewn. He had on a pair of black stockings ful=
l of
holes through which the skin was showing.
The soles of his boots were worn through at one side right to the
uppers, and as he walked the sides of his bare heels came into contact with=
the
floor, the front part of the sole of one boot was separated from the upper,=
and
his bare toes, red with cold and covered with mud, protruded through the
gap. Some sharp substance--a nail =
or a
piece of glass or flint--had evidently lacerated his right foot, for blood =
was
oozing from the broken heel of his boot on to the floor.
They were unable to make much sense of the
confused story he told them through his sobs as soon as he was able to
speak. All that was clear was that=
there
was something very serious the matter at home: he thought his mother must be
either dying or dead, because she did not speak or move or open her eyes, a=
nd
'please, please, please will you come home with me and see her?'
While Nora was getting ready to go with the bo=
y,
Owen made him sit on a chair, and having removed the boot from the foot that
was bleeding, washed the cut with some warm water and bandaged it with a pi=
ece
of clean rag, and then they tried to persuade him to stay there with Frankie
while Nora went to see his mother, but the boy would not hear of it. So Frankie went with them instead. Owen could not go because he had to fin=
ish
the coffin-plate, which was only just commenced.
It will be remembered that we left Mary Linden
alone in the house after she returned from seeing the old people away. When the children came home from school,
about half an hour afterwards, they found her sitting in one of the chairs =
with
her head resting on her arms on the table, unconscious. They were terrified, because they could=
not
awaken her and began to cry, but presently Charley thought of Frankie's mot=
her
and, telling his sister to stay there while he was gone, he started off at a
run for Owen's house, leaving the front door wide open after him.
When Nora and the two boys reached the house t=
hey
found there two other women neighbours, who had heard Elsie crying and had =
come
to see what was wrong. Mary had
recovered from her faint and was lying down on the bed. Nora stayed with her
for some time after the other women went away.
She lit the fire and gave the children their tea--there was still so=
me
coal and food left of what had been bought with the three shillings obtained
from the Board of Guardians--and afterwards she tidied the house.
Mary said that she did not know exactly what s=
he
would have to do in the future. If=
she
could get a room somewhere for two or three shillings a week, her allowance
from the Guardians would pay the rent, and she would be able to earn enough=
for
herself and the children to live on.
This was the substance of the story that Nora =
told
Owen when she returned home. He had
finished writing the coffin-plate, and as it was now nearly dry he put on h=
is
coat and took it down to the carpenter's shop at the yard.
On his way back he met Easton, who had been
hanging about in the vain hope of seeing Hunter and finding out if there was
any chance of a job. As they walked along together, Easton confided to Owen
that he had earned scarcely anything since he had been stood off at Rushton=
's,
and what he had earned had gone, as usual, to pay the rent. Slyme had left them some time ago. Ruth did not seem able to get on with h=
im;
she had been in a funny sort of temper altogether, but since he had gone she
had had a little work at a boarding-house on the Grand Parade. But things had been going from bad to w=
orse.
They had not been able to keep up the payments for the furniture they had
hired, so the things had been seized and carted off. They had even stripped the oilcloth fro=
m the
floor. Easton remarked he was sorr=
y he
had not tacked the bloody stuff down in such a manner that they would not h=
ave
been able to take it up without destroying it.
He had been to see Didlum, who said he didn't want to be hard on the=
m,
and that he would keep the things together for three months, and if Easton =
had
paid up arrears by that time he could have them back again, but there was, =
in
Easton's opinion, very little chance of that.
Owen listened with contempt and anger. Here was a man who grumbled at the pres=
ent
state of things, yet took no trouble to think for himself and try to alter
them, and who at the first chance would vote for the perpetuation of the Sy=
stem
which produced his misery.
'Have you heard that old Jack Linden and his w=
ife
went to the workhouse today,' he said.
'No,' replied Easton, indifferently. 'It's only what I expected.'
Owen then suggested it would not be a bad plan=
for
Easton to let his front room, now that it was empty, to Mrs Linden, who wou=
ld
be sure to pay her rent, which would help Easton to pay his. Easton agreed and said he would mention=
it to
Ruth, and a few minutes later they parted.
The next morning Nora found Ruth talking to Ma=
ry
Linden about the room and as the Eastons lived only about five minutes' walk
away, they all three went round there in order that Mary might see the
room. The appearance of the house =
from
outside was unaltered: the white lace curtains still draped the windows of =
the
front room; and in the centre of the bay was what appeared to be a small ro=
und
table covered with a red cloth, and upon it a geranium in a flowerpot stand=
ing
in a saucer with a frill of coloured tissue paper round it. These things and the curtains, which fe=
ll
close together, made it impossible for anyone to see that the room was,
otherwise, unfurnished. The 'table'
consisted of an empty wooden box--procured from the grocer's--stood on end,
with the lid of the scullery copper placed upside down upon it for a top and
covered with an old piece of red cloth.
The purpose of this was to prevent the neighbours from thinking that
they were hard up; although they knew that nearly all those same neighbours
were in more or less similar straits.
It was not a very large room, considering that=
it
would have to serve all purposes for herself and the two children, but Mrs
Linden knew that it was not likely that she would be able to get one as good
elsewhere for the same price, so she agreed to take it from the following
Monday at two shillings a week.
As the distance was so short they were able to
carry most of the smaller things to their new home during the next few days,
and on the Monday evening, when it was dark.
Owen and Easton brought the remainder on a truck they borrowed for t=
he
purpose from Hunter.
During the last weeks of February the severity=
of
the weather increased. There was a=
heavy
fall of snow on the 20th followed by a hard frost which lasted several days=
.
About ten o'clock one night a policeman found a
man lying unconscious in the middle of a lonely road. At first he thought the man was drunk, =
and
after dragging him on to the footpath out of the way of passing vehicles he
went for the stretcher. They took =
the
man to the station and put him into a cell, which was already occupied by a=
man
who had been caught in the act of stealing a swede turnip from a barn. When=
the
police surgeon came he pronounced the supposed drunken man to be dying from
bronchitis and want of food; and he further said that there was nothing to
indicate that the man was addicted to drink. When the inquest was held a few
days afterwards, the coroner remarked that it was the third case of death f=
rom
destitution that had occurred in the town within six weeks.
The evidence showed that the man was a plaster=
er
who had walked from London with the hope of finding work somewhere in the
country. He had no money in his
possession when he was found by the policeman; all that his pockets contain=
ed
being several pawn-tickets and a letter from his wife, which was not found
until after he died, because it was in an inner pocket of his waistcoat.
As time went on the long-continued privation b= egan to tell upon Owen and his family. = He had a severe cough: his eyes became deeply sunken and of remarkable brilliancy,= and his thin face was always either deathly pale or dyed with a crimson flush.<= o:p>
Frankie also began to show the effects of being
obliged to go so often without his porridge and milk; he became very pale a=
nd
thin and his long hair came out in handfuls when his mother combed or brush=
ed
it. This was a great trouble to the boy, who, since hearing the story of Sa=
mson
read out of the Bible at school, had ceased from asking to have his hair cut
short, lest he should lose his strength in consequence. He used to test him=
self
by going through a certain exercise he had himself invented, with a flat ir=
on,
and he was always much relieved when he found that, notwithstanding the los=
s of
the porridge, he was still able to lift the iron the proper number of times=
. But after a while, as he found that it =
became
increasingly difficult to go through the exercise, he gave it up altogether,
secretly resolving to wait until 'Dad' had more work to do, so that he could
have the porridge and milk again. =
He was
sorry to have to discontinue the exercise, but he said nothing about it to =
his
father or mother because he did not want to 'worry' them...
Sometimes Nora managed to get a small job of
needlework. On one occasion a woma=
n with
a small son brought a parcel of garments belonging to herself or her husban=
d,
an old ulster, several coats, and so on--things that although they were too
old-fashioned or shabby to wear, yet might look all right if turned and mad=
e up
for the boy.
Nora undertook to do this, and after working
several hours every day for a week she earned four shillings: and even then=
the
woman thought it was so dear that she did not bring any more.
Another time Mrs Easton got her some work at a
boarding-house where she herself was employed.
The servant was laid up, and they wanted some help for a few days. The pay was to be two shillings a day, =
and
dinner. Owen did not want her to go
because he feared she was not strong enough to do the work, but he gave way=
at
last and Nora went. She had to do the bedrooms, and on the evening of the
second day, as a result of the constant running up and down the stairs carr=
ying
heavy cans and pails of water, she was in such intense pain that she was
scarcely able to walk home, and for several days afterwards had to lie in b=
ed
through a recurrence of her old illness, which caused her to suffer untold
agony whenever she tried to stand.
Owen was alternately dejected and maddened by =
the
knowledge of his own helplessness: when he was not doing anything for Rusht=
on
he went about the town trying to find some other work, but usually with sca=
nt
success. He did some samples of sh=
owcard
and window tickets and endeavoured to get some orders by canvassing the sho=
ps
in the town, but this was also a failure, for these people generally had a
ticket-writer to whom they usually gave their work. He did get a few trifling orders, but t=
hey
were scarcely worth doing at the price he got for them. He used to feel like a criminal when he=
went
into the shops to ask them for the work, because he realized fully that, in
effect, he was saying to them: 'Take your work away from the other man, and
employ me.' He was so conscious of=
this
that it gave him a shamefaced manner, which, coupled as it was with his sha=
bby
clothing, did not create a very favourable impression upon those he address=
ed,
who usually treated him with about as much courtesy as they would have exte=
nded
to any other sort of beggar. Gener=
ally,
after a day's canvassing, he returned home unsuccessful and faint with hung=
er
and fatigue.
Once, when there was a bitterly cold east wind
blowing, he was out on one of these canvassing expeditions and contracted a
severe cold: his chest became so bad that he found it almost impossible to
speak, because the effort to do so often brought on a violent fit of coughi=
ng.
It was during this time that a firm of drapers, for whom he had done some
showcards, sent him an order for one they wanted in a hurry, it had to be
delivered the next morning, so he stayed up by himself till nearly midnight=
to
do it. As he worked, he felt a str=
ange
sensation in his chest: it was not exactly a pain, and he would have found =
it
difficult to describe it in words--it was just a sensation. He did not attach much importance to it,
thinking it an effect of the cold he had taken, but whatever it was he could
not help feeling conscious of it all the time.
Frankie had been put to bed that evening at the
customary hour, but did not seem to be sleeping as well as usual. Owen could hear him twisting and turning
about and uttering little cries in his sleep.
He left his work several times to go into the
boy's room and cover him with the bedclothes which his restless movements h=
ad
disordered. As the time wore on, t=
he
child became more tranquil, and about eleven o'clock, when Owen went in to =
look
at him, he found him in a deep sleep, lying on his side with his head thrown
back on the pillow, breathing so softly through his slightly parted lips th=
at
the sound was almost imperceptible. The
fair hair that clustered round his forehead was damp with perspiration, and=
he
was so still and pale and silent that one might have thought he was sleeping
the sleep that knows no awakening.
About an hour later, when he had finished writ=
ing
the showcard, Owen went out into the scullery to wash his hands before goin=
g to
bed: and whilst he was drying them on the towel, the strange sensation he h=
ad
been conscious of all the evening became more intense, and a few seconds
afterwards he was terrified to find his mouth suddenly filled with blood.
For what seemed an eternity he fought for brea=
th
against the suffocating torrent, and when at length it stopped, he sank
trembling into a chair by the side of the table, holding the towel to his m=
outh
and scarcely daring to breathe, whilst a cold sweat streamed from every pore
and gathered in large drops upon his forehead.
Through the deathlike silence of the night the=
re
came from time to time the chimes of the clock of a distant church, but he
continued to sit there motionless, taking no heed of the passing hours, and
possessed with an awful terror.
So this was the beginning of the end! And afterwards the other two would be l=
eft by
themselves at the mercy of the world. In
a few years' time the boy would be like Bert White, in the clutches of some
psalm-singing devil like Hunter or Rushton, who would use him as if he were=
a
beast of burden. He imagined he co=
uld
see him now as he would be then: worked, driven, and bullied, carrying load=
s,
dragging carts, and running here and there, trying his best to satisfy the
brutal tyrants, whose only thought would be to get profit out of him for
themselves. If he lived, it would =
be to
grow up with his body deformed and dwarfed by unnatural labour and with his
mind stultified, degraded and brutalized by ignorance and poverty. As this vision of the child's future ro=
se
before him, Owen resolved that it should never be! He would not leave them alone and defen=
celess
in the midst of the 'Christian' wolves who were waiting to rend them as soo=
n as
he was gone. If he could not give =
them
happiness, he could at least put them out of the reach of further
suffering. If he could not stay wi=
th
them, they would have to come with him.
It would be kinder and more merciful.
Nearly
every other firm in the town was in much the same plight as Rushton & C=
o.;
none of them had anything to speak of to do, and the workmen no longer trou=
bled
to go to the different shops asking for a job.
They knew it was of no use. Most
of them just walked about aimlessly or stood talking in groups in the stree=
ts,
principally in the neighbourhood of the Wage Slave Market near the fountain=
on
the Grand Parade. They congregated=
here
in such numbers that one or two residents wrote to the local papers complai=
ning
of the 'nuisance', and pointing out that it was calculated to drive the
'better-class' visitors out of the town.
After this two or three extra policemen were put on duty near the
fountain with instructions to 'move on' any groups of unemployed that forme=
d. They could not stop them from coming th=
ere,
but they prevented them standing about.
The processions of unemployed continued every =
day,
and the money they begged from the public was divided equally amongst those=
who
took part. Sometimes it amounted to one and sixpence each, sometimes it was=
a little
more and sometimes a little less. =
These
men presented a terrible spectacle as they slunk through the dreary streets,
through the rain or the snow, with the slush soaking into their broken boot=
s,
and, worse still, with the bitterly cold east wind penetrating their rotten
clothing and freezing their famished bodies.
The majority of the skilled workers still held
aloof from these processions, although their haggard faces bore involuntary
testimony to their sufferings. Alt=
hough
privation reigned supreme in their desolate homes, where there was often
neither food nor light nor fire, they were too 'proud' to parade their mise=
ry
before each other or the world. They secretly sold or pawned their clothing=
and
their furniture and lived in semi-starvation on the proceeds, and on credit,
but they would not beg. Many of th=
em
even echoed the sentiments of those who had written to the papers, and with=
a
strange lack of class-sympathy blamed those who took part in the procession=
s. They said it was that sort of thing that
drove the 'better class' away, injured the town, and caused all the poverty=
and
unemployment. However, some of them accepted charity in other ways; district
visitors distributed tickets for coal and groceries. Not that that sort of thing made much
difference; there was usually a great deal of fuss and advice, many quotati=
ons
of Scripture, and very little groceries.
And even what there was generally went to the least-deserving people,
because the only way to obtain any of this sort of 'charity' is by
hypocritically pretending to be religious: and the greater the hypocrite, t=
he
greater the quantity of coal and groceries.
These 'charitable' people went into the wretched homes of the poor
and--in effect--said: 'Abandon every particle of self-respect: cringe and f=
awn:
come to church: bow down and grovel to us, and in return we'll give you a
ticket that you can take to a certain shop and exchange for a shillingswort=
h of
groceries. And, if you're very ser=
vile
and humble we may give you another one next week.'
They never gave the 'case' the money. The ticket system serves three purposes=
. It prevents the 'case' abusing the 'cha=
rity'
by spending the money on drink. It
advertises the benevolence of the donors: and it enables the grocer--who is
usually a member of the church--to get rid of any stale or damaged stock he=
may
have on hand.
When these visiting ladies' went into a workma=
n's
house and found it clean and decently furnished, and the children clean and
tidy, they came to the conclusion that those people were not suitable 'case=
s'
for assistance. Perhaps the childr=
en had
had next to nothing to eat, and would have been in rags if the mother had n=
ot
worked like a slave washing and mending their clothes. But these were not the sort of cases th=
at the
visiting ladies assisted; they only gave to those who were in a state of
absolute squalor and destitution, and then only on condition that they whin=
ed
and grovelled.
In addition to this district visitor business,=
the
well-to-do inhabitants and the local authorities attempted--or rather,
pretended--to grapple with the poverty 'problem' in many other ways, and the
columns of the local papers were filled with letters from all sorts of cran=
ks
who suggested various remedies. One
individual, whose income was derived from brewery shares, attributed the
prevailing distress to the drunken and improvident habits of the lower orde=
rs.
Another suggested that it was a Divine protest against the growth of Ritual=
ism
and what he called 'fleshly religion', and suggested a day of humiliation a=
nd
prayer. A great number of well-fed
persons thought this such an excellent proposition that they proceeded to p=
ut
it into practice. They prayed, whi=
lst
the unemployed and the little children fasted.
If one had not been oppressed by the tragedy of
Want and Misery, one might have laughed at the farcical, imbecile measures =
that
were taken to relieve it. Several
churches held what they called 'Rummage' or 'jumble' sales. They sent out circulars something like =
this:
JUMBLE SALE in aid of the
Unemployed.
If=
you
have any articles of any description which are of no further use to you, we should be gra=
teful
for them, and if you will kindl=
y fill
in annexed form and post it to us, we will send and collect them.
On the day of the sale the parish room was
transformed into a kind of Marine Stores, filled with all manner of rubbish,
with the parson and the visiting ladies grinning in the midst. The things were sold for next to nothin=
g to
such as cared to buy them, and the local rag-and-bone man reaped a fine
harvest. The proceeds of these sal=
es
were distributed in 'charity' and it was usually a case of much cry and lit=
tle
wool.
There was a religious organization, called 'Th=
e Mugsborough
Skull and Crossbones Boys', which existed for the purpose of perpetuating t=
he
great religious festival of Guy Fawkes.
This association also came to the aid of the unemployed and organize=
d a
Grand Fancy Dress Carnival and Torchlight Procession. When this took place, although there wa=
s a
slight sprinkling of individuals dressed in tawdry costumes as cavaliers of=
the
time of Charles I, and a few more as highwaymen or footpads, the majority of
the processionists were boys in women's clothes, or wearing sacks with holes
cut in them for their heads and arms, and with their faces smeared with
soot. There were also a number of =
men
carrying frying-pans in which they burnt red and blue fire. The procession--or rather, mob--was hea=
ded by
a band, and the band was headed by two men, arm in arm, one very tall, dres=
sed
to represent Satan, in red tights, with horns on his head, and smoking a la=
rge
cigar, and the other attired in the no less picturesque costume of a bishop=
of
the Established Church.
This crew paraded the town, howling and dancin=
g,
carrying flaring torches, burning the blue and red fire, and some of them
singing silly or obscene songs; whilst the collectors ran about with the bo=
xes
begging for money from people who were in most cases nearly as poverty-stri=
cken
as the unemployed they were asked to assist.
The money thus obtained was afterwards handed over to the Secretary =
of
the Organized Benevolence Society, Mr Sawney Grinder.
Then there was the Soup Kitchen, which was rea=
lly
an inferior eating-house in a mean street.
The man who ran this was a relative of the secretary of the OBS. He cadged all the ingredients for the s=
oup
from different tradespeople: bones and scraps of meat from butchers: pea me=
al
and split peas from provision dealers: vegetables from greengrocers: stale
bread from bakers, and so on.
Well-intentioned, charitable old women with more money than sense se=
nt
him donations in cash, and he sold the soup for a penny a basin--or a penny=
a
quart to those who brought jugs.
He had a large number of shilling books printe=
d,
each containing thirteen penny tickets.
The Organized Benevolence Society bought a lot of these books and re=
sold
them to benevolent persons, or gave them away to 'deserving cases'. It was this connection with the OBS tha=
t gave
the Soup Kitchen a semi-official character in the estimation of the public,=
and
furnished the proprietor with the excuse for cadging the materials and money
donations.
In the case of the Soup Kitchen, as with the
unemployed processions, most of those who benefited were unskilled labourer=
s or
derelicts: with but few exceptions the unemployed artisans--although their =
need
was just as great as that of the others--avoided the place as if it were
infected with the plague. They were
afraid even to pass through the street where it was situated lest anyone se=
eing
them coming from that direction should think they had been there. But all the same, some of them allowed =
their
children to go there by stealth, by night, to buy some of this charity-tain=
ted
food.
Another brilliant scheme, practical and
statesmanlike, so different from the wild projects of demented Socialists, =
was
started by the Rev. Mr Bosher, a popular preacher, the Vicar of the fashion=
able
Church of the Whited Sepulchre. He
collected some subscriptions from a number of semi-imbecile old women who
attended his church. With some of =
this
money he bought a quantity of timber and opened what he called a Labour Yar=
d,
where he employed a number of men sawing firewood. Being a clergyman, and because he said =
he
wanted it for a charitable purpose, of course he obtained the timber very
cheaply--for about half what anyone else would have had to pay for it.
The wood-sawing was done piecework. A log of wood about the size of a railw=
ay
sleeper had to be sawn into twelve pieces, and each of these had to be chop=
ped
into four. For sawing and chopping=
one
log in this manner the worker was paid ninepence. One log made two bags of firewood, whic=
h were
sold for a shilling each--a trifle under the usual price. The men who delivered the bags were paid
three half-pence for each two bags.
As there were such a lot of men wanting to do =
this
work, no one was allowed to do more than three lots in one day--that came to
two shillings and threepence--and no one was allowed to do more than two da=
ys
in one week.
The Vicar had a number of bills printed and
displayed in shop windows calling attention to what he was doing, and infor=
ming
the public that orders could be sent to the Vicarage by post and would rece=
ive
prompt attention and the fuel could be delivered at any address--Messrs Rus=
hton
& Co. having very kindly lent a handcart for the use of the men employe=
d at
the Labour Yard.
As a result of the appearance of this bill, an=
d of
the laudatory notices in the columns of the Ananias, the Obscurer, and the
Chloroform--the papers did not mind giving the business a free advertisemen=
t,
because it was a charitable concern--many persons withdrew their custom from
those who usually supplied them with firewood, and gave their orders to the
Yard; and they had the satisfaction of getting their fuel cheaper than befo=
re
and of performing a charitable action at the same time.
As a remedy for unemployment this scheme was o=
n a
par with the method of the tailor in the fable who thought to lengthen his
cloth by cutting a piece off one end and sewing it on to the other; but the=
re
was one thing about it that recommended it to the Vicar--it was
self-supporting. He found that the=
re
would be no need to use all the money he had extracted from the semi-imbeci=
le
old ladies for timber, so he bought himself a Newfoundland dog, an antique =
set
of carved ivory chessmen, and a dozen bottles of whisky with the remainder =
of
the cash.
The reverend gentleman hit upon yet another me=
ans
of helping the poor. He wrote a letter to the Weekly Chloroform appealing f=
or
cast-off boots for poor children. =
This
was considered such a splendid idea that the editors of all the local papers
referred to it in leading articles, and several other letters were written =
by
prominent citizens extolling the wisdom and benevolence of the profound
Bosher. Most of the boots that wer=
e sent
in response to this appeal had been worn until they needed repair--in a very
large proportion of instances, until they were beyond repair. The poor people to whom they were given=
could
not afford to have them mended before using them, and the result was that t=
he
boots generally began to fall to pieces after a few days' wear.
This scheme amounted to very little. It did not increase the number of cast-=
off
boots, and most of the people who 'cast off' their boots generally gave the=
m to
someone or other. The only differe=
nce It
can have made was that possibly a few persons who usually threw their boots
away or sold them to second-hand dealers may have been induced to send them=
to
Mr Bosher instead. But all the same
nearly everybody said it was a splendid idea: its originator was applauded =
as a
public benefactor, and the pettifogging busybodies who amused themselves wi=
th
what they were pleased to term 'charitable work' went into imbecile ecstasi=
es
over him.
<=
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reast-font-family:
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reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
One o=
f the
most important agencies for the relief of distress was the Organized
Benevolence Society. This associat=
ion
received money from many sources. =
The
proceeds of the fancy-dress carnival; the collections from different church=
es
and chapels which held special services in aid of the unemployed; the weekly
collections made by the employees of several local firms and business house=
s;
the proceeds of concerts, bazaars, and entertainments, donations from
charitable persons, and the subscriptions of the members. The society also received large quantit=
ies of
cast-off clothing and boots, and tickets of admission to hospitals,
convalescent homes and dispensaries from subscribers to those institutions,=
or
from people like Rushton & Co., who had collecting-boxes in their works=
hops
and offices.
Altogether during the last year the Society had
received from various sources about three hundred pounds in hard cash. This money was devoted to the relief of=
cases
of distress.
The largest item in the expenditure of the Soc=
iety
was the salary of the General Secretary, Mr Sawney Grinder--a most deserving
case--who was paid one hundred pounds a year.
After the death of the previous secretary there
were so many candidates for the vacant post that the election of the new
secretary was a rather exciting affair.
The excitement was all the more intense because it was restrained. A special meeting of the society was he=
ld:
the Mayor, Alderman Sweater, presided, and amongst those present were
Councillors Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, Mrs Starvem, Rev. Mr Bosher, a num=
ber
of the rich, semi-imbecile old women who had helped to open the Labour Yard,
and several other 'ladies'. Some of
these were the district visitors already alluded to, most of them the wives=
of
wealthy citizens and retired tradesmen, richly dressed, ignorant, insolent,
overbearing frumps, who--after filling themselves with good things in their=
own
luxurious homes--went flouncing into the poverty-stricken dwellings of their
poor 'sisters' and talked to them of 'religion', lectured them about sobrie=
ty
and thrift, and--sometimes--gave them tickets for soup or orders for
shillingsworths of groceries or coal.
Some of these overfed females--the wives of tradesmen, for
instance--belonged to the Organized Benevolence Society, and engaged in this
'work' for the purpose of becoming acquainted with people of superior social
position--one of the members was a colonel, and Sir Graball D'Encloseland--=
the
Member of Parliament for the borough--also belonged to the Society and
occasionally attended its meetings.
Others took up district visiting as a hobby; they had nothing to do,=
and
being densely ignorant and of inferior mentality, they had no desire or
capacity for any intellectual pursuit.
So they took up this work for the pleasure of playing the grand lady=
and
the superior person at a very small expense.
Other of these visiting ladies were middle-aged, unmarried women with
small private incomes--some of them well-meaning, compassionate, gentle
creatures who did this work because they sincerely desired to help others, =
and
they knew of no better way. These did not take much part in the business of=
the
meetings; they paid their subscriptions and helped to distribute the cast-o=
ff
clothing and boots to those who needed them, and occasionally obtained from=
the
secretary an order for provisions or coal or bread for some poverty-stricken
family; but the poor, toil-worn women whom they visited welcomed them more =
for
their sisterly sympathy than for the gifts they brought. Some of the visiting ladies were of this
character--but they were not many. They were as a few fragrant flowers amid=
st a
dense accumulation of noxious weeds.
They were examples of humility and kindness shining amidst a vile and
loathsome mass of hypocrisy, arrogance, and cant.
When the Chairman had opened the meeting, Mr
Rushton moved a vote of condolence with the relatives of the late secretary
whom he eulogized in the most extraordinary terms.
'The poor of Mugsborough had lost a kind and
sympathetic friend', 'One who had devoted his life to helping the needy', a=
nd
so on and so forth. (As a matter of fact, most of the time of the defunct h=
ad
been passed in helping himself, but Rushton said nothing about that.)
Mr Didlum seconded the vote of condolence in
similar terms, and it was carried unanimously.
Then the Chairman said that the next business was to elect a success=
or
to the departed paragon; and immediately no fewer than nine members rose to
propose a suitable person--they each had a noble-minded friend or relative
willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the poor.
The nine Benevolent stood looking at each other
and at the Chairman with sickly smiles upon their hypocritical faces. It was a dramatic moment. No one spoke.
It was necessary to be careful.
It would never do to have a contest.
The Secretary of the OBS was usually regarded as a sort of
philanthropist by the outside public, and it was necessary to keep this fic=
tion
alive.
For one or two minutes an awkward silence
reigned. Then, one after another t=
hey
all reluctantly resumed their seats with the exception of Mr Amos Grinder, =
who
said he wished to propose his nephew, Mr Sawney Grinder, a young man of a m=
ost
benevolent disposition who was desirous of immolating himself upon the alta=
r of
charity for the benefit of the poor--or words to that effect.
Mr Didlum seconded, and there being no other
nomination--for they all knew that it would give the game away to have a
contest--the Chairman put Mr Grinder's proposal to the meeting and declared=
it
carried unanimously.
Another considerable item in the expenditure of
the society was the rent of the offices--a house in a back street. The landlord of this place was another =
very
deserving case.
There were numerous other expenses: stationery=
and
stamps, printing, and so on, and what was left of the money was used for the
purpose for which it had been given--a reasonable amount being kept in hand=
for
future expenses. All the details w=
ere of
course duly set forth in the Report and Balance Sheet at the annual
meetings. No copy of this document=
was
ever handed to the reporters for publication; it was read to the meeting by=
the
Secretary; the representatives of the Press took notes, and in the reports =
of
the meeting that subsequently appeared in the local papers the thing was so
mixed up and garbled together that the few people who read it could not make
head or tail of it. The only thing=
that
was clear was that the society had been doing a great deal of good to someo=
ne
or other, and that more money was urgently needed to carry on the work. It usually appeared something like this=
:
HELPING THE
NEEDY Mugsborough
Organized Benevolence Society
=
span>A
Splendid record of Miscellaneous and Valuable Work.
The
annual meeting of the above Society was held yesterday at the Town Hall.
The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, presided, and amongst those present were Sir Graball
D'Encloseland, Lady D'Encloseland,
Lady Slumrent. Rev. Mr Bosh=
er, Mr
Cheeseman, Mrs Bilder, Mrs Gros=
are,
Mrs Daree, Mrs Butcher, Mrs Taylor, Mrs Baker, Mrs Starvem, Mrs Slodging, Mrs M. B. Sil=
e, Mrs
Knobrane, Mrs M. T. Head, Mr Ru=
shton,
Mr Didlum, Mr Grinder and (here followed about a quarter of a column of names of other
charitable persons, all subscri=
bers
to the Society).
The
Secretary read the annual report which contained the following amongst other interesting items:
D=
uring
the year, 1,972 applications for assistance have been received, and of this number 1,302 h=
ave
been assisted as follows: Bread=
or
grocery orders, 273. Coal or coke
orders, 57. Nourishment 579.
There was about another quarter of a column of
these details, the reading of which was punctuated with applause and conclu=
ded
with: 'Leaving 670 cases which for various reasons the Society was unable to
assist'. The report then went on to
explain that the work of inquiring into the genuineness of the applications
entailed a lot of labour on the part of the Secretary, some cases taking
several days. No fewer than 649 letters had been sent out from the office, =
and
97 postcards. (Applause.) Very few=
cash
gifts were granted, as it was most necessary to guard against the Charity b=
eing
abused. (Hear, hear.)
Then followed a most remarkable paragraph head=
ed
'The Balance Sheet', which--as it was put--'included the following'. 'The following' was a jumbled list of i=
tems
of expenditure, subscriptions, donations, legacies, and collections, windin=
g up
with 'the general summary showed a balance in hand of £178.4.6'. (They always kept a good balance in hand
because of the Secretary's salary and the rent of the offices.)
After this very explicit financial statement c=
ame
the most important part of the report: 'Thanks are expressed to Sir Graball
D'Encloseland for a donation of 2 guineas.
Mrs Grosare, 1 guinea. Mrs
Starvem, Hospital tickets. Lady Sl=
umrent,
letter of admission to Convalescent Home.
Mrs Knobrane, 1 guinea. Mrs=
M.B.
Sile, 1 guinea. Mrs M.T. Head, 1
guinea. Mrs Sledging, gifts of
clothing--and so on for another quarter of a column, the whole concluding w=
ith
a vote of thanks to the Secretary and an urgent appeal to the charitable pu=
blic
for more funds to enable the Society to continue its noble work.
Meantime, in spite of this and kindred
organizations the conditions of the under-paid poverty stricken and unemplo=
yed
workers remained the same. Although the people who got the grocery and coal
orders, the 'Nourishment', and the cast-off clothes and boots, were very gl=
ad
to have them, yet these things did far more harm than good. They humiliated, degraded and pauperized
those who received them, and the existence of the societies prevented the
problem being grappled with in a sane and practical manner. The people lacked the necessaries of li=
fe:
the necessaries of life are produced by Work: these people were willing to
work, but were prevented from doing so by the idiotic system of society whi=
ch
these 'charitable' people are determined to do their best to perpetuate.
If the people who expect to be praised and
glorified for being charitable were never to give another farthing it would=
be
far better for the industrious poor, because then the community as a whole
would be compelled to deal with the absurd and unnecessary state of affairs
that exists today--millions of people living and dying in wretchedness and
poverty in an age when science and machinery have made it possible to produ=
ce
such an abundance of everything that everyone might enjoy plenty and comfor=
t. It if were not for all this so-called c=
harity
the starving unemployed men all over the country would demand to be allowed=
to
work and produce the things they are perishing for want of, instead of
being--as they are now--content to wear their masters' cast-off clothing an=
d to
eat the crumbs that fall from his table.
All t=
hrough
the winter, the wise, practical, philanthropic, fat persons whom the people=
of
Mugsborough had elected to manage their affairs--or whom they permitted to
manage them without being elected--continued to grapple, or to pretend to
grapple, with the 'problem' of unemployment and poverty. They continued to hold meetings, rummag=
e and
jumble sales, entertainments and special services. They continued to distribute the rotten
cast-off clothing and boots, and the nourishment tickets. They were all so sorry for the poor,
especially for the 'dear little children'.
They did all sorts of things to help the children. In fact, there was
nothing that they would not do for them except levy a halfpenny rate. It would never do to do that. It might pauperize the parents and dest=
roy
parental responsibility. They evid=
ently
thought that it would be better to destroy the health or even the lives of =
the
'dear little children' than to pauperize the parents or undermine parental
responsibility. These people seeme=
d to
think that the children were the property of their parents. They did not have sense enough to see t=
hat
the children are not the property of their parents at all, but the property=
of
the community. When they attain to
manhood and womanhood they will be, if mentally or physically inefficient, a
burden on the community; if they become criminals, they will prey upon the
community, and if they are healthy, educated and brought up in good
surroundings, they will become useful citizens, able to render valuable
service, not merely to their parents, but to the community. Therefore the
children are the property of the community, and it is the business and to t=
he
interest of the community to see that their constitutions are not undermine=
d by
starvation. The Secretary of the l=
ocal
Trades Council, a body formed of delegates from all the different trades un=
ions
in the town, wrote a letter to the Obscurer, setting forth this view. He pointed out that a halfpenny rate in=
that
town would produce a sum of £800, which would be more than sufficient to
provide food for all the hungry schoolchildren.
In the next issue of the paper several other letters appeared from l=
eading
citizens, including, of course, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder,
ridiculing the proposal of the Trades Council, who were insultingly alluded=
to
as 'pothouse politicians', 'beer-sodden agitators' and so forth. Their right to be regarded as represent=
atives
of the working men was denied, and Grinder, who, having made inquiries amon=
gst
working men, was acquainted with the facts, stated that there was scarcely =
one
of the local branches of the trades unions which had more than a dozen memb=
ers;
and as Grinder's statement was true, the Secretary was unable to contradict
it. The majority of the working me=
n were
also very indignant when they heard about the Secretary's letter: they said=
the
rates were quite high enough as it was, and they sneered at him for presumi=
ng
to write to the papers at all:
'Who the bloody 'ell was 'e?' they said. ''E was not a Gentleman! 'E was only a workin' man the same as
themselves--a common carpenter! What the 'ell did 'e know about it? Nothing.
'E was just trying to make 'isself out to be Somebody, that was
all. The idea of one of the likes =
of
them writing to the papers!'
One day, having nothing better to do, Owen was
looking at some books that were exposed for sale on a table outside a
second-hand furniture shop. One bo=
ok in
particular took his attention: he read several pages with great interest, a=
nd
regretted that he had not the necessary sixpence to buy it. The title of the book was: Consumption:=
Its
Causes and Its Cure. The author wa=
s a
well-known physician who devoted his whole attention to the study of that
disease. Amongst other things, the=
book
gave rules for the feeding of delicate children, and there were also several
different dietaries recommended for adult persons suffering from the
disease. One of these dietaries am=
used
him very much, because as far as the majority of those who suffer from
consumption are concerned, the good doctor might just as well have prescrib=
ed a
trip to the moon:
'Immediately on waking in the morning, half a =
pint
of milk--this should be hot, if possible--with a small slice of bread and
butter.
'At breakfast: half a pint of milk, with coffe=
e,
chocolate, or oatmeal: eggs and bacon, bread and butter, or dry toast.
'At eleven o'clock: half a pint of milk with an
egg beaten up in it or some beef tea and bread and butter.
'At one o'clock: half a pint of warm milk with=
a
biscuit or sandwich.
'At two o'clock: fish and roast mutton, or a
mutton chop, with as much fat as possible: poultry, game, etc., may be taken
with vegetables, and milk pudding.
'At five o'clock: hot milk with coffee or
chocolate, bread and butter, watercress, etc.
'At eight o'clock: a pint of milk, with oatmea=
l or
chocolate, and gluten bread, or two lightly boiled eggs with bread and butt=
er.
'Before retiring to rest: a glass of warm milk=
.
'During the night: a glass of milk with a bisc=
uit
or bread and butter should be placed by the bedside and be eaten if the pat=
ient
awakes.'
Whilst Owen was reading this book, Crass, Harl=
ow,
Philpot and Easton were talking together on the other side of the street, a=
nd
presently Crass caught sight of him.
They had been discussing the Secretary's letter re the halfpenny rat=
e,
and as Owen was one of the members of the Trades Council, Crass suggested t=
hat
they should go across and tackle him about it.
'How much is your house assessed at?' asked Ow=
en
after listening for about a quarter of an hour to Crass's objection.
'Fourteen pound,' replied Crass.
'That means that you would have to pay sevenpe=
nce
per year if we had a halfpenny rate. Wouldn't it be worth sevenpence a year t=
o you
to know that there were no starving children in the town?'
'Why should I 'ave to 'elp to keep the childre=
n of
a man who's too lazy to work, or spends all 'is money on drink?' shouted
Crass. ''Ow are yer goin' to make =
out
about the likes o' them?'
'If his children are starving we should feed t=
hem
first, and punish him afterwards.'
'The rates is quite high enough as it is,'
grumbled Harlow, who had four children himself.
'That's quite true, but you must remember that=
the
rates the working classes at present pay are spent mostly for the benefit of
other people. Good roads are maint=
ained
for people who ride in motor cars and carriages; the Park and the Town Band=
for
those who have leisure to enjoy them; the Police force to protect the prope=
rty
of those who have something to lose, and so on.
But if we pay this rate we shall get something for our money.'
'We gets the benefit of the good roads when we=
'as
to push a 'andcart with a load o' paint and ladders,' said Easton.
'Of course,' said Crass, 'and besides, the wor=
kin'
class gets the benefit of all the other things too, because it all makes wo=
rk.'
'Well, for my part,' said Philpot, 'I wouldn't
mind payin' my share towards a 'appeny rate, although I ain't got no kids o=
' me
own.'
The hostility of most of the working men to the
proposed rate was almost as bitter as that of the 'better' classes--the
noble-minded philanthropists who were always gushing out their sympathy for=
the
'dear little ones', the loathsome hypocrites who pretended that there was no
need to levy a rate because they were willing to give sufficient money in t=
he
form of charity to meet the case: but the children continued to go hungry a=
ll
the same.
'Loathsome hypocrites' may seem a hard saying,=
but
it was a matter of common knowledge that the majority of the children atten=
ding
the local elementary schools were insufficiently fed. It was admitted that the money that cou=
ld be
raised by a halfpenny rate would be more than sufficient to provide them all
with one good meal every day. The
charity-mongers who professed such extravagant sympathy with the 'dear litt=
le
children' resisted the levying of the rate 'because it would press so heavi=
ly
on the poorer ratepayers', and said that they were willing to give more in
voluntary charity than the rate would amount to: but, the 'dear little
children'--as they were so fond of calling them--continued to go to school
hungry all the same.
To judge them by their profession and their
performances, it appeared that these good kind persons were willing to do a=
ny
mortal thing for the 'dear little children' except allow them to be fed.
If these people had really meant to do what th=
ey
pretended, they would not have cared whether they paid the money to a
rate-collector or to the secretary of a charity society and they would have
preferred to accomplish their object in the most efficient and economical w=
ay.
But although they would not allow the children=
to
be fed, they went to church and to chapel, glittering with jewellery, their=
fat
carcases clothed in rich raiment, and sat with smug smiles upon their faces
listening to the fat parsons reading out of a Book that none of them seemed
able to understand, for this was what they read:
'And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and=
set
him in the midst of them, and said: Whosoever shall receive one such little
child in My name, receiveth Me. But
whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a
millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depth =
of
the sea.
'Take heed that ye despise not one of these li=
ttle
ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the f=
ace
of My Father.'
And this: 'Then shall He say unto them: Depart
from me, ye cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his
angels: for I was an hungered and ye gave Me no meat: I was thirsty and ye =
gave
Me no drink: I was a stranger and ye took Me not in; naked, and ye clothed =
Me
not.
'Then shall they answer: "Lord, when saw =
we Thee
an hungered or athirst or a stranger or naked, or sick, and did not minister
unto Thee?" and He shall answer them, "Verily I say unto you,
inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to
Me."'
These were the sayings that the infidel parsons
mouthed in the infidel temples to the richly dressed infidel congregations,=
who
heard but did not understand, for their hearts were become gross and their =
ears
dull of hearing. And meantime, all=
around
them, in the alley and the slum, and more terrible still--because more
secret--in the better sort of streets where lived the respectable class of
skilled artisans, the little children became thinner and paler day by day f=
or
lack of proper food, and went to bed early because there was no fire.
Sir Graball D'Encloseland, the Member of
Parliament for the borough, was one of the bitterest opponents of the halfp=
enny
rate, but as he thought it was probable that there would soon be another
General Election and he wanted the children's fathers to vote for him again=
, he
was willing to do something for them in another way. He had a ten-year-old daughter whose bi=
rthday
was in that month, so the kind-hearted Baronet made arrangements to give a =
Tea
to all the school children in the town in honour of the occasion. The tea was served in the schoolrooms a=
nd
each child was presented with a gilt-edged card on which was a printed port=
rait
of the little hostess, with 'From your loving little friend, Honoria
D'Encloseland', in gold letters. During the evening the little girl,
accompanied by Sir Graball and Lady D'Encloseland, motored round to all the
schools where the tea was being consumed: the Baronet made a few remarks, a=
nd
Honoria made a pretty little speech, specially learnt for the occasion, at =
each
place, and they were loudly cheered and greatly admired in response. The
enthusiasm was not confined to the boys and girls, for while the speechmaki=
ng
was going on inside, a little crowd of grown-up children were gathered round
outside the entrance, worshipping the motor car: and when the little party =
came
out the crowd worshipped them also, going into imbecile ecstasies of admira=
tion
of their benevolence and their beautiful clothes.
For several weeks everybody in the town was in
raptures over this tea--or, rather, everybody except a miserable little
minority of Socialists, who said it was bribery, an electioneering dodge, t=
hat
did no real good, and who continued to clamour for a halfpenny rate.
Another specious fraud was the 'Distress
Committee'. This body--or corpse, =
for
there was not much vitality in it--was supposed to exist for the purpose of
providing employment for 'deserving cases'.
One might be excused for thinking that any man--no matter what his p=
ast
may have been--who is willing to work for his living is a 'deserving case':=
but
this was evidently not the opinion of the persons who devised the regulatio=
ns
for the working of this committee. Every
applicant for work was immediately given a long job, and presented with a
double sheet of foolscap paper to do it with.
Now, if the object of the committee had been to furnish the applicant
with material for the manufacture of an appropriate headdress for himself, =
no
one could reasonably have found fault with them: but the foolscap was not t=
o be
utilized in that way; it was called a 'Record Paper', three pages of it were
covered with insulting, inquisitive, irrelevant questions concerning the
private affairs and past life of the 'case' who wished to be permitted to w=
ork
for his living, and all these had to be answered to the satisfaction of Mes=
srs
D'Encloseland, Bosher, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and the other memb=
ers
of the committee, before the case stood any chance of getting employment.
However, notwithstanding the offensive nature =
of
the questions on the application form, during the five months that this
precious committee was in session, no fewer than 1,237 broken-spirited and
humble 'lion's whelps' filled up the forms and answered the questions as me=
ekly
as if they had been sheep. The fun=
ds of
the committee consisted of £500, obtained from the Imperial Exchequer, and
about £250 in charitable donations. This
money was used to pay wages for certain work--some of which would have had =
to
be done even if the committee had never existed--and if each of the 1,237
applicants had had an equal share of the work, the wages they would have
received would have amounted to about twelve shillings each. This was what the 'practical' persons, =
the
'business-men', called 'dealing with the problem of unemployment'. Imagine
having to keep your family for five months with twelve shillings!
And, if you like, imagine that the Government
grant had been four times as much as it was, and that the charity had amoun=
ted
to four times as much as it did, and then fancy having to keep your family =
for
five months with two pounds eight shillings!
It is true that some of the members of the
committee would have been very glad if they had been able to put the means =
of
earning a living within the reach of every man who was willing to work; but
they simply did not know what to do, or how to do it. They were not ignorant of the reality o=
f the
evil they were supposed to be 'dealing with'--appalling evidences of it fac=
ed
them on every side, and as, after all, these committee men were human beings
and not devils, they would have been glad to mitigate it if they could have
done so without hurting themselves: but the truth was that they did not know
what to do!
These are the 'practical' men; the monopolists=
of
intelligence, the wise individuals who control the affairs of the world: it=
is
in accordance with the ideas of such men as these that the conditions of hu=
man
life are regulated.
This is the position:
It is admitted that never before in the histor=
y of
mankind was it possible to produce the necessaries of life in such abundanc=
e as
at present.
The management of the affairs of the world--the
business of arranging the conditions under which we live--is at present in =
the
hands of Practical, Level-headed, Sensible Business-men.
The result of their management is, that the
majority of the people find it a hard struggle to live. Large numbers exist in perpetual povert=
y: a
great many more periodically starve: many actually die of want: hundreds
destroy themselves rather than continue to live and suffer.
When the Practical, Level-headed, Sensible
Business-men are asked why they do not remedy this state of things, they re=
ply
that they do not know what to do! or, that it is impossible to remedy it!
And yet it is admitted that it is now possible=
to
produce the necessaries of life, in greater abundance than ever before!
With lavish kindness, the Supreme Being had
provided all things necessary for the existence and happiness of his
creatures. To suggest that it is n=
ot so
is a blasphemous lie: it is to suggest that the Supreme Being is not good or
even just. On every side there is =
an
overflowing superfluity of the materials requisite for the production of all
the necessaries of life: from these materials everything we need may be
produced in abundance--by Work. He=
re was
an army of people lacking the things that may be made by work, standing idl=
e.
Willing to work; clamouring to be allowed to work, and the Practical,
Level-headed, Sensible Business-men did not know what to do!
Of course, the real reason for the difficulty =
is
that the raw materials that were created for the use and benefit of all have
been stolen by a small number, who refuse to allow them to be used for the
purposes for which they were intended. =
span>This
numerically insignificant minority refused to allow the majority to work and
produce the things they need; and what work they do graciously permit to be
done is not done with the object of producing the necessaries of life for t=
hose
who work, but for the purpose of creating profit for their masters.
And then, strangest fact of all, the people who
find it a hard struggle to live, or who exist in dreadful poverty and somet=
imes
starve, instead of trying to understand the causes of their misery and to f=
ind
out a remedy themselves, spend all their time applauding the Practical,
Sensible, Level-headed Business-men, who bungle and mismanage their affairs,
and pay them huge salaries for doing so.
Sir Graball D'Encloseland, for instance, was a 'Secretary of State' =
and
was paid £5,000 a year. When he fi=
rst
got the job the wages were only a beggarly £2,000, but as he found it
impossible to exist on less than £100 a week he decided to raise his salary=
to
that amount; and the foolish people who find it a hard struggle to live pai=
d it
willingly, and when they saw the beautiful motor car and the lovely clothes=
and
jewellery he purchased for his wife with the money, and heard the Great Spe=
ech
he made--telling them how the shortage of everything was caused by
Over-production and Foreign Competition, they clapped their hands and went
frantic with admiration. Their only
regret was that there were no horses attached to the motor car, because if
there had been, they could have taken them out and harnessed themselves to =
it instead.
Nothing delighted the childish minds of these =
poor
people so much as listening to or reading extracts from the speeches of such
men as these; so in order to amuse them, every now and then, in the midst of
all the wretchedness, some of the great statesmen made 'great speeches' ful=
l of
cunning phrases intended to hoodwink the fools who had elected them. The very same week that Sir Graball's s=
alary
was increased to £5,000 a year, all the papers were full of a very fine one
that he made. They appeared with l=
arge
headlines like this:
<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> GREAT SPEECH BY SIR GRABALL
D'ENCLOSELAND
Brilliant Epigr=
am!
No=
ne
should have more than they need, whilst any have less than they need!
The hypocrisy of such a saying in the mouth of=
a
man who was drawing a salary of five thousand pounds a year did not appear =
to
occur to anyone. On the contrary, =
the
hired scribes of the capitalist Press wrote columns of fulsome admiration of
the miserable claptrap, and the working men who had elected this man went i=
nto
raptures over the 'Brilliant Epigram' as if it were good to eat. They cut it out of the papers and carri=
ed it
about with them: they showed it to each other: they read it and repeated it=
to
each other: they wondered at it and were delighted with it, grinning and gi=
bbering
at each other in the exuberance of their imbecile enthusiasm.
The Distress Committee was not the only body
pretending to 'deal' with the poverty 'problem': its efforts were supplemen=
ted
by all the other agencies already mentioned--the Labour Yard, the Rummage
Sales, the Organized Benevolence Society, and so on, to say nothing of a mo=
st
benevolent scheme originated by the management of Sweater's Emporium, who
announced in a letter that was published in the local Press that they were
prepared to employ fifty men for one week to carry sandwich boards at one
shilling--and a loaf of bread--per day.
They got the men; some unskilled labourers, a =
few
old, worn out artisans whom misery had deprived of the last vestiges of pri=
de
or shame; a number of habitual drunkards and loafers, and a non-descript lo=
t of
poor ragged old men--old soldiers and others of whom it would be impossible=
to
say what they had once been.
The procession of sandwich men was headed by t=
he
Semi-drunk and the Besotted Wretch, and each board was covered with a print=
ed
poster: 'Great Sale of Ladies' Blouses now Proceeding at Adam Sweater's
Emporium.'
Besides this artful scheme of Sweater's for
getting a good advertisement on the cheap, numerous other plans for providi=
ng
employment or alleviating the prevailing misery were put forward in the col=
umns
of the local papers and at the various meetings that were held. Any foolish,
idiotic, useless suggestion was certain to receive respectful attention; any
crafty plan devised in his own interest or for his own profit by one or oth=
er
of the crew of sweaters and landlords who controlled the town was sure to be
approved of by the other inhabitants of Mugsborough, the majority of whom w=
ere
persons of feeble intellect who not only allowed themselves to be robbed and
exploited by a few cunning scoundrels, but venerated and applauded them for
doing it.
One e=
vening
in the drawing-room at 'The Cave' there was a meeting of a number of the
'Shining Lights' to arrange the details of a Rummage Sale, that was to be h=
eld
in aid of the unemployed. It was an
informal affair, and while they were waiting for the other luminaries, the
early arrivals, Messrs Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, Mr Oyley Sweater, the
Borough Surveyor, Mr Wireman, the electrical engineer who had been engaged =
as
an 'expert' to examine and report on the Electric Light Works, and two or t=
hree
other gentlemen--all members of the Band--took advantage of the opportunity=
to
discuss a number of things they were mutually interested in, which were to =
be
dealt with at the meeting of the Town Council the next day. First, there was the affair of the unte=
nanted
Kiosk on the Grand Parade. This bu=
ilding
belonged to the Corporation, and 'The Cosy Corner Refreshment Coy.' of whic=
h Mr
Grinder was the managing director, was thinking of hiring it to open as a
high-class refreshment lounge, provided the Corporation would make certain
alterations and let the place at a reasonable rent. Another item which was =
to
be discussed at the Council meeting was Mr Sweater's generous offer to the
Corporation respecting the new drain connecting 'The Cave' with the Town Ma=
in.
The report of Mr Wireman, the electrical exper=
t,
was also to be dealt with, and afterwards a resolution in favour of the pur=
chase
of the Mugsborough Electric light and Installation Co. Ltd by the town, was=
to
be proposed.
In addition to these matters, several other it=
ems,
including a proposal by Mr Didlum for an important reform in the matter of
conducting the meetings of the Council, formed subjects for animated
conversation between the brigands and their host.
During this discussion other luminaries arrive=
d,
including several ladies and the Rev. Mr Bosher, of the Church of the Whited
Sepulchre.
The drawing-room of 'The Cave' was now elabora=
tely
furnished. A large mirror in a ric=
hly
gilt frame reached from the carved marble mantelpiece to the cornice. A magnificent clock in an alabaster case
stood in the centre of the mantelpiece and was flanked by two exquisitely
painted and gilded vases of Dresden ware.
The windows were draped with costly hangings, the floor was covered =
with
a luxurious carpet and expensive rugs.
Sumptuously upholstered couches and easy chairs added to the comfort=
of
the apartment, which was warmed by the immense fire of coal and oak logs th=
at
blazed and crackled in the grate.
The conversation now became general and at tim=
es
highly philosophical in character, although Mr Bosher did not take much par=
t,
being too busily engaged gobbling up the biscuits and tea, and only
occasionally spluttering out a reply when a remark or question was directly
addressed to him.
This was Mr Grinder's first visit at the house,
and he expressed his admiration of the manner in which the ceiling and the
walls were decorated, remarking that he had always liked this 'ere Japanese
style.
Mr Bosher, with his mouth full of biscuit, mum=
bled
that it was sweetly pretty--charming--beautifully done--must have cost a lo=
t of
money.
'Hardly wot you'd call Japanese, though, is it=
?'
observed Didlum, looking round with the air of a connoisseur. 'I should be inclined to say it was rat=
her
more of the--er--Chinese or Egyptian.'
'Moorish,' explained Mr Sweater with a smile.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'I got the idear at the Paris
Exhibition. It's simler to the dec=
orations
in the "Halambara", the palace of the Sultan of Morocco. That clock there is in the same style.'=
The case of the clock referred to--which stood=
on
a table in a corner of the room--was of fretwork, in the form of an Indian
Mosque, with a pointed dome and pinnacles.
This was the case that Mary Linden had sold to Didlum; the latter had
had it stained a dark colour and polished and further improved it by
substituting a clock of more suitable design than the one it originally
held. Mr Sweater had noticed it in
Didlum's window and, seeing that the design was similar in character to the
painted decorations on the ceiling and walls of his drawing-room, had purch=
ased
it.
'I went to the Paris Exhibition meself,' said
Grinder, when everyone had admired the exquisite workmanship of the
clock-case. 'I remember 'avin' a l=
ook at
the moon through that big telescope. I
was never so surprised in me life: you can see it quite plain, and it's rou=
nd!'
'Round?' said Didlum with a puzzled look. 'Round?
Of course it's round! You d=
idn't
used to think it was square, did yer?'
'No, of course not, but I always used to think=
it
was flat--like a plate, but it's round like a football.'
'Certainly: the moon is a very simler body to =
the
earth,' explained Didlum, describing an aerial circle with a wave of his
hand. They moves through the air
together, but the earth is always nearest to the sun and consequently once a
fortnight the shadder of the earth falls on the moon and darkens it so that
it's invisible to the naked eye. The new moon is caused by the moon movin' a
little bit out of the earth's shadder, and it keeps on comin' more and more
until we gets the full moon; and then it goes back again into the shadder; =
and
so it keeps on.'
For about a minute everyone looked very solemn,
and the profound silence was disturbed only the the crunching of the biscui=
ts
between the jaws of Mr Bosher, and by certain gurglings in the interior of =
that
gentleman.
'Science is a wonderful thing,' said Mr Sweate=
r at
length, wagging his head gravely, 'wonderful!'
'Yes: but a lot of it is mere theory, you know=
,'
observed Rushton. 'Take this idear that the world is round, for instance; I
fail to see it! And then they say =
as
Hawstralia is on the other side of the globe, underneath our feet. In my op=
inion
it's ridiculous, because if it was true, wot's to prevent the people droppi=
n'
orf?'
'Yes: well, of course it's very strange,' admi=
tted
Sweater. 'I've often thought of th=
at
myself. If it was true, we ought t=
o be
able to walk on the ceiling of this room, for instance; but of course we kn=
ow
that's impossible, and I really don't see that the other is any more
reasonable.'
'I've often noticed flies walkin' on the ceili=
n','
remarked Didlum, who felt called upon to defend the globular theory.
'Yes; but they're different,' replied
Rushton. 'Flies is provided by nat=
ure
with a gluey substance which oozes out of their feet for the purpose of
enabling them to walk upside down.'
'There's one thing that seems to me to finish =
that
idear once for all,' said Grinder, 'and that is--water always finds its own
level. You can't get away from that; and if the world was round, as they wa=
nt
us to believe, all the water would run off except just a little at the top.=
To
my mind, that settles the whole argymint.'
'Another thing that gets over me,' continued
Rushton, 'is this: according to science, the earth turns round on its axle =
at
the rate of twenty miles a minit. =
Well,
what about when a lark goes up in the sky and stays there about a quarter o=
f an
hour? Why, if it was true that the=
earth
was turnin' round at that rate all the time, when the bird came down it wou=
ld
find itself 'undreds of miles away from the place where it went up from!
'Yes, and the same thing applies to balloons a=
nd
flyin' machines,' said Grinder. 'I=
f it
was true that the world is spinnin' round on its axle so quick as that, if a
man started out from Calais to fly to Dover, by the time he got to England =
he'd
find 'imself in North America, or p'r'aps farther off still.'
'And if it was true that the world goes round =
the
sun at the rate they makes out, when a balloon went up, the earth would run
away from it! They'd never be able to get back again!' remarked Rushton.
This was so obvious that nearly everyone said
there was probably something in it, and Didlum could think of no reply. Mr Bosher upon being appealed to for his
opinion, explained that science was alright in its way, but unreliable: the
things scientists said yesterday they contradicted today, and what they said
today they would probably repudiate tomorrow.
It was necessary to be very cautious before accepting any of their
assertions.
'Talking about science,' said Grinder, as the =
holy
man relapsed into silence and started on another biscuit and a fresh cup of
tea. 'Talking about science reminds me of a conversation I 'ad with Dr Weak=
ling
the other day. You know, he believ=
es
we're all descended from monkeys.'
Everyone laughed; the thing was so absurd: the
idea of placing intellectual beings on a level with animals!
'But just wait till you hear how nicely I
flattened 'im out,' continued Grinder.
'After we'd been arguin' a long time about wot 'e called everlution =
or
some sich name, and a lot more tommy-rot that I couldn't make no 'ead or ta=
il
of--and to tell you the truth I don't believe 'e understood 'arf of it
'imself--I ses to 'im, "Well," I ses, "if it's true that we'=
re
hall descended from monkeys," I ses, "I think your famly must 'ave
left orf where mine begun."'
In the midst of the laughter that greeted the
conclusion of Grinder's story it was seen that Mr Bosher had become black in
the face. He was waving his arms a=
nd
writhing about like one in a fit, his goggle eyes bursting from their socke=
ts,
whilst his huge stomach quivering spasmodically, alternately contracted and
expanded as if it were about to explode.
In the exuberance of his mirth, the unfortunate
disciple had swallowed two biscuits at once.
Everybody rushed to his assistance, Grinder and Didlum seized an arm=
and
a shoulder each and forced his head down. Rushton punched him in the back a=
nd
the ladies shrieked with alarm. They gave him a big drink of tea to help to=
get
the biscuits down, and when he at last succeeded in swallowing them he sat =
in
the armchair with his eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, which ran down over
his white, flabby face.
The arrival of the other members of the commit=
tee
put an end to the interesting discussion, and they shortly afterwards proce=
eded
with the business for which the meeting had been called--the arrangements f=
or the
forthcoming Rummage Sale.
The n=
ext
day, at the meeting of the Town Council, Mr Wireman's report concerning the
Electric Light Works was read. The
expert's opinion was so favourable--and it was endorsed by the Borough
Engineer, Mr Oyley Sweater--that a resolution was unanimously carried in fa=
vour
of acquiring the Works for the town, and a secret committee was appointed to
arrange the preliminaries. Alderma=
n Sweater
then suggested that a suitable honorarium be voted to Mr Wireman for his
services. This was greeted with a =
murmur
of approval from most of the members, and Mr Didlum rose with the intention=
of
proposing a resolution to that effect when he was interrupted by Alderman
Grinder, who said he couldn't see no sense in giving the man a thing like
that. 'Why not give him a sum of m=
oney?'
Several members said 'Hear, hear,' to this, but
some of the others laughed.
'I can't see nothing to laugh at,' cried Grind=
er
angrily. 'For my part I wouldn't g=
ive
you tuppence for all the honorariums in the country. I move that we pay 'im a sum of money.'=
'I'll second that,' said another member of the
Band--one of those who had cried 'Hear, Hear.'
Alderman Sweater said that there seemed to be a
little misunderstanding and explained that an honorarium WAS a sum of money=
.
'Oh, well, in that case I'll withdraw my
resolution,' said Grinder. 'I thought you wanted to give 'im a 'luminated
address or something like that.'
Didlum now moved that a letter of thanks and a=
fee
of fifty guineas be voted to Mr Wireman, and this was also unanimously agre=
ed
to. Dr Weakling said that it seemed
rather a lot, but he did not go so far as to vote against it.
The next business was the proposal that the
Corporation should take over the drain connecting Mr Sweater's house with t=
he
town main. Mr Sweater--being a
public-spirited man--proposed to hand this connecting drain--which ran thro=
ugh
a private road--over to the Corporation to be theirs and their successors f=
or
ever, on condition that they would pay him the cost of construction--£55--a=
nd
agreed to keep it in proper repair.
After a brief discussion it was decided to take over the drain on the
terms offered, and then Councillor Didlum proposed a vote of thanks to Alde=
rman
Sweater for his generosity in the matter: this was promptly seconded by
Councillor Rushton and would have been carried nem. con., but for the
disgraceful conduct of Dr Weakling, who had the bad taste to suggest that t=
he amount
was about double what the drain could possibly have cost to construct, that=
it
was of no use to the Corporation at all, and that they would merely acquire=
the
liability to keep it in repair.
However, no one took the trouble to reply to
Weakling, and the Band proceeded to the consideration of the next business,
which was Mr Grinder's offer--on behalf of the 'Cosy Corner Refreshment
Company'--to take the Kiosk on the Grand Parade. Mr Grinder submitted a plan of certain
alterations that he would require the Corporation to make at the Kiosk, and,
provided the Council agreed to do this work he was willing to take a lease =
of
the place for five years at £20 per year.
Councillor Didlum proposed that the offer of t=
he
'Cosy Corner Refreshment Co. Ltd' be accepted and the required alterations
proceeded with at once. The Kiosk =
had
brought in no rent for nearly two years, but, apart from that consideration=
, if
they accepted this offer they would be able to set some of the unemployed to
work. (Applause.)
Councillor Rushton seconded.
Dr Weakling pointed out that as the proposed
alterations would cost about £175--according to the estimate of the Borough
Engineer--and, the rent being only £20 a year, it would mean that the Counc=
il
would be £75 out of pocket at the end of the five years; to say nothing of =
the
expense of keeping the place in repair during all that time.
(Disturbance.) He moved as an amen=
dment
that the alterations be made, and that they then invite tenders, and let the
place to the highest bidder. (Great
uproar.)
Councillor Rushton said he was disgusted with =
the
attitude taken up by that man Weakling.
(Applause.) Perhaps it was =
hardly
right to call him a man. (Hear!
Hear!) In the matter of these
alterations they had had the use of Councillor Grinder's brains: it was he =
who
first thought of making these improvements in the Kiosk, and therefore he--=
or
rather the company he represented--had a moral right to the tenancy. (Loud cheers.)
Dr Weakling said that he thought it was unders=
tood
that when a man was elected to that Council it was because he was supposed =
to
be willing to use his brains for the benefit of his constituents. (Sardonic laughter.)
The Mayor asked if there was any seconder to
Weakling's amendment, and as there was not the original proposition was put=
and
carried.
Councillor Rushton suggested that a large shel=
ter
with seating accommodation for about two hundred persons should be erected =
on
the Grand Parade near the Kiosk. T=
he
shelter would serve as a protection against rain, or the rays of the sun in
summer. It would add materially to=
the
comfort of visitors and would be a notable addition to the attractions of t=
he
town.
Councillor Didlum said it was a very good idea=
r,
and proposed that the Surveyor be instructed to get out the plans.
Dr Weakling opposed the motion. (Laughter.)
It seemed to him that the object was to benefit, not the town, but Mr
Grinder. (Disturbance.) If this sh=
elter
were erected, it would increase the value of the Kiosk as a refreshment bar=
by
a hundred per cent. If Mr Grinder =
wanted
a shelter for his customers he should pay for it himself. (Uproar.)
He (Dr Weakling) was sorry to have to say it, but he could not help
thinking that this was a Put-up job.
(Loud cries of 'Withdraw' 'Apologize' 'Cast 'im out' and terrific
uproar.)
Weakling did not apologize or withdraw, but he
said no more. Didlum's proposition=
was
carried, and the 'Band' went on to the next item on the agenda, which was a
proposal by Councillor Didlum to increase the salary of Mr Oyley Sweater, t=
he
Borough Engineer, from fifteen pounds to seventeen pounds per week.
Councillor Didlum said that when they had a go=
od
man they ought to appreciate him.
(Applause.) Compared with o=
ther
officials, the Borough Engineer was not fairly paid. (Hear, hear.)
The magistrates' clerk received seventeen pounds a week. The Town Clerk seventeen pounds per
week. He did not wish it to be und=
erstood
that he thought those gentlemen were overpaid--far from it. (Hear, hear.)
It was not that they got too much but that the Engineer got too
little. How could they expect a ma=
n like
that to exist on a paltry fifteen pounds a week? Why, it was nothing more or
less than sweating! (Hear, hear.)<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had much pleasure in moving that the
Borough Engineer's salary be increased to seventeen pounds a week, and that=
his
annual holiday be extended from a fortnight to one calendar month with hard
la--he begged pardon--with full pay.
(Loud cheers.)
Councillor Rushton said that he did not propos=
e to
make a long speech--it was not necessary.
He would content himself with formally seconding Councillor Didlum's
excellent proposition. (Applause.)=
Councillor Weakling, whose rising was greeted =
with
derisive laughter, said he must oppose the resolution. He wished it to be understood that he w=
as not
actuated by any feeling of personal animosity towards the Borough Engineer,=
but
at the same time he considered it his duty to say that in his (Dr Weakling'=
s)
opinion, that official would be dear at half the price they were now paying
him. (Disturbance.) He did not appear to understand his bus=
iness,
nearly all the work that was done cost in the end about double what the Bor=
ough
Engineer estimated it could be done for.
(Liar.) He considered him t=
o be a
grossly incompetent person (uproar) and was of opinion that if they were to
advertise they could get dozens of better men who would be glad to do the w=
ork
for five pounds a week. He moved t=
hat Mr
Oyley Sweater be asked to resign and that they advertise for a man at five
pounds a week. (Great uproar.)
Councillor Grinder rose to a point of order. He
appealed to the Chairman to squash the amendment. (Applause.)
Councillor Didlum remarked that he supposed
Councillor Grinder meant 'quash': in that case, he would support the
suggestion.
Councillor Grinder said it was about time they=
put
a stopper on that feller Weakling. He
(Grinder) did not care whether they called it squashing or quashing; it was=
all
the same so long as they nipped him in the bud.
(Cheers.) The man was a dis=
grace
to the Council; always interfering and hindering the business.
The Mayor--Alderman Sweater--said that he did =
not
think it consistent with the dignity of that Council to waste any more time
over this scurrilous amendment.
(Applause.) He was proud to=
say
that it had never even been seconded, and therefore he would put Mr Didlum's
resolution--a proposition which he had no hesitation in saying reflected the
highest credit upon that gentleman and upon all those who supported it. (Vociferous cheers.)
All those who were in favour signified their
approval in the customary manner, and as Weakling was the only one opposed,=
the
resolution was carried and the meeting proceeded to the next business.
Councillor Rushton said that several influenti=
al
ratepayers and employers of labour had complained to him about the high wag=
es
of the Corporation workmen, some of whom were paid sevenpence-halfpenny an
hour. Sevenpence an hour was the m=
aximum
wage paid to skilled workmen by private employers in that town, and he fail=
ed
to see why the Corporation should pay more.
(Hear, hear.) It had a very=
bad
effect on the minds of the men in the employment of private firms, tending =
to
make them dissatisfied with their wages.
The same state of affairs prevailed with regard to the unskilled lab=
ourers
in the Council's employment. Priva=
te
employers could get that class of labour for fourpence-halfpenny or fivepen=
ce
an hour, and yet the corporation paid fivepence-halfpenny and even sixpence=
for
the same class of work. (Shame.) I=
t was
not fair to the ratepayers. (Hear,
hear.) Considering that the men in the employment of the Corporation had al=
most
constant work, if there was to be a difference at all, they should get not
more, but less, than those who worked for private firms. (Cheers.)
He moved that the wages of the Corporation workmen be reduced in all
cases to the same level as those paid by private firms.
Councillor Grinder seconded. He said it amounted to a positive
scandal. Why, in the summer-time s=
ome of
these men drew as much as 35/- in a single week! (Shame.) and it was quite common for
unskilled labourers--fellers who did nothing but the very hardest and most
laborious work, sich as carrying sacks of cement, or digging up the roads to
get at the drains, and sich-like easy jobs--to walk off with 25/- a week! (Sensation.)
He had often noticed some of these men swaggering about the town on
Sundays, dressed like millionaires and cigared up! They seemed quite a different class of =
men
from those who worked for private firms, and to look at the way some of the=
ir
children was dressed you'd think their fathers was Cabinet Minstrels! No wo=
nder
the ratepayers complained ot the high rates.
Another grievance was that all the Corporation workmen were allowed =
two
days' holiday every year, in addition to the Bank Holidays, and were paid f=
or
them! (Cries of 'shame', 'Scandalo=
us',
'Disgraceful', etc.) No private
contractor paid his men for Bank Holidays, and why should the Corporation do
so? He had much pleasure in seconding Councillor Rushton's resolution.
Councillor Weakling opposed the motion. He tho=
ught
that 35/- a week was little enough for a man to keep a wife and family with
(Rot), even if all the men got it regularly, which they did not. Members should consider what was the av=
erage
amount per week throughout the whole year, not merely the busy time, and if
they did that they would find that even the skilled men did not average more
than 25/- a week, and in many cases not so much. If this subject had not been introduced=
by
Councillor Rushton, he (Dr Weakling) had intended to propose that the wages=
of
the Corporation workmen should be increased to the standard recognized by t=
he
Trades Unions. (Loud laughter.)
Councillor Didlum said that it was very evident
that Dr Weakling had obtained his seat on that Council by false pretences.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If he had told the ratepayers that he w=
as a
Socialist, they would never have elected him.
(Hear, hear.) Practically e=
very
Christian minister in the country would agree with him (Didlum) when he said
that the poverty of the working classes was caused not by the 'wretched
remuneration they receive as wages', but by Drink. (Loud applause.) And he was very sure that the testimony=
of
the clergy of all denominations was more to be relied upon than the opinion=
of
a man like Dr Weakling. (Hear, hea=
r.)
Dr Weakling said that if some of the clergymen
referred to or some of the members of the council had to exist and toil amid
the same sordid surroundings, overcrowding and ignorance as some of the wor=
king
classes, they would probably seek to secure some share of pleasure and
forgetfulness in drink themselves!
(Great uproar and shouts of 'Order', 'Withdraw', 'Apologize'.)
Councillor Grinder said that even if it was tr=
ue
that the haverage lives of the working classes was twenty years shorter than
those of the better classes, he could not see what it had got to do with Dr
Weakling. (Hear, hear.) So long as the working class was conten=
ted to
die twenty years before their time, he failed to see what it had got to do =
with
other people. They was not runnin'=
short
of workers, was they? There was still plenty of 'em left. (Laughter.)
So long as the workin' class was satisfied to die orf--let 'em die
orf! It was a free country. (Applause.)
The workin' class adn't arst Dr Weakling to stick up for them, had
they? If they wasn't satisfied, th=
ey
would stick up for theirselves! The
working men didn't want the likes of Dr Weakling to stick up for them, and =
they
would let 'im know it when the next election came round. If he (Grinder) was a wordly man, he wo=
uld
not mind betting that the workin' men of Dr Weakling's ward would give him =
'the
dirty kick out' next November.
(Applause.)
Councillor Weakling, who knew that this was
probably true, made no further protest.
Rushton's proposition was carried, and then the Clerk announced that=
the
next item was the resolution Mr Didlum had given notice of at the last meet=
ing,
and the Mayor accordingly called upon that gentleman.
Councillor Didlum, who was received with loud cheers, said that unfortunately a certain member of that Council seemed to think he had a right to oppose nearly everything that was brought forward.<= o:p>
(The majority of the members of the Band glared
malignantly at Weakling.)
He hoped that for once the individual he refer=
red
to would have the decency to restrain himself, because the resolution he
(Didlum) was about to have the honour of proposing was one that he believed=
no
right-minded man--no matter what his politics or religious opinions--could
possibly object to; and he trusted that for the credit of the Council it wo=
uld
be entered on the records as an unopposed motion. The resolution was as
follows:
'That from this date all the meetings of this
Council shall be opened with prayer and closed with the singing of the
Doxology.' (Loud applause.)
Councillor Rushton seconded the resolution, wh=
ich
was also supported by Mr Grinder, who said that at a time like the present,
when there was sich a lot of infiddles about who said that we all came from
monkeys, the Council would be showing a good example to the working classes=
by
adopting the resolution.
Councillor Weakling said nothing, so the new r=
ule
was carried nem. con., and as there was no more business to be done it was =
put
into operation for the first time there and then. Mr Sweater conducting the singing with =
a roll
of paper--the plan of the drain of 'The Cave'--and each member singing a
different tune.
Weakling withdrew during the singing, and
afterwards, before the Band dispersed, it was agreed that a certain number =
of
them were to meet the Chief at the Cave, on the following evening to arrange
the details of the proposed raid on the finances of the town in connection =
with
the sale of the Electric Light Works.
The
alterations which the Corporation had undertaken to make in the Kiosk on the
Grand Parade provided employment for several carpenters and plasterers for
about three weeks, and afterwards for several painters. This fact was sufficient to secure the
working men's unqualified approval of the action of the Council in letting =
the
place to Grinder, and Councillor Weakling's opposition--the reasons of which
they did not take the trouble to inquire into or understand--they as hearti=
ly
condemned. All they knew or cared =
was
that he had tried to prevent the work being done, and that he had referred =
in
insulting terms to the working men of the town.
What right had he to call them half-starved, poverty-stricken, poor
wretches? If it came to being
poverty-stricken, according to all accounts, he wasn't any too well orf
hisself. Some of those blokes who =
went
swaggering about in frock-coats and pot-'ats was just as 'ard up as anyone =
else
if the truth was known.
As for the Corporation workmen, it was quite r=
ight
that their wages should be reduced. Why
should they get more money than anyone else?
'It's us what's got to find the money,' they
said. 'We're the ratepayers, and w=
hy
should we have to pay them more wages than we get ourselves? And why should they be paid for holiday=
s any
more than us?'
During the next few weeks the dearth of employ=
ment
continued, for, of course, the work at the Kiosk and the few others jobs th=
at
were being done did not make much difference to the general situation. Groups of workmen stood at the corners =
or
walked aimlessly about the streets. Most of them no longer troubled to go to
the different firms to ask for work, they were usually told that they would=
be
sent for if wanted.
During this time Owen did his best to convert =
the
other men to his views. He had
accumulated a little library of Socialist books and pamphlets which he lent=
to
those he hoped to influence. Some =
of
them took these books and promised, with the air of men who were conferring=
a
great favour, that they would read them.
As a rule, when they returned them it was with vague expressions of
approval, but they usually evinced a disinclination to discuss the contents=
in
detail because, in nine instances out of ten, they had not attempted to rea=
d them. As for those who did make a half-hearted
effort to do so, in the majority of cases their minds were so rusty and
stultified by long years of disuse, that, although the pamphlets were gener=
ally
written in such simple language that a child might have understood, the
argument was generally too obscure to be grasped by men whose minds were ad=
dled
by the stories told them by their Liberal and Tory masters. Some, when Owen offered to lend them so=
me
books or pamphlets refused to accept them, and others who did him the great
favour of accepting them, afterwards boasted that they had used them as toi=
let
paper.
Owen frequently entered into long arguments wi=
th
the other men, saying that it was the duty of the State to provide producti=
ve
work for all those who were willing to do it.
Some few of them listened like men who only vaguely understood, but =
were
willing to be convinced.
'Yes, mate. It's right enough what you say,' t=
hey
would remark. 'Something ought to be done.'
Others ridiculed this doctrine of State
employment: It was all very fine, but where was the money to come from? And then those who had been disposed to=
agree
with Owen could relapse into their old apathy.
There were others who did not listen so quietl=
y,
but shouted with many curses that it was the likes of such fellows as Owen =
who
were responsible for all the depression in trade. All this talk about Socialism and State
employment was frightening Capital out of the country. Those who had money were afraid to inve=
st it
in industries, or to have any work done for fear they would be robbed. When Owen quoted statistics to prove th=
at as
far as commerce and the quantity produced of commodities of all kinds was
concerned, the last year had been a record one, they became more infuriated
than ever, and talked threateningly of what they would like to do to those
bloody Socialists who were upsetting everything.
One day Crass, who was one of these upholders =
of
the existing system, scored off Owen finely.
A little group of them were standing talking in the Wage Slave Market
near the Fountain. In the course o=
f the
argument, Owen made the remark that under existing conditions life was not
worth living, and Crass said that if he really thought so, there was no com=
pulsion
about it; if he wasn't satisfied--if he didn't want to live--he could go and
die. Why the hell didn't he go and=
make
a hole in the water, or cut his bloody throat?
On this particular occasion the subject of the
argument was--at first--the recent increase of the Borough Engineer's salar=
y to
seventeen pounds per week. Owen ha=
d said
it was robbery, but the majority of the others expressed their approval of =
the
increase. They asked Owen if he ex=
pected
a man like that to work for nothing! It
was not as if he were one of the likes of themselves. They said that, as for it being robbery=
, Owen
would be very glad to have the chance of getting it himself. Most of them seemed to think the fact t=
hat
anyone would be glad to have seventeen pounds a week, proved that it was ri=
ght
for them to pay that amount to the Borough Engineer!
Usually whenever Owen reflected upon the gross
injustices, and inhumanity of the existing social disorder, he became convi=
nced
that it could not possibly last; it was bound to fall to pieces because of =
its
own rottenness. It was not just, i=
t was
not common sense, and therefore it could not endure. But always after one of these arguments=
--or,
rather, disputes--with his fellow workmen, he almost relapsed into hopeless=
ness
and despondency, for then he realized how vast and how strong are the
fortifications that surround the present system; the great barriers and
ramparts of invincible ignorance, apathy and self-contempt, which will have=
to
be broken down before the system of society of which they are the defences,=
can
be swept away.
At other times as he thought of this marvellous
system, it presented itself to him in such an aspect of almost comical
absurdity that he was forced to laugh and to wonder whether it really exist=
ed
at all, or if it were only an illusion of his own disordered mind.
One of the things that the human race needed in
order to exist was shelter; so with much painful labour they had constructe=
d a
large number of houses. Thousands =
of
these houses were now standing unoccupied, while millions of the people who=
had
helped to build the houses were either homeless or herding together in
overcrowded hovels.
These human beings had such a strange system of
arranging their affairs that if anyone were to go and burn down a lot of the
houses he would be conferring a great boon upon those who had built them,
because such an act would 'Make a lot more work!'
Another very comical thing was that thousands =
of
people wore broken boots and ragged clothes, while millions of pairs of boo=
ts
and abundance of clothing, which they had helped to make, were locked up in
warehouses, and the System had the keys.
Thousands of people lacked the necessaries of
life. The necessaries of life are =
all
produced by work. The people who l=
acked
begged to be allowed to work and create those things of which they stood in
need. But the System prevented them from so doing.
If anyone asked the System why it prevented th=
ese
people from producing the things of which they were in want, the System
replied:
'Because they have already produced too much.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The markets are glutted. The warehouses=
are
filled and overflowing, and there is nothing more for them to do.'
There was in existence a huge accumulation of
everything necessary. A great numb=
er of
the people whose labour had produced that vast store were now living in wan=
t,
but the System said that they could not be permitted to partake of the thin=
gs
they had created. Then, after a ti=
me,
when these people, being reduced to the last extreme of misery, cried out t=
hat
they and their children were dying of hunger, the System grudgingly unlocked
the doors of the great warehouses, and taking out a small part of the things
that were stored within, distributed it amongst the famished workers, at the
same time reminding them that it was Charity, because all the things in the
warehouses, although they had been made by the workers, were now the proper=
ty
of the people who do nothing.
And then the starving, bootless, ragged, stupid
wretches fell down and worshipped the System, and offered up their children=
as
living sacrifices upon its altars, saying:
'This beautiful System is the only one possibl=
e,
and the best that human wisdom can devise.
May the System live for ever!
Cursed be those who seek to destroy the System!'
As the absurdity of the thing forced itself up=
on
him, Owen, in spite of the unhappiness he felt at the sight of all the mise=
ry
by which he was surrounded, laughed aloud and said to himself that if he was
sane, then all these people must be mad.
In the face of such colossal imbecility it was
absurd to hope for any immediate improvement.
The little already accomplished was the work of a few self-sacrifici=
ng
enthusiasts, battling against the opposition of those they sought to benefi=
t,
and the results of their labours were, in many instances, as pearls cast be=
fore
the swine who stood watching for opportunities to fall upon and rend their
benefactors.
There was only one hope. It was possible that the monopolists,
encouraged by the extraordinary stupidity and apathy of the people would
proceed to lay upon them even greater burdens, until at last, goaded by
suffering, and not having sufficient intelligence to understand any other
remedy, these miserable wretches would turn upon their oppressors and drown
both them and their System in a sea of blood.
Besides the work at the Kiosk, towards the end=
of
March things gradually began to improve in other directions. Several firms began to take on a few
hands. Several large empty houses =
that
were relet had to be renovated for their new tenants, and there was a fair
amount of inside work arising out of the annual spring-cleaning in other
houses. There was not enough work to keep everyone employed, and most of th=
ose
who were taken on as a rule only managed to make a few hours a week, but st=
ill
it was better than absolute idleness, and there also began to be talk of
several large outside jobs that were to be done as soon as the weather was
settled.
This bad weather, by the way, was a sort of bo=
on
to the defenders of the present system, who were hard-up for sensible argum=
ents
to explain the cause of poverty. O=
ne of
the principal causes was, of course, the weather, which was keeping everyth=
ing
back. There was not the slightest =
doubt
that if only the weather would allow there would always be plenty of work, =
and
poverty would be abolished.
Rushton & Co. had a fair share of what work there was, and Crass, Sawkins, Slyme and Owen were kept employed pretty regularly, although they did not start until half past eight and left off at four. At different houses in vario= us parts of the town they had ceilings to wash off and distemper, to strip the old p= aper from the walls, and to repaint and paper the rooms, and sometimes there were the venetian blinds to repair and repaint. Occasionally a few extra hands were taken on for a few days, and discharged again as soon as the job they were taken on to do was finished.<= o:p>
The defenders of the existing system may possi=
bly
believe that the knowledge that they would be discharged directly the job w=
as
done was a very good incentive to industry, that they would naturally under
these circumstances do their best to get the work done as quickly as
possible. But then it must be reme=
mbered
that most of the defenders of the existing system are so constituted, that =
they
can believe anything provided it is not true and sufficiently silly.
All the same, it was a fact that the workmen d=
id
do their very best to get over this work in the shortest possible time, bec=
ause
although they knew that to do so was contrary to their own interests, they =
also
knew that it would be very much more contrary to their interests not to do
so. Their only chance of being kep=
t on
if other work came in was to tear into it for all they were worth. Consequently, most of the work was rush=
ed and
botched and slobbered over in about half the time that it would have taken =
to
do it properly. Rooms for which the
customers paid to have three coats of paint were scamped with one or two. What Misery did not know about scamping=
and
faking the work, the men suggested to and showed him in the hope of currying
favour with him in order that they might get the preference over others and=
be
sent for when the next job came in. This
is the principal incentive provided by the present system, the incentive to
cheat. These fellows cheated the c=
ustomers
of their money. They cheated thems=
elves
and their fellow workmen of work, and their children of bread, but it was a=
ll
for a good cause--to make profit for their master.
Harlow and Slyme did one job--a room that Rush=
ton
& Co. had contracted to paint three coats.
It was finished with two and the men cleared away their paints. The next day, when Slyme went there to =
paper
the room, the lady of the house said that the painting was not yet finished=
--it
was to have another coat. Slyme as=
sured
her that it had already had three, but, as the lady insisted, Slyme went to=
the
shop and sought out Misery. Harlow=
had
been stood off, as there was not another job in just then, but fortunately =
he
happened to be standing in the street outside the shop, so they called him =
and
then the three of them went round to the job and swore that the room had had
three coats. The lady protested that it was not so. She had watched the progress of the wor=
k. Besides, it was impossible; they had on=
ly
been there three days. The first d=
ay
they had not put any paint on at all; they had done the ceiling and stripped
the walls; the painting was not started till the second day. How then could it have had three coats?=
Misery explained the mystery: he said t=
hat
for first coating they had an extra special very fast-drying paint--paint t=
hat
dried so quickly that they were able to give the work two coats in one
day. For instance, one man did the
window, the other the door: when these were finished both men did the skirt=
ing;
by the time the skirting was finished the door and window were dry enough to
second coat; and then, on the following day--the finishing coat!
Of course, this extra special quick-drying pai=
nt
was very expensive, but the firm did not mind that. They knew that most of their customers =
wished
to have their work finished as quickly as possible, and their study was to =
give
satisfaction to the customers. This
explanation satisfied the lady--a poverty-stricken widow making a precarious
living by taking in lodgers--who was the more easily deceived because she
regarded Misery as a very holy man, having seen him preaching in the street=
on
many occasions.
There was another job at another boarding-house
that Owen and Easton did--two rooms which had to be painted three coats of =
white
paint and one of enamel, making four coats altogether. That was what the firm had contracted to
do. As the old paint in these room=
s was
of a rather dark shade it was absolutely necessary to give the work three c=
oats
before enamelling it. Misery wante=
d them
to let it go with two, but Owen pointed out that if they did so it would be
such a ghastly mess that it would never pass.
After thinking the matter over for a few minutes, Misery told them t=
o go
on with the third coat of paint. T=
hen he
went downstairs and asked to see the lady of the house. He explained to her that, in consequenc=
e of
the old paint being so dark, he found that it would be necessary, in order =
to
make a good job of it, to give the work four coats before enamelling it.
It would not be reasonable to blame Misery or
Rushton for not wishing to do good, honest work--there was no incentive.
The same rule applied to the workers. They could not justly be blamed for not=
doing
good work--there was no incentive. To do
good work requires time and pains. Most
of them would have liked to take time and pains, because all those who are
capable of doing good work find pleasure and happiness in doing it, and have
pride in it when done: but there was no incentive, unless the certainty of
getting the sack could be called an incentive, for it was a moral certainty
that any man who was caught taking time and pains with his work would be
promptly presented with the order of the boot.
But there was plenty of incentive to hurry and scamp and slobber and
botch.
There was another job at a lodging-house--two
rooms to be painted and papered. T=
he
landlord paid for the work, but the tenant had the privilege of choosing the
paper. She could have any pattern =
she
liked so long as the cost did not exceed one shilling per roll, Rushton's
estimate being for paper of that price.
Misery sent her several patterns of sixpenny papers, marked at a
shilling, to choose from, but she did not fancy any of them, and said that =
she
would come to the shop to make her selection.
So Hunter tore round to the shop in a great hurry to get there before
her. In his haste to dismount, he =
fell
off his bicycle into the muddy road, and nearly smashed the plate-glass win=
dow
with the handle-bar of the machine as he placed it against the shop front b=
efore
going in.
Without waiting to clean the mud off his cloth=
es,
he ordered Budd, the pimply-faced shopman, to get out rolls of all the sixp=
enny
papers they had, and then they both set to work and altered the price marked
upon them from sixpence to a shilling.
Then they got out a number of shilling papers and altered the price
marked upon them, changing it from a shilling to one and six.
When the unfortunate woman arrived, Misery was
waiting for her with a benign smile upon his long visage. He showed her all the sixpenny ones, bu=
t she
did not like any of them, so after a while Nimrod suggested that perhaps she
would like a paper of a little better quality, and she could pay the trifli=
ng
difference out of her own pocket. =
Then
he showed her the shilling papers that he had marked up to one and sixpence,
and eventually the lady selected one of these and paid the extra sixpence p=
er
roll herself, as Nimrod suggested. There
were fifteen rolls of paper altogether--seven for one room and eight for the
other--so that in addition to the ordinary profit on the sale of the
paper--about two hundred and seventy-five per cent.--the firm made seven and
sixpence on this transaction. They=
might
have done better out of the job itself if Slyme had not been hanging the pa=
per piece-work,
for, the two rooms being of the same pattern, he could easily have managed =
to
do them with fourteen rolls; in fact, that was all he did use, but he cut up
and partly destroyed the one that was over so that he could charge for hang=
ing
it.
Owen was working there at the same time, for t=
he
painting of the rooms was not done before Slyme papered them; the finishing
coat was put on after the paper was hung.
He noticed Slyme destroying the paper and, guessing the reason, asked
him how he could reconcile such conduct as that with his profession of
religion.
Slyme replied that the fact that he was a
Christian did not imply that he never did anything wrong: if he committed a
sin, he was a Christian all the same, and it would be forgiven him for the =
sake
of the Blood. As for this affair of the paper, it was a matter between hims=
elf
and God, and Owen had no right to set himself up as a Judge.
In addition to all this work, there were a num=
ber
of funerals. Crass and Slyme did v=
ery
well out of it all, working all day white-washing or painting, and sometimes
part of the night painting venetian blinds or polishing coffins and taking =
them
home, to say nothing of the lifting in of the corpses and afterwards acting=
as
bearers.
As time went on, the number of small jobs
increased, and as the days grew longer the men were allowed to put in a gre=
ater
number of hours. Most of the firms had some work, but there was never enoug=
h to
keep all the men in the town employed at the same time. It worked like this: Every firm had a c=
ertain
number of men who were regarded as the regular hands. When there was any wo=
rk
to do, they got the preference over strangers or outsiders. When things were busy, outsiders were t=
aken
on temporarily. When the work fell=
off,
these casual hands were the first to be 'stood still'. If it continued to fall off, the old ha=
nds
were also stood still in order of seniority, the older hands being preferre=
d to
strangers--so long, of course, as they were not old in the sense of being a=
ged
or inefficient.
This kind of thing usually continued all throu=
gh
the spring and summer. In good years the men of all trades, carpenters,
bricklayers, plasterers, painters and so on, were able to keep almost regul=
arly
at work, except in wet weather.
The difference between a good and bad spring a=
nd
summer is that in good years it is sometimes possible to make a little
overtime, and the periods of unemployment are shorter and less frequent tha=
n in
bad years. It is rare even in good=
years
for one of the casual hands to be employed by one firm for more than one, t=
wo
or three months without a break. I=
t is
usual for them to put in a month with one firm, then a fortnight with anoth=
er,
then perhaps six weeks somewhere else, and often between there are two or t=
hree
days or even weeks of enforced idleness.
This sort of thing goes on all through spring, summer and autumn.
By the
beginning of April, Rushton & Co. were again working nine hours a day, =
from
seven in the morning till five-thirty at night, and after Easter they start=
ed
working full time from 6 A.M. till 5.30 P.M., eleven and a half hours--or,
rather, ten hours, for they had to lose half an hour at breakfast and an ho=
ur
at dinner.
Just before Easter several of the men asked Hu=
nter
if they might be allowed to work on Good Friday and Easter Monday, as, they
said, they had had enough holidays during the winter; they had no money to
spare for holiday-making, and they did not wish to lose two days' pay when
there was work to be done. Hunter =
told
them that there was not sufficient work in to justify him in doing as they
requested: things were getting very slack again, and Mr Rushton had decided=
to
cease work from Thursday night till Tuesday morning. They were thus prevented from working o=
n Good
Friday, but it is true that not more than one working man in fifty went to =
any
religious service on that day or on any other day during the Easter
festival. On the contrary, this fe=
stival
was the occasion of much cursing and blaspheming on the part of those whose
penniless, poverty-stricken condition it helped to aggravate by enforcing
unprofitable idleness which they lacked the means to enjoy.
During these holidays some of the men did litt=
le
jobs on their own account and others put in the whole time--including Good =
Friday
and Easter Sunday--gardening, digging and planting their plots of allotment
ground.
When Owen arrived home one evening during the =
week
before Easter, Frankie gave him an envelope which he had brought home from
school. It contained a printed leaflet:
CHURCH OF THE WHITED
SEPULCHRE,
MUGSBOROUGH
Easter 19--<= o:p>
Dear Sir (or Madam),
In accordance with the usual custom we invite =
you
to join with us in presenting the Vicar, the Rev. Habbakuk Bosher, with an
Easter Offering, as a token of affection and regard.
Yours faithfully, A. Cheeseman }=
W. Taylor }
Churchwardens
Mr Bosher's income from various sources connec= ted with the church was over six hundred pounds a year, or about twelve pounds = per week, but as that sum was evidently insufficient, his admirers had adopted = this device for supplementing it. Frank= ie said all the boys had one of these letters and were going to ask their fath= ers for some money to give towards the Easter offering. Most of them expected to get twopence.<= o:p>
As the boy had evidently set his heart on doing
the same as the other children, Owen gave him the twopence, and they afterw=
ards
learned that the Easter Offering for that year was one hundred and twenty-s=
even
pounds, which was made up of the amounts collected from the parishioners by=
the
children, the district visitors and the verger, the collection at a special=
Service,
and donations from the feeble-minded old females elsewhere referred to.
By the end of April nearly all the old hands w=
ere
back at work, and several casual hands had also been taken on, the Semi-dru=
nk
being one of the number. In additi=
on to
these, Misery had taken on a number of what he called 'lightweights', men w=
ho
were not really skilled workmen, but had picked up sufficient knowledge of =
the
simpler parts of the trade to be able to get over it passably. These were paid fivepence or fivepence-=
halfpenny,
and were employed in preference to those who had served their time, because=
the
latter wanted more money and therefore were only employed when absolutely
necessary. Besides the lightweights
there were a few young fellows called improvers, who were also employed bec=
ause
they were cheap.
Crass now acted as colourman, having been
appointed possibly because he knew absolutely nothing about the laws of
colour. As most of the work consis=
ted of
small jobs, all the paint and distemper was mixed up at the shop and sent o=
ut
ready for use to the various jobs.
Sawkins or some of the other lightweights
generally carried the heavier lots of colour or scaffolding, but the smaller
lots of colour or such things as a pair of steps or a painter's plank were
usually sent by the boy, whose slender legs had become quite bowed since he=
had
been engaged helping the other philanthropists to make money for Mr Rushton=
.
Crass's work as colourman was simplified, to a
certain extent, by the great number of specially prepared paints and distem=
pers
in all colours, supplied by the manufacturers ready for use. Most of these new-fangled concoctions w=
ere
regarded with an eye of suspicion and dislike by the hands, and Philpot voi=
ced
the general opinion about them one day during a dinner-hour discussion when=
he
said they might appear to be all right for a time, but they would probably =
not
last, because they was mostly made of kimicles.
One of these new-fashioned paints was called
'Petrifying Liquid', and was used for first-coating decaying stone or plast=
er
work. It was also supposed to be u=
sed
for thinning up a certain kind of patent distemper, but when Misery found o=
ut
that it was possible to thin the latter with water, the use of 'Petrifying =
Liquid'
for that purpose was discontinued. This
'Petrifying Liquid' was a source of much merriment to the hands. The name was applied to the tea that th=
ey
made in buckets on some of the jobs, and also to the four-ale that was supp=
lied
by certain pubs.
One of the new inventions was regarded with a
certain amount of indignation by the hands: it was a white enamel, and they
objected to it for two reasons--one was because, as Philpot remarked, it dr=
ied
so quickly that you had to work like greased lightning; you had to be all o=
ver
the door directly you started it.
The other reason was that, because it dried so
quickly, it was necessary to keep closed the doors and windows of the room
where it was being used, and the smell was so awful that it brought on fits=
of
dizziness and sometimes vomiting. =
Needless
to say, the fact that it compelled those who used it to work quickly
recommended the stuff to Misery.
As for the smell, he did not care about that; =
he
did not have to inhale the fumes himself.
It was just about this time that Crass, after =
due
consultation with several of the others, including Philpot, Harlow, Bundy,
Slyme, Easton and the Semi-drunk, decided to call a meeting of the hands for
the purpose of considering the advisability of holding the usual Beano late=
r on
in the summer. The meeting was hel=
d in
the carpenter's shop down at the yard one evening at six o'clock, which all=
owed
time for those interested to attend after leaving work.
The hands sat on the benches or carpenter's
stools, or reclined upon heaps of shavings.
On a pair of tressels in the centre of the workshop stood a large oak
coffin which Crass had just finished polishing.
When all those who were expected to turn up had
arrived, Payne, the foreman carpenter--the man who made the coffins--was vo=
ted
to the chair on the proposition of Crass, seconded by Philpot, and then a
solemn silence ensued, which was broken at last by the chairman, who, in a
lengthy speech, explained the object of the meeting. Possibly with a laudable desire that th=
ere
should be no mistake about it, he took the trouble to explain several times,
going over the same ground and repeating the same words over and over again,
whilst the audience waited in a deathlike and miserable silence for him to
leave off. Payne, however, did not appear to have any intention of leaving =
off,
for he continued, like a man in a trance, to repeat what he had said before,
seeming to be under the impression that he had to make a separate explanati=
on
to each individual member of the audience.
At last the crowd could stand it no longer, and began to shout 'Hear,
hear' and to bang bits of wood and hammers on the floor and the benches; and
then, after a final repetition of the statement, that the object of the mee=
ting
was to consider the advisability of holding an outing, or beanfeast, the
chairman collapsed on to a carpenter's stool and wiped the sweat from his
forehead.
Crass then reminded the meeting that the last
year's Beano had been an unqualified success, and for his part he would be =
very
sorry if they did not have one this year. Last year they had four brakes, and they=
went
to Tubberton Village.
It was true that there was nothing much to see=
at
Tubberton, but there was one thing they could rely on getting there that th=
ey
could not be sure of getting for the same money anywhere else, and that was=
--a
good feed. (Applause.) Just for the sake of getting on with the
business, he would propose that they decide to go to Tubberton, and that a
committee be appointed to make arrangements--about the dinner--with the
landlord of the Queen Elizabeth's Head at that place.
Philpot seconded the motion, and Payne was abo=
ut
to call for a show of hands when Harlow rose to a point of order. It appeared to him that they were getti=
ng on
a bit too fast. The proper way to =
do
this business was first to take the feeling of the meeting as to whether th=
ey
wished to have a Beano at all, and then, if the meeting was in favour of it,
they could decide where they were to go, and whether they would have a whole
day or only half a day.
The Semi-drunk said that he didn't care a drea=
dful
expression where they went: he was willing to abide by the decision of the
majority. (Applause.) It was a mat=
ter of
indifference to him whether they had a day, or half a day, or two days; he =
was
agreeable to anything.
Easton suggested that a special saloon carriage
might be engaged, and they could go and visit Madame Tussaud's Waxworks.
Bundy endorsed the remarks that had fallen from
Crass with reference to Tubberton. He
did not care where they went, they would never get such a good spread for t=
he
money as they did last year at the Queen Elizabeth. (Cheers.)
The chairman said that he remembered the last
Beano very well. They had half a
day--left off work on Saturday at twelve instead of one--so there was only =
one
hour's wages lost--they went home, had a wash and changed their clothes, and
got up to the Cricketers, where the brakes was waiting, at one. Then they had the two hours' drive to
Tubberton, stopping on the way for drinks at the Blue Lion, the Warrior's H=
ead,
the Bird in Hand, the Dewdrop Inn and the World Turned Upside Down.
(Applause.) They arrived at the Qu=
een
Elizabeth at three-thirty, and the dinner was ready; and it was one of the
finest blow-outs he had ever had. =
(Hear,
hear.) There was soup, vegetables,=
roast
beef, roast mutton, lamb and mint sauce, plum duff, Yorkshire, and a lot
more. The landlord of the Elizabet=
h kept
as good a drop of beer as anyone could wish to drink, and as for the
teetotallers, they could have tea, coffee or ginger beer.
Having thus made another start, Payne found it
very difficult to leave off, and was proceeding to relate further details of
the last Beano when Harlow again rose up from his heap of shavings and said=
he
wished to call the chairman to order.
(Hear, hear.) What the hell=
was
the use of all this discussion before they had even decided to have a Beano=
at
all! Was the meeting in favour of a
Beano or not? That was the questio=
n.
A prolonged and awkward silence followed. Everyone was very uncomfortable, looking
stolidly on the ground or staring straight in front of them.
At last Easton broke the silence by suggesting
that it would not be a bad plan if someone was to make a motion that a Bean=
o be
held. This was greeted with a gene=
ral
murmur of 'Hear, hear,' followed by another awkward pause, and then the
chairman asked Easton if he would move a resolution to that effect. After some hesitation, Easton agreed, a=
nd
formally moved: 'That this meeting is in favour of a Beano.'
The Semi-drunk said that, in order to get on w=
ith
the business, he would second the resolution.
But meantime, several arguments had broken out between the advocates=
of
different places, and several men began to relate anecdotes of previous
Beanos. Nearly everyone was speaki=
ng at
once and it was some time before the chairman was able to put the
resolution. Finding it impossible =
to make
his voice heard above the uproar, he began to hammer on the bench with a wo=
oden
mallet, and to shout requests for order, but this only served to increase t=
he
din. Some of them looked at him
curiously and wondered what was the matter with him, but the majority were =
so
interested in their own arguments that they did not notice him at all.
Whilst the chairman was trying to get the
attention of the meeting in order to put the question, Bundy had become
involved in an argument with several of the new hands who claimed to know o=
f an
even better place than the Queen Elizabeth, a pub called 'The New Found Out=
',
at Mirkfield, a few miles further on than Tubberton, and another individual
joined in the dispute, alleging that a house called 'The Three Loggerheads'=
at
Slushton-cum-Dryditch was the finest place for a Beano within a hundred mil=
es
of Mugsborough. He went there last=
year
with Pushem and Driver's crowd, and they had roast beef, goose, jam tarts,
mince pies, sardines, blancmange, calves' feet jelly and one pint for each =
man
was included in the cost of the dinner.
In the middle of the discussion, they noticed that most of the others
were holding up their hands, so to show there was no ill feeling they held =
up
theirs also and then the chairman declared it was carried unanimously.
Bundy said he would like to ask the chairman to
read out the resolution which had just been passed, as he had not caught the
words.
The chairman replied that there was no written
resolution. The motion was just to
express the feeling of this meeting as to whether there was to be an outing=
or
not.
Bundy said he was only asking a civil question=
, a
point of information: all he wanted to know was, what was the terms of the
resolution? Was they in favour of =
the
Beano or not?
The chairman responded that the meeting was
unanimously in favour. (Applause.)
Harlow said that the next thing to be done was=
to
decide upon the date. Crass suggested the last Saturday in August. That would give them plenty of time to =
pay
in.
Sawkins asked whether it was proposed to have a
day or only half a day. He himself was in favour of the whole day. It would only mean losing a morning's
work. It was hardly worth going at=
all if
they only had half the day.
The Semi-drunk remarked that he had just thoug=
ht
of a very good place to go if they decided to have a change. Three years ago he was working for Daub=
er and
Botchit and they went to 'The First In and the Last Out' at Bashford. It was a very small place, but there wa=
s a
field where you could have a game of cricket or football, and the dinner wa=
s A1
at Lloyds. There was also a skittle
alley attached to the pub and no charge was made for the use of it. There was a bit of a river there, and o=
ne of
the chaps got so drunk that he went orf his onion and jumped into the water,
and when they got him out the village policeman locked him up, and the next=
day
he was took before the beak and fined two pounds or a month's hard labour f=
or
trying to commit suicide.
Easton pointed out that there was another way =
to look
at it: supposing they decided to have the Beano, he supposed it would come =
to
about six shillings a head. If the=
y had
it at the end of August and started paying in now, say a tanner a week, they
would have plenty of time to make up the amount, but supposing the work fell
off and some of them got the push?
Crass said that in that case a man could either
have his money back or he could leave it, and continue his payments even if=
he
were working for some other firm; the fact that he was off from Rushton's w=
ould
not prevent him from going to the Beano.
Harlow proposed that they decide to go to the
Queen Elizabeth the same as last year, and that they have half a day.
Philpot said that, in order to get on with the
business, he would second the resolution.
Bundy suggested--as an amendment--that it shou=
ld
be a whole day, starting from the Cricketers at nine in the morning, and
Sawkins said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the
amendment.
One of the new hands said he wished to move an=
other
amendment. He proposed to strike o=
ut the
Queen Elizabeth and substitute the Three Loggerheads.
The Chairman--after a pause--inquired if there
were any seconder to this, and the Semi-drunk said that, although he did not
care much where they went, still, to get on with the business, he would sec=
ond
the amendment, although for his own part he would prefer to go to the 'Firs=
t In
and Last Out' at Bashford.
The new hand offered to withdraw his suggestio=
n re
the Three Loggerheads in favour of the Semi-drunks proposition, but the lat=
ter
said it didn't matter; it could go as it was.
As it was getting rather late, several men went
home, and cries of 'Put the question' began to be heard on all sides; the
chairman accordingly was proceeding to put Harlow's proposition when the new
hand interrupted him by pointing out that it was his duty as chairman to put
the amendments first. This produced
another long discussion, in the course of which a very tall, thin man who h=
ad a
harsh, metallic voice gave a long rambling lecture about the rules of order=
and
the conduct of public meetings. He=
spoke
very slowly and deliberately, using very long words and dealing with the
subject in an exhaustive manner. A
resolution was a resolution, and an amendment was an amendment; then there =
was
what was called an amendment to an amendment; the procedure of the House of
Commons differed very materially from that of the House of Lords--and so on=
.
This man kept on talking for about ten minutes,
and might have continued for ten hours if he had not been rudely interrupte=
d by
Harlow, who said that it seemed to him that they were likely to stay there =
all
night if they went on like they were going.
He wanted his tea, and he would also like to get a few hours' sleep
before having to resume work in the morning.
He was getting about sick of all this talk. (Hear, hear.)
In order to get on with the business, he would withdraw his resoluti=
on
if the others would withdraw their amendments. If they would agree to do th=
is,
he would then propose another resolution which--if carried--would meet all =
the
requirements of the case. (Applaus=
e.)
The man with the metallic voice observed that =
it
was not necessary to ask the consent of those who had moved amendments: if =
the
original proposition was withdrawed, all the amendments fell to the ground.=
'Last year,' observed Crass, 'when we was goin'
out of the room after we'd finished our dinner at the Queen Elizabeth, the
landlord pointed to the table and said, "There's enough left over for =
you
all to 'ave another lot."'
(Cheers.)
Harlow said that he would move that it be held=
on
the last Saturday in August; that it be for half a day, starting at one o'c=
lock
so that they could work up till twelve, which would mean that they would on=
ly
have to lose one hour's pay: that they go to the same place as last year--t=
he
Queen Elizabeth. (Hear, hear.) That the same committee that acted last
year--Crass and Bundy--be appointed to make all the arrangements and collect
the subscriptions. (Applause.)
The tall man observed that this was what was
called a compound resolution, and was proceeding to explain further when the
chairman exclaimed that it did not matter a dam' what it was called--would
anyone second it? The Semi-drunk s=
aid
that he would--in order to get on with the business.
Bundy moved, and Sawkins seconded, as an
amendment, that it should be a whole day.
The new hand moved to substitute the Loggerhea=
ds
for the Queen Elizabeth.
Easton proposed to substitute Madame Tussaud's
Waxworks for the Queen Elizabeth. =
He
said he moved this just to test the feeling of the meeting.
Harlow pointed out that it would cost at least=
a
pound a head to defray the expenses of such a trip. The railway fares, tram fares in London,
meals--for it would be necessary to have a whole day--and other incidental
expenses; to say nothing of the loss of wages.
It would not be possible for any of them to save the necessary amount
during the next four months. (Hear,
hear.)
Philpot repeated his warning as to the danger =
of
visiting Madame Tussaud's. He was
certain that if she once got them in there she would never let them out
again. He had no desire to pass th=
e rest
of his life as an image in a museum.
One of the new hands--a man with a red tie--sa=
id
that they would look well, after having been soaked for a month or two in
petrifying liquid, chained up in the Chamber of Horrors with labels round t=
heir
necks--'Specimens of Liberal and Conservative upholders of the Capitalist
System, 20 century'.
Crass protested against the introduction of
politics into that meeting. (Hear, hear.)
The remarks of the last speakers were most uncalled-for.
Easton said that he would withdraw his amendme=
nt.
Acting under the directions of the man with the
metallic voice, the chairman now proceeded to put the amendment to the
vote. Bundy's proposal that it sho=
uld be
a whole day was defeated, only himself, Sawkins and the Semi-drunk being in
favour. The motion to substitute t=
he
Loggerheads for the Queen Elizabeth was also defeated, and the compound
resolution proposed by Harlow was then carried nem. con.
Philpot now proposed a hearty vote of thanks to
the chairman for the very able manner in which he had conducted the
meeting. When this had been unanim=
ously
agreed to, the Semi-drunk moved a similar tribute of gratitude to Crass for=
his
services to the cause and the meeting dispersed.
Durin=
g the
early part of May the weather was exceptionally bad, with bitterly cold
winds. Rain fell nearly every day,
covering the roads with a slush that penetrated the rotten leather of the c=
heap
or second-hand boots worn by the workmen.
This weather had the effect of stopping nearly all outside work, and
also caused a lot of illness, for those who were so fortunate as to have in=
side
jobs frequently got wet through on their way to work in the morning and had=
to
work all day in damp clothing, and with their boots saturated with water. It was also a source of trouble to thos=
e of
the men who had allotments, because if it had been fine they would have been
able to do something to their gardens while they were out of work.
Newman had not succeeded in getting a job at t=
he
trade since he came out of prison, but he tried to make a little money by
hawking bananas. Philpot--when he was at work--used often to buy a tanner's=
or
a bob's worth from him and give them to Mrs Linden's children. On Saturdays Old Joe used to waylay the=
se
children and buy them bags of cakes at the bakers. One week when he knew that Mrs Linden h=
ad not
had much work to do, he devised a very cunning scheme to help her. He had been working with Slyme, who was
papering a large boarded ceiling in a shop.
It had to be covered with unbleached calico before it could be paper=
ed
and when the work was done there were a number of narrow pieces of calico l=
eft
over. These he collected and tore =
into
strips about six inches wide which he took round to Mrs Linden, and asked h=
er
to sew them together, end to end, so as to make one long strip: then this l=
ong
strip had to be cut into four pieces of equal length and the edges sewn
together in such a manner that it would form a long tube. Philpot told her that it was required f=
or
some work that Rushton's were doing, and said he had undertaken to get the
sewing done. The firm would have t=
o pay
for it, so she could charge a good price.
'You see,' he said with a wink, 'this is one of
those jobs where we gets a chance to get some of our own back.'
Mary thought it was rather a strange sort of j=
ob,
but she did as Philpot directed and when he came for the stuff and asked how
much it was she said threepence: it had only taken about half an hour. Phil=
pot
ridiculed this: it was not nearly enough.
THEY were not supposed to know how long it took: it ought to be a bo=
b at
the very least. So, after some
hesitation she made out a bill for that amount on a half-sheet of
note-paper. He brought her the mon=
ey the
next Saturday afternoon and went off chuckling to himself over the success =
of
the scheme. It did not occur to him
until the next day that he might just as well have got her to make him an a=
pron
or two: and when he did think of this he said that after all it didn't matt=
er,
because if he had done that it would have been necessary to buy new calico,=
and
anyhow, it could be done some other time.
Newman did not make his fortune out of the
bananas--seldom more than two shillings a day--and consequently he was very
glad when Philpot called at his house one evening and told him there was a
chance of a job at Rushton's. Newm=
an
accordingly went to the yard the next morning, taking his apron and blouse =
and
his bag of tools with him, ready to start work.
He got there at about quarter to six and was waiting outside when Hu=
nter
arrived. The latter was secretly v=
ery
glad to see him, for there was a rush of work in and they were short of men=
. He
did not let this appear, of course, but hesitated for a few minutes when Ne=
wman
repeated the usual formula: 'Any chance of a job, sir?'
'We wasn't at all satisfied with you last time=
you
was on, you know,' said Misery. 'S=
till,
I don't mind giving you another chance.
But if you want to hold your job you'll have to move yourself a bit
quicker than you did before.'
Towards the end of the month things began to
improve all round. The weather bec=
ame
finer and more settled. As time we=
nt on
the improvement was maintained and nearly everyone was employed. Rushton's =
were
so busy that they took on several other old hands who had been sacked the
previous year for being too slow.
Thanks to the influence of Crass, Easton was n=
ow
regarded as one of the regular hands. He
had recently resumed the practice of spending some of his evenings at the
Cricketers. It is probable that ev=
en if
it had not been for his friendship with Crass, he would still have continue=
d to
frequent the public house, for things were not very comfortable at home. So after a time he gave up trying to be=
friends
with her and went out by himself every evening as soon as he had had his te=
a.
Mary Linden, who was still lodging with them,
could not help perceiving their unhappiness: she frequently noticed that Ru=
th's
eyes were red and swollen as if with crying, and she gently sought to gain =
her
confidence, but without success. O=
n one
occasion when Mary was trying to advise her, Ruth burst out into a terrible=
fit
of weeping, but she would not say what was the cause--except that her head =
was
aching--she was not well, that was all.
Sometimes Easton passed the evening at the
Cricketers but frequently he went over to the allotments, where Harlow had a
plot of ground. Harlow used to get up about four o'clock in the morning and=
put
in an hour or so at his garden before going to work; and every evening as s=
oon
as he had finished tea he used to go there again and work till it was dark.
Sometimes he did not go home to tea at all, but went straight from work to =
the
garden, and his children used to bring his tea to him there in a glass bott=
le,
with something to eat in a little basket.
He had four children, none of whom were yet old enough to go to work,
and as may be imagined, he found it a pretty hard struggle to live. He was not a teetotaller, but as he oft=
en
remarked, 'what the publicans got from him wouldn't make them very fat', fo=
r he
often went for weeks together without tasting the stuff, except a glass or =
two
with the Sunday dinner, which he did not regard as an unnecessary expense,
because it was almost as cheap as tea or coffee.
Fortunately his wife was a good needlewoman, a=
nd
as sober and industrious as himself; by dint of slaving incessantly from
morning till night she managed to keep her home fairly comfortable and the
children clean and decently dressed; they always looked respectable, althou=
gh
they did not always have enough proper food to eat. They looked so respectable that none of=
the
'visiting ladies' ever regarded them as deserving cases.
Harlow paid fifteen shillings a year for his p=
lot
of ground, and although it meant a lot of hard work it was also a source of
pleasure and some profit. He gener=
ally
made a few shillings out of the flowers, besides having enough potatoes and
other vegetables to last them nearly all the year.
Sometimes Easton went over to the allotments a=
nd
lent Harlow a hand with this gardening work, but whether he went there or to
the Cricketers, he usually returned home about half past nine, and then went
straight to bed, often without speaking a single word to Ruth, who for her =
part
seldom spoke to him except to answer something he said, or to ask some
necessary question. At first, East=
on
used to think that it was all because of the way he had behaved to her in t=
he
public house, but when he apologized--as he did several times--and begged h=
er
to forgive him and forget about it, she always said it was all right; there=
was
nothing to forgive. Then, after a =
time,
he began to think it was on account of their poverty and the loss of their
home, for nearly all their furniture had been sold during the last winter.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But whenever he talked of trying to buy=
some
more things to make the place comfortable again, she did not appear to take=
any
interest: the house was neat enough as it was: they could manage very well,=
she
said, indifferently.
One evening, about the middle of June, when he=
had
been over to the allotments, Easton brought her home a bunch of flowers that
Harlow had given him--some red and white roses and some pansies. When he came in, Ruth was packing his f=
ood
basket for the next day. The baby =
was
asleep in its cot on the floor near the window.
Although it was nearly nine o'clock the lamp had not yet been lighted
and the mournful twilight that entered the room through the open window
increased the desolation of its appearance.
The fire had burnt itself out and the grate was filled with ashes. On the hearth was an old rug made of ju=
te
that had once been printed in bright colours which had faded away till the
whole surface had become almost uniformly drab, showing scarcely any trace =
of the
original pattern. The rest of the =
floor
was bare except for two or three small pieces of old carpet that Ruth had
bought for a few pence at different times at some inferior second-hand shop=
. The chairs and the table were almost th=
e only
things that were left of the original furniture of the room, and except for
three or four plates of different patterns and sizes and a few cups and
saucers, the shelves of the dresser were bare.
The stillness of the atmosphere was disturbed =
only
by the occasional sound of the wheels of a passing vehicle and the strangely
distinct voices of some children who were playing in the street.
'I've brought you these,' said Easton, offering
her the flowers. 'I thought you'd =
like
them. I got them from Harlow. You know I've been helping him a little=
with
his garden.'
At first he thought she did not want to take
them. She was standing at the tabl=
e with
her back to the window, so that he was unable to see the expression of her
face, and she hesitated for a moment before she faltered out some words of
thanks and took the flowers, which she put down on the table almost as soon=
as
she touched them.
Offended at what he considered her contemptuous
indifference, Easton made no further attempt at conversation but went into =
the
scullery to wash his hands, and then went up to bed.
Downstairs, for a long time after he was gone,
Ruth sat alone by the fireless grate, in the silence and the gathering shad=
ows,
holding the bunch of flowers in her hand, living over again the events of t=
he
last year, and consumed with an agony of remorse.
The presence of Mary Linden and the two childr=
en
in the house probably saved Ruth from being more unhappy than she was. Little Elsie had made an arrangement wi=
th her
to be allowed to take the baby out for walks, and in return Ruth did Elsie's
housework. As for Mary, she had no=
t much
time to do anything but sew, almost the only relaxation she knew being when=
she
took the work home, and on Sunday, which she usually devoted to a general
clean-up of the room, and to mending the children's clothes. Sometimes on Sunday evening she used to=
go
with Ruth and the children to see Mrs Owen, who, although she was not ill
enough to stay in bed, seldom went out of the house. She had never really recovered from the
attack of illness which was brought on by her work at the boarding house. The doctor had been to see her once or =
twice
and had prescribed--rest. She was =
to lie
down as much as possible, not to do any heavy work--not to carry or lift any
heavy articles, scrub floors, make beds, or anything of that sort: and she =
was
to take plenty of nourishing food, beef tea, chicken, a little wine and so
on. He did not suggest a trip roun=
d the
world in a steam yacht or a visit to Switzerland--perhaps he thought they m=
ight
not be able to afford it. Sometime=
s she
was so ill that she had to observe one at least of the doctor's
instructions--to lie down: and then she would worry and fret because she was
not able to do the housework and because Owen had to prepare his own tea wh=
en
he came home at night. On one of these occasions it would have been necessa=
ry
for Owen to stay at home from work if it had not been for Mrs Easton, who c=
ame
for several days in succession to look after her and attend to the house.
Fortunately, Owen's health was better since the
weather had become warmer. For a l=
ong
time after the attack of haemorrhage he had while writing the show-card he =
used
to dread going to sleep at night for fear it should recur. He had heard of people dying in their s=
leep
from that cause. But this terror
gradually left him. Nora knew noth=
ing of
what occurred that night: to have told her would have done no good, but on =
the
contrary would have caused her a lot of useless anxiety. Sometimes he doubted whether it was rig=
ht not
to tell her, but as time went by and his health continued to improve he was
glad he had said nothing about it.
Frankie had lately resumed his athletic exerci=
ses
with the flat iron: his strength was returning since Owen had been working
regularly, because he had been having his porridge and milk again and also =
some
Parrish's Food which a chemist at Windley was selling large bottles of for a
shilling. He used to have what he =
called
a 'party' two or three times a week with Elsie, Charley and Easton's baby as
the guests. Sometimes, if Mrs Owen were not well, Elsie used to stay in with
her after tea and do some housework while the boys went out to play, but mo=
re
frequently the four children used to go together to the park to play or sail
boats on the lake. Once one of the=
boats
was becalmed about a couple of yards from shore and while trying to reach it
with a stick Frankie fell into the water, and when Charley tried to drag him
out he fell in also. Elsie put the=
baby
down on the bank and seized hold of Charley and while she was trying to get=
him
out, the baby began rolling down, and would probably have tumbled in as wel=
l if
a man who happened to be passing by had not rushed up in time to prevent it.
Fortunately the water at that place was only about two feet deep, so the bo=
ys
were not much the worse for their ducking.
They returned home wet through, smothered with mud, and feeling very
important, like boys who had distinguished themselves.
After this, whenever she could manage to spare=
the
time, Ruth Easton used to go with the children to the park. There was a kind of summer-house near t=
he
shore of the lake, only a few feet away from the water's edge, surrounded a=
nd
shaded by trees, whose branches arched over the path and drooped down to the
surface of the water. While the ch=
ildren
played Ruth used to sit in this arbour and sew, but often her work was
neglected and forgotten as she gazed pensively at the water, which just the=
re
looked very still, and dark, and deep, for it was sheltered from the wind a=
nd
over-shadowed by the trees that lined the banks at the end of the lake.
Sometimes, if it happened to be raining, inste=
ad
of going out the children used to have some games in the house. On one such occasion Frankie produced t=
he
flat iron and went through the exercise, and Charley had a go as well. But although he was slightly older and =
taller
than Frankie he could not lift the iron so often or hold it out so long as =
the
other, a failure that Frankie attributed to the fact that Charley had too m=
uch
tea and bread and butter instead of porridge and milk and Parrish's Food. Charley was so upset about his lack of
strength that he arranged with Frankie to come home with him the next day a=
fter
school to see his mother about it. Mrs
Linden had a flat iron, so they gave a demonstration of their respective po=
wers
before her. Mrs Easton being also
present, by request, because Frankie said that the diet in question was
suitable for babies as well as big children.
He had been brought up on it ever since he could remember, and it was
almost as cheap as bread and butter and tea.
The result of the exhibition was that Mrs Lind=
en
promised to make porridge for Charley and Elsie whenever she could spare the
time, and Mrs Easton said she would try it for the baby also.
All t=
hrough
the summer the crowd of ragged-trousered philanthropists continued to toil =
and
sweat at their noble and unselfish task of making money for Mr Rushton.
Painting the outsides of houses and shops, was=
hing
off and distempering ceilings, stripping old paper off walls, painting and
papering rooms and staircases, building new rooms or other additions to old
houses or business premises, digging up old drains, repairing leaky roofs a=
nd
broken windows.
Their zeal and enthusiasm in the good cause was
unbounded. They were supposed to s=
tart
work at six o'clock, but most of them were usually to be found waiting outs=
ide
the job at about a quarter to that hour, sitting on the kerbstones or the
doorstep.
Their operations extended all over the town: at
all hours of the day they were to be seen either going or returning from
'jobs', carrying ladders, planks, pots of paint, pails of whitewash,
earthenware, chimney pots, drainpipes, lengths of guttering, closet pans,
grates, bundles of wallpaper, buckets of paste, sacks of cement, and loads =
of
bricks and mortar. Quite a common
spectacle--for gods and men--was a procession consisting of a handcart load=
ed
up with such materials being pushed or dragged through the public streets by
about half a dozen of these Imperialists in broken boots and with battered,
stained, discoloured bowler hats, or caps splashed with paint and whitewash;
their stand-up collars dirty, limp and crumpled, and their rotten second-ha=
nd
misfit clothing saturated with sweat and plastered with mortar.
Even the assistants in the grocers' and draper=
s'
shops laughed and ridiculed and pointed the finger of scorn at them as they
passed.
The superior classes--those who do
nothing--regarded them as a sort of lower animals. A letter appeared in the Obscurer one w=
eek
from one of these well-dressed loafers, complaining of the annoyance caused=
to
the better-class visitors by workmen walking on the pavement as they passed
along the Grand Parade in the evening on their way home from work, and
suggesting that they should walk in the roadway. When they heard of the letter a lot of =
the
workmen adopted the suggestion and walked in the road so as to avoid
contaminating the idlers.
This letter was followed by others of a somewh=
at
similar kind, and one or two written in a patronizing strain in defence of =
the
working classes by persons who evidently knew nothing about them. There was also a letter from an individ=
ual
who signed himself 'Morpheus' complaining that he was often awakened out of=
his
beauty sleep in the middle of the night by the clattering noise of the
workmen's boots as they passed his house on their way to work in the
morning. 'Morpheus' wrote that not=
only
did they make a dreadful noise with their horrible iron-clad boots, but they
were in the habit of coughing and spitting a great deal, which was very
unpleasant to hear, and they conversed in loud tones. Sometimes their conversation was not at=
all
edifying, for it consisted largely of bad language, which 'Morpheus' assume=
d to
be attributable to the fact that they were out of temper because they had to
rise so early.
As a rule they worked till half-past five in t=
he
evening, and by the time they reached home it was six o'clock. When they had taken their evening meal =
and
had a wash it was nearly eight: about nine most of them went to bed so as t=
o be
able to get up about half past four the next morning to make a cup of tea
before leaving home at half past five to go to work again. Frequently it happened that they had to=
leave
home earlier than this, because their 'job' was more than half an hour's wa=
lk
away. It did not matter how far aw=
ay the
'job' was from the shop, the men had to walk to and fro in their own time, =
for
Trades Union rules were a dead letter in Mugsborough. There were no tram fares or train fares=
or
walking time allowed for the likes of them.
Ninety-nine out of every hundred of them did n=
ot
believe in such things as those: they had much more sense than to join Trad=
es
Unions: on the contrary, they believed in placing themselves entirely at the
mercy of their good, kind Liberal and Tory masters.
Very frequently it happened, when only a few m=
en
were working together, that it was not convenient to make tea for breakfast=
or
dinner, and then some of them brought tea with them ready made in bottles a=
nd
drank it cold; but most of them went to the nearest pub and ate their food
there with a glass of beer. Even t=
hose
who would rather have had tea or coffee had beer, because if they went to a
temperance restaurant or coffee tavern it generally happened that they were=
not
treated very civilly unless they bought something to eat as well as to drin=
k,
and the tea at such places was really dearer than beer, and the latter was
certainly quite as good to drink as the stewed tea or the liquid mud that w=
as
sold as coffee at cheap 'Workmen's' Eating Houses.
There were some who were--as they
thought--exceptionally lucky: the firms they worked for were busy enough to=
let
them work two hours' overtime every night--till half past seven--without
stopping for tea. Most of these arrived home about eight, completely flatte=
ned
out. Then they had some tea and a =
wash
and before they knew where they were it was about half past nine. Then they went to sleep again till half=
past
four or five the next morning.
They were usually so tired when they got home =
at
night that they never had any inclination for study or any kind of
self-improvement, even if they had had the time. They had plenty of time to study during=
the
winter: and their favourite subject then was, how to preserve themselves fr=
om
starving to death.
This overtime, however, was the exception, for
although in former years it had been the almost invariable rule to work till
half past seven in summer, most of the firms now made a practice of ceasing
work at five-thirty. The revolution
which had taken place in this matter was a favourite topic of conversation
amongst the men, who spoke regretfully of the glorious past, when things we=
re
busy, and they used to work fifteen, sixteen and even eighteen hours a
day. But nowadays there were nearl=
y as
many chaps out of work in the summer as in the winter. They used to discuss=
the
causes of the change. One was, of =
course,
the fact that there was not so much building going on as formerly, and anot=
her
was the speeding up and slave-driving, and the manner in which the work was=
now
done, or rather scamped. As old Ph=
ilpot
said, he could remember the time, when he was a nipper, when such a 'job' as
that at 'The Cave' would have lasted at least six months, and they would ha=
ve
had more hands on it too! But it w=
ould
have been done properly, not messed up like that was: all the woodwork would
have been rubbed down with pumice stone and water: all the knots cut out and
the holes properly filled up, and the work properly rubbed down with
glass-paper between every coat. But
nowadays the only place you'd see a bit of pumice stone was in a glass case=
in
a museum, with a label on it.
'Pumice Stone: formerly used by house-painters.'
Most of them spoke of those bygone times with
poignant regret, but there were a few--generally fellows who had been
contaminated by contact with Socialists or whose characters had been warped=
and
degraded by the perusal of Socialist literature--who said that they did not=
desire
to work overtime at all--ten hours a day were quite enough for them--in fact
they would rather do only eight. W=
hat
they wanted, they said, was not more work, but more grub, more clothes, more
leisure, more pleasure and better homes.
They wanted to be able to go for country walks or bicycle rides, to =
go
out fishing or to go to the seaside and bathe and lie on the beach and so
forth. But these were only a very =
few;
there were not many so selfish as this.
The majority desired nothing but to be allowed to work, and as for t=
heir
children, why, 'what was good enough for themselves oughter be good enough =
for
the kids'.
They often said that such things as leisure,
culture, pleasure and the benefits of civilization were never intended for =
'the
likes of us'.
They did not--all--actually say this, but that=
was
what their conduct amounted to; for they not only refused to help to bring
about a better state of things for their children, but they ridiculed and
opposed and cursed and abused those who were trying to do it for them. The
foulest words that came out of their mouths were directed against the men of
their own class in the House of Commons--the Labour Members--and especially=
the
Socialists, whom they spoke of as fellows who were too bloody lazy to work =
for
a living, and who wanted the working classes to keep them.
Some of them said that they did not believe in
helping their children to become anything better than their parents had been
because in such cases the children, when they grew up, 'looked down' upon a=
nd
were ashamed of their fathers and mothers!
They seemed to think that if they loved and did their duty to their
children, the probability was that the children would prove ungrateful: as =
if
even if that were true, it would be any excuse for their indifference.
Another cause of the shortage of work was the
intrusion into the trade of so many outsiders: fellows like Sawkins and the
other lightweights. Whatever other causes there were, there could be no dou=
bt
that the hurrying and scamping was a very real one. Every 'job' had to be done at once! as =
if it
were a matter of life or death! It=
must
be finished by a certain time. If =
the
'job' was at an empty house, Misery's yarn was that it was let! the people =
were
coming in at the end of the week! therefore everything must be finished by
Wednesday night. All the ceilings =
had to
be washed off, the walls stripped and repapered, and two coats of paint ins=
ide
and outside the house. New drains =
were
to be put in, and all broken windows and locks and broken plaster repaired.=
A
number of men--usually about half as many as there should have been--would =
be
sent to do the work, and one man was put in charge of the 'job'. These sub-foremen or 'coddies' knew tha=
t if
they 'made their jobs pay' they would be put in charge of others and be kep=
t on
in preference to other men as long as the firm had any work; so they helped
Misery to scheme and scamp the work and watched and drove the men under the=
ir
charge; and these latter poor wretches, knowing that their only chance of
retaining their employment was to 'tear into it', tore into it like so many
maniacs. Instead of cleaning any p=
arts
of the woodwork that were greasy or very dirty, they brushed them over with=
a
coat of spirit varnish before painting to make sure that the paint would dr=
y:
places where the plaster of the walls was damaged were repaired with what w=
as
humorously called 'garden cement'--which was the technical term for dirt ou=
t of
the garden--and the surface was skimmed over with proper material. Ceilings=
that
were not very dirty were not washed off, but dusted, and lightly gone over =
with
a thin coat of whitewash. The old =
paper
was often left upon the walls of rooms that were supposed to be stripped be=
fore
being repapered, and to conceal this the joints of the old paper were rubbed
down so that they should not be perceptible through the new paper. As far as possible, Misery and the
sub-foreman avoided doing the work the customers paid for, and even what li=
ttle
they did was hurried over anyhow.
A reign of terror--the terror of the
sack--prevailed on all the 'jobs', which were carried on to the accompanime=
nt
of a series of alarums and excursions: no man felt safe for a moment: at the
most unexpected times Misery would arrive and rush like a whirlwind all ove=
r the
'job'. If he happened to find a man
having a spell the culprit was immediately discharged, but he did not get t=
he
opportunity of doing this very often for everybody was too terrified to lea=
ve
off working even for a few minutes' rest.
From the moment of Hunter's arrival until his
departure, a state of panic, hurry, scurry and turmoil reigned. His strident voice rang through the hou=
se as
he bellowed out to them to 'Rouse themselves! Get it done! Smear it on anyhow! Tar it over!
We've got another job to start when you've done this!'
Occasionally, just to keep the others up to
concert pitch, he used to sack one of the men for being too slow. They all trembled before him and ran ab=
out
whenever he spoke to or called them, because they knew that there were alwa=
ys a
lot of other men out of work who would be willing and eager to fill their
places if they got the sack.
Although it was now summer, and the Distress
Committee and all the other committees had suspended operations, there was
still always a large number of men hanging about the vicinity of the Founta=
in
on the Parade--The Wage Slave Market.
When men finished up for the firm they were working for they usually
made for that place. Any master in=
want
of a wage slave for a few hours, days or weeks could always buy one there.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The men knew this and they also knew th=
at if
they got the sack from one firm it was no easy matter to get another job, a=
nd
that was why they were terrified.
When Misery was gone--to repeat the same
performance at some other job--the sub-foreman would have a crawl round to =
see
how the chaps were getting on: to find out if they had used up all their pa=
int
yet, or to bring them some putty so that they should not have to leave their
work to go to get anything themselves: and then very often Rushton himself
would come and stalk quietly about the house or stand silently behind the m=
en,
watching them as they worked. He s=
eldom
spoke to anyone, but just stood there like a graven image, or walked about =
like
a dumb animal--a pig, as the men used to say.
This individual had a very exalted idea of his own importance and
dignity. One man got the sack for presuming to stop him in the street to ask
some questions about some work that was being done.
Misery went round to all the jobs the next day=
and
told all the 'coddies' to tell all the hands that they were never to speak =
to
Mr Rushton if they met him in the street, and the following Saturday the man
who had so offended was given his back day, ostensibly because there was
nothing for him to do, but really for the reason stated above.
There was one job, the outside of a large house
that stood on elevated ground overlooking the town. The men who were working there were eve=
n more
than usually uncomfortable, for it was said that Rushton used to sit in his
office and watch them through a telescope.
Sometimes, when it was really necessary to get=
a
job done by a certain time, they had to work late, perhaps till eight or ni=
ne
o'clock. No time was allowed for t=
ea,
but some of them brought sufficient food with them in the morning to enable
them to have a little about six o'clock in the evening. Others arranged for their children to b=
ring
them some tea from home. As a rule=
, they
partook of this without stopping work: they had it on the floor beside them=
and
ate and drank and worked at the same time--a paint-brushful of white lead in
one hand, and a piece of bread and margarine in the other. On some jobs, if the 'coddy' happened t=
o be a
decent sort, they posted a sentry to look out for Hunter or Rushton while t=
he
others knocked off for a few minutes to snatch a mouthful of grub; but it w=
as
not safe always to do this, for there was often some crawling sneak with an
ambition to become a 'coddy' who would not scruple to curry favour with Mis=
ery
by reporting the crime.
As an additional precaution against the
possibility of any of the men idling or wasting their time, each one was gi=
ven
a time-sheet on which he was required to account for every minute of the
day. The form of these sheets vary
slightly with different firms: that of Rushton & Co., was as shown.
TIME SHEET=
OF WORK DONE BY IN=
THE
EMPLOY OF
RUSHTON & CO BUILDERS =
&
DECORATORS : MUGSBOROUGH
NO
SMOKING OR INTOXICANTS ALLOWED DURING WORKING HOURS
EACH
PIECE OF WORK MUST BE FULLY DESCRIBED, WHAT IT WAS, AND HOW LONG IT TOOK TO=
DO.
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ | | Time When | Time When |<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> |=
| Where Working | Started |
Finished | Hours | What Doing
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ S=
at | | | =
| |
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ M=
on | | | | |=
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------
Tues | | |
| |=
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------
Wed | | | | |=
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------
Thur | | | | =
|
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------
Fri | | | | |=
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ | | Total Hours | |
-----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------
One M=
onday
morning Misery gave each of the sub-foremen an envelope containing one of t=
he
firm's memorandum forms. Crass ope=
ned
his and found the following:
Crass
When you are on a job with men under you, check
and initial their time-sheets every night.
If they are called away and sent to some other
job, or stood off, check and initial their time-sheets as they leave your j=
ob.
Any man coming on your job during the day, you=
must
take note of the exact time of his arrival, and see that his sheet is charg=
ed
right.
Any man who is slow or lazy, or any man that y=
ou
notice talking more than is necessary during working hours, you must report=
him
to Mr Hunter. We expect you and th=
e other
foremen to help us to carry out these rules, AND ANY INFORMATION GIVEN US A=
BOUT
ANY MAN IS TREATED IN CONFIDENCE.
Rushton & Co.
Note: This applies to all men of all trades who
come on the jobs of which you are the foreman.
Every week the time-sheets were scrutinized, a=
nd
every now and then a man would be 'had up on the carpet' in the office befo=
re
Rushton and Misery, and interrogated as to why he had taken fifteen hours t=
o do
ten hours work? In the event of the
accused being unable to give a satisfactory explanation of his conduct he w=
as
usually sacked on the spot.
Misery was frequently called 'up on the carpet'
himself.
If he made a mistake in figuring out a 'job', =
and
gave in too high a tender for it, so that the firm did not get the work, Ru=
shton
grumbled. If the price was so low that there was not enough profit, Rushton=
was
very unpleasant about it, and whenever it happened that there was not only =
no
profit but an actual loss, Rushton created such a terrible disturbance that
Misery was nearly frightened to death and used to get on his bicycle and ru=
sh
off to the nearest 'job' and howl and bellow at the 'chaps' to get it done.=
All the time the capabilities of the
men--especially with regard to speed--were carefully watched and noted: and
whenever there was a slackness of work and it was necessary to discharge so=
me
hands those that were slow or took too much pains were weeded out: this of
course was known to the men and it had the desired effect upon them.
In justice to Rushton and Hunter, it must be
remembered that there was a certain amount of excuse for all this driving a=
nd
cheating, because they had to compete with all the other firms, who conduct=
ed
their business in precisely the same way.
It was not their fault, but the fault of the system.
A dozen firms tendered for every 'job', and of
course the lowest tender usually obtained the work. Knowing this, they all cut the price do=
wn to
the lowest possible figure and the workmen had to suffer.
The trouble was that there were too many 'mast= ers'. It would have been far better for the w= orkmen if nine out of every ten of the employers had never started business. Then the others would have been able to= get a better price for their work, and the men might have had better wages and conditions. The hands, however, ma= de no such allowances or excuses as these for Misery and Rushton. They never thought or spoke of them exc= ept with hatred and curses. But whenev= er either of them came to the 'job' the 'coddies' cringed and grovelled before them, greeting them with disgustingly servile salutations, plentifully interspersed with the word 'Sir', greetings which were frequently either ignored altogether or answered with an inarticulate grunt. They said 'Sir' at nearly every second = word: it made one feel sick to hear them because it was not courtesy: they were n= ever courteous to each other, it was simply abject servility and self-contempt.<= o:p>
One of the results of all the frenzied hurrying
was that every now and then there was an accident: somebody got hurt: and it
was strange that accidents were not more frequent, considering the risks th=
at
were taken. When they happened to =
be
working on ladders in busy streets they were not often allowed to have anyo=
ne
to stand at the foot, and the consequence was that all sorts and conditions=
of
people came into violent collision with the bottoms of the ladders. Small boys playing in the reckless mann=
er
characteristic of their years rushed up against them. Errand boys, absorbed in the perusal of=
penny
instalments of the adventures of Claude Duval, and carrying large baskets of
green-groceries, wandered into them.
Blind men fell foul of them. Adventurous schoolboys climbed up
them. People with large feet became
entangled in them. Fat persons of =
both
sexes who thought it unlucky to walk underneath, tried to negotiate the nar=
row
strip of pavement between the foot of the ladder and the kerb, and in their
passage knocked up against the ladder and sometimes fell into the road.
Nursemaids wheeling perambulators--lolling over the handle, which they usua=
lly
held with their left hands, the right holding a copy of Orange Blossoms or =
some
halfpenny paper, and so interested in the story of the Marquis of Lymejuice=
--a
young man of noble presence and fabulous wealth, with a drooping golden
moustache and very long legs, who, notwithstanding the diabolical machinati=
ons
of Lady Sibyl Malvoise, who loves him as well as a woman with a name like t=
hat
is capable of loving anyone, is determined to wed none other than the
scullery-maid at the Village Inn--inevitably bashed the perambulators into =
the
ladders. Even when the girls were not reading they nearly always ran into t=
he
ladders, which seemed to possess a magnetic attraction for perambulators and
go-carts of all kinds, whether propelled by nurses or mothers. Sometimes they would advance very cauti=
ously
towards the ladder: then, when they got very near, hesitate a little whethe=
r to
go under or run the risk of falling into the street by essaying the narrow
passage: then they would get very close up to the foot of the ladder, and d=
odge
and dance about, and give the cart little pushes from side to side, until at
last the magnetic influence exerted itself and the perambulator crashed into
the ladder, perhaps at the very moment that the man at the top was stretchi=
ng
out to do some part of the work almost beyond his reach.
Once Harlow had just started painting some
rainpipes from the top of a 40-ft ladder when one of several small boys who
were playing in the street ran violently against the foot. Harlow was so startled that he dropped =
his
brushes and clutched wildly at the ladder, which turned completely round and
slid about six feet along the parapet into the angle of the wall, with Harl=
ow
hanging beneath by his hands. The =
paint
pot was hanging by a hook from one of the rungs, and the jerk scattered the
brown paint it contained all over Harlow and all over the brickwork of the
front of the house. He managed to
descend safely by clasping his legs round the sides of the ladder and slidi=
ng
down. When Misery came there was a row about what he called carelessness. A=
nd
the next day Harlow had to wear his Sunday trousers to work.
On another occasion they were painting the out=
side
of a house called 'Gothic Lodge'. =
At one
corner it had a tower surmounted by a spire or steeple, and this steeple
terminated with an ornamental wrought-iron pinnacle which had to be
painted. The ladder they had was n=
ot
quite long enough, and besides that, as it had to stand in a sort of a cour=
tyard
at the base of the tower, it was impossible to slant it sufficiently: inste=
ad
of lying along the roof of the steeple, it was sticking up in the air.
When Easton went up to paint the pinnacle he h=
ad
to stand on almost the very top rung of the ladder, to be exact, the third =
from
the top, and lean over to steady himself by holding on to the pinnacle with=
his
left hand while he used the brush with his right. As it was only about twenty minutes' wo=
rk
there were two men to hold the foot of the ladder.
It was cheaper to do it this way than to rig u=
p a
proper scaffold, which would have entailed perhaps two hours' work for two =
or
three men. Of course it was very dangerous, but that did not matter at all,
because even if the man fell it would make no difference to the firm--all t=
he
men were insured and somehow or other, although they frequently had narrow
escapes, they did not often come to grief.
On this occasion, just as Easton was finishing=
he
felt the pinnacle that he was holding on to give way, and he got such a fri=
ght
that his heart nearly stopped beating.
He let go his hold and steadied himself on the ladder as well as he =
was
able, and when he had descended three or four steps--into comparative
safety--he remained clinging convulsively to the ladder and feeling so limp
that he was unable to go down any further for several minutes. When he arrived at the bottom and the o=
thers
noticed how white and trembling he was, he told them about the pinnacle bei=
ng
loose, and the 'coddy' coming along just then, they told him about it, and
suggested that it should be repaired, as otherwise it might fall down and h=
urt
someone: but the 'coddy' was afraid that if they reported it they might be
blamed for breaking it, and the owner might expect the firm to put it right=
for
nothing, so they decided to say nothing about it. The pinnacle is still on the apex of the
steeple waiting for a sufficiently strong wind to blow it down on somebody's
head.
When the other men heard of Easton's 'narrow
shave', most of them said that it would have served him bloody well right i=
f he
had fallen and broken his neck: he should have refused to go up at all with=
out
a proper scaffold. That was what T=
HEY
would have done. If Misery or the =
coddy
had ordered any of THEM to go up and paint the pinnacle off that ladder, th=
ey
would have chucked their tools down and demanded their ha'pence!
That was what they said, but somehow or other =
it
never happened that any of them ever 'chucked their tools down' at all,
although such dangerous jobs were of very frequent occurrence.
The scamping business was not confined to hous=
es
or properties of an inferior class: it was the general rule. Large good-class houses, villas and man=
sions,
the residences of wealthy people, were done in exactly the same way. Generally in such places costly and bea=
utiful
materials were spoilt in the using.
There was a large mansion where the interior
woodwork--the doors, windows and staircase--had to be finished in white
enamel. It was rather an old house=
and
the woodwork needed rubbing down and filling up before being repainted, but=
of
course there was not time for that, so they painted it without properly
preparing it and when it was enamelled the rough, uneven surface of the wood
looked horrible: but the owner appeared quite satisfied because it was nice=
and
shiny. The dining-room of the same=
house
was papered with a beautiful and expensive plush paper. The ground of this wall-hanging was mad=
e to
imitate crimson watered silk, and it was covered with a raised pattern in p=
lush
of the same colour. The price mark=
ed on
the back of this paper in the pattern book was eighteen shillings a roll. Slyme was paid sixpence a roll for hang=
ing
it: the room took ten rolls, so it cost nine pounds for the paper and five
shillings to hang it! To fix such a
paper as this properly the walls should first be done with a plain lining p=
aper
of the same colour as the ground of the wallpaper itself, because unless the
paperhanger 'lapps' the joints--which should not be done--they are apt to o=
pen
a little as the paper dries and to show the white wall underneath--Slyme
suggested this lining to Misery, who would not entertain the idea for a
moment--they had gone to quite enough expense as it was, stripping the old
paper off!
So Slyme went ahead, and as he had to make his
wages, he could not spend a great deal of time over it. Some of the joints were 'lapped' and so=
me
were butted, and two or three weeks after the owner of the house moved in, =
as
the paper became more dry, the joints began to open and to show the white
plaster of the wall, and then Owen had to go there with a small pot of crim=
son
paint and a little brush, and touch out the white line.
While he was doing this he noticed and touched=
up
a number of other faults; places where Slyme--in his haste to get the work
done--had slobbered and smeared the face of the paper with fingermarks and
paste.
The same ghastly mess was made of several other
'jobs' besides this one, and presently they adopted the plan of painting st=
rips
of colour on the wall in the places where the joints would come, so that if
they opened the white wall would not show: but it was found that the paste =
on
the back of the paper dragged the paint off the wall, and when the joints
opened the white streaks showed all the same, so Misery abandoned all attem=
pts
to prevent joints showing, and if a customer complained, he sent someone to
'touch it up': but the lining paper was never used, unless the customer or =
the
architect knew enough about the work to insist upon it.
In other parts of the same house the ceilings,=
the
friezes, and the dados, were covered with 'embossed' or 'relief' papers.
The ceiling of the drawing-room was done with a
very thick high-relief paper that was made in sheets about two feet
square. These squares were not ver=
y true
in shape: they had evidently warped in drying after manufacture: to make th=
em
match anything like properly would need considerable time and care. But the men were not allowed to take the
necessary time. The result was tha=
t when
it was finished it presented a sort of 'higgledy-piggledy' appearance. But it didn't matter: nothing seemed to
matter except to get it done. One =
would
think from the way the hands were driven and chivvied and hurried over the =
work
that they were being paid five or six shillings an hour instead of as many
pence.
'Get it done!' shouted Misery from morning till
night. 'For God's sake get it done=
! Haven't you finished yet? We're losing money over this
"job"! If you chaps don'=
t wake
up and move a bit quicker, I shall see if I can't get somebody else who wil=
l.'
These costly embossed decorations were usually
finished in white; but instead of carefully coating them with specially
prepared paint of patent distemper, which would need two or three coats, th=
ey
slobbered one thick coat of common whitewash on to it with ordinary whitewa=
sh
brushes.
This was a most economical way to get over it,
because it made it unnecessary to stop up the joints beforehand--the whitew=
ash
filled up all the cracks: and it also filled up the hollow parts, the crevi=
ces
and interstices of the ornament, destroying the sharp outlines of the beaut=
iful
designs and reducing the whole to a lumpy, formless mass. But that did not
matter either, so long as they got it done.
The architect didn't notice it, because he knew
that the more Rushton & Co. made out of the 'job', the more he himself
would make.
The man who had to pay for the work didn't not=
ice
it; he had the fullest confidence in the architect.
At the risk of wearying the long-suffering rea=
der,
mention must be made of an affair that happened at this particular 'job'.
The windows were all fitted with venetian
blinds. The gentleman for whom all=
the
work was being done had only just purchased the house, but he preferred rol=
ler
blinds: he had had roller blinds in his former residence--which he had just
sold--and as these roller blinds were about the right size, he decided to h=
ave
them fitted to the windows of his new house: so he instructed Mr Rushton to
have all the venetian blinds taken down and stored away up in the loft under
the roof. Mr Rushton promised to h=
ave
this done; but they were not ALL put away under the roof: he had four of th=
em
taken to his own place and fitted up in the conservatory. They were a little too large, so they h=
ad to
be narrowed before they were fixed.
The sequel was rather interesting, for it happ=
ened
that when the gentleman attempted to take the roller blinds from his old ho=
use,
the person to whom he had sold it refused to allow them to be removed; clai=
ming
that when he bought the house, he bought the blinds also. There was a little
dispute, but eventually it was settled that way and the gentleman decided t=
hat
he would have the venetian blinds in his new house after all, and instructed
the people who moved his furniture to take the venetians down again from un=
der
the roof, and refix them, and then, of course, it was discovered that four =
of
the blinds were missing. Mr Rushto=
n was
sent for, and he said that he couldn't understand it at all! The only possible explanation that he c=
ould think
of was that some of his workmen must have stolen them! He would make inquiries, and endeavour =
to
discover the culprits, but in any case, as this had happened while things w=
ere
in his charge, if he did not succeed in recovering them, he would replace t=
hem.
As the blinds had been narrowed to fit the
conservatory he had to have four new ones made.
The customer was of course quite satisfied,
although very sorry for Mr Rushton. They
had a little chat about it. Rushto=
n told
the gentleman that he would be astonished if he knew all the facts: the
difficulties one has to contend with in dealing with working men: one has to
watch them continually! directly one's back is turned they leave off workin=
g!
They come late in the morning, and go home before the proper time at night,=
and
then unless one actually happens to catch them--they charge the full number=
of
hours on their time sheets! Every =
now
and then something would be missing, and of course Nobody knew anything abo=
ut
it. Sometimes one would go unexpec=
tedly
to a 'job' and find a lot of them drunk.
Of course one tried to cope with these evils by means of rules and
restrictions and organization, but it was very difficult--one could not be
everywhere or have eyes at the back of one's head. The gentleman said that he had some ide=
a of
what it was like: he had had something to do with the lower orders himself =
at
one time and another, and he knew they needed a lot of watching.
Rushton felt rather sick over this affair, but=
he
consoled himself by reflecting that he had got clear away with several valu=
able
rose trees and other plants which he had stolen out of the garden, and that=
a
ladder which had been discovered in the hayloft over the stable and taken--=
by
his instructions--to the 'yard' when the 'job' was finished had not been
missed.
Another circumstance which helped to compensate
for the blinds was that the brass fittings throughout the house, finger-pla=
tes,
sash-lifts and locks, bolts and door handles, which were supposed to be all=
new
and which the customer had paid a good price for--were really all the old o=
nes
which Misery had had re-lacquered and refixed.
There was nothing unusual about this affair of=
the
blinds, for Rushton and Misery robbed everybody. They made a practice of annexing every =
thing
they could lay their hands upon, provided it could be done without danger to
themselves. They never did anythin=
g of a
heroic or dare-devil character: they had not the courage to break into bank=
s or
jewellers' shops in the middle of the night, or to go out picking pockets: =
all
their robberies were of the sneak-thief order.
At one house that they 'did up' Misery made a = big haul. He had to get up into the lo= ft under the roof to see what was the matter with the water tank. When he got up there he found a very fi= ne hall gas lamp made of wrought brass and copper with stained and painted gla= ss sides. Although covered with dust, it was otherwise in perfect condition, so Misery had it taken to his own house and cleaned up and fixed in the hall.<= o:p>
In the same loft there were a lot of old brass
picture rods and other fittings, and three very good planks, each about ten
feet in length; these latter had been placed across the rafters so that one
could walk easily and safely over to the tank. But Misery thought they woul=
d be
very useful to the firm for whitewashing ceilings and other work, so he had
them taken to the yard along with the old brass, which was worth about
fourpence a pound.
There was another house that had to be painted
inside: the people who used to live there had only just left: they had move=
d to
some other town, and the house had been re-let before they vacated it. The new tenant had agreed with the agen=
t that
the house was to be renovated throughout before he took possession.
The day after the old tenants moved away, the
agent gave Rushton the key so that he could go to see what was to be done a=
nd
give an estimate for the work.
While Rushton and Misery were looking over the
house they discovered a large barometer hanging on the wall behind the front
door: it had been overlooked by those who removed the furniture. Before returning the key to the agent,
Rushton sent one of his men to the house for the barometer, which he kept in
his office for a few weeks to see if there would be any inquiries about
it. If there had been, it would ha=
ve
been easy to say that he had brought it there for safety--to take care of t=
ill
he could find the owner. The peopl=
e to
whom it belonged thought the thing had been lost or stolen in transit, and
afterwards one of the workmen who had assisted to pack and remove the furni=
ture
was dismissed from his employment on suspicion of having had something to do
with its disappearance. No one ever
thought of Rushton in connection with the matter, so after about a month he=
had
it taken to his own dwelling and hung up in the hall near the carved oak
marble-topped console table that he had sneaked last summer from 596 Grand
Parade.
And there it hangs unto this day: and close be=
hind
it, supported by cords of crimson silk, is a beautiful bevelled-edged card
about a foot square, and upon this card is written, in letters of gold: 'Ch=
rist
is the head of this house; the unseen Guest at every meal, the silent Liste=
ner
to every conversation.'
And on the other side of the barometer is anot=
her
card of the same kind and size which says: 'As for me and my house we will
serve the Lord.'
From another place they stole two large brass
chandeliers. This house had been e=
mpty
for a very long time, and its owner--who did not reside in the town--wished=
to
sell it. The agent, to improve the
chances of a sale, decided to have the house overhauled and redecorated.
When this and all the other work was finished =
they
sent in their account and were paid.
Some months afterwards the house was sold, and
Nimrod interviewed the new proprietor with the object of securing the order=
for
any work that he might want done. =
He was
successful. The papers on the wall=
s of
several of the rooms were not to the new owner's taste, and, of course, the
woodwork would have to be re-painted to harmonize with the new paper. There was a lot of other work besides t=
his: a
new conservatory to build, a more modern bath and heating apparatus to be p=
ut
in, and the electric light to be installed, the new people having an object=
ion
to the use of gas.
The specifications were prepared by an archite=
ct,
and Rushton secured the work. When=
the
chandeliers were taken down, the men, instructed by Misery, put them on a
handcart, and covered them over with sacks and dust-sheets and took them to=
the
front shop, where they were placed for sale with the other stock.
When all the work at the house was finished, it
occurred to Rushton and Nimrod that when the architect came to examine and =
pass
the work before giving them the certificate that would enable them to prese=
nt
their account, he might remember the chandeliers and inquire what had becom=
e of
them. So they were again placed on=
the
handcart, covered with sacks and dust-sheets, taken back to the house and p=
ut
up in the loft under the roof so that, if he asked for them, there they wer=
e.
The architect came, looked ever the house, pas=
sed
the work, and gave his certificate; he never mentioned or thought of the
chandeliers. The owner of the house was present and asked for Rushton's bil=
l,
for which he at once gave them a cheque and Rushton and Misery almost grove=
lled
and wallowed on the ground before him.
Throughout the whole interview the architect and the 'gentleman' had=
kept
their hats on, but Rushton and Nimrod had been respectfully uncovered all t=
he
time, and as they followed the other two about the house their bearing had =
been
expressive of the most abject servility.
When the architect and the owner were gone the=
two
chandeliers were taken down again from under the roof, and put upon a handc=
art,
covered over with sacks and dust-sheets and taken back to the shop and again
placed for sale with the other stock.
These are only a few of the petty thefts commi=
tted
by these people. To give anything approaching a full account of all the rest
would require a separate volume.
As a result of all the hurrying and scamping,
every now and again the men found that they had worked themselves out of a =
job.
Several times during the summer the firm had
scarcely anything to do, and nearly everybody had to stand off for a few da=
ys
or weeks.
When Newman got his first start in the early p=
art
of the year he had only been working for about a fortnight when--with sever=
al
others--he was 'stood off'. Fortun=
ately,
however, the day after he left Rushtons, he was lucky enough to get a start=
for
another firm, Driver and Botchit, where he worked for nearly a month, and t=
hen
he was again given a job at Rushton's, who happened to be busy again.
He did not have to lose much time, for he
'finished up' for Driver and Botchit on a Thursday night and on the Friday =
he
interviewed Misery, who told him they were about to commence a fresh 'job' =
on
the following Monday morning at six o'clock, and that he could start with
them. So this time Newman was only=
out
of work the Friday and Saturday, which was another stroke of luck, because =
it
often happens that a man has to lose a week or more after 'finishing up' for
one firm before he gets another 'job'.
All through the summer Crass continued to be t=
he
general 'colour-man', most of his time being spent at the shop mixing up
colours for all the different 'jobs'. He
also acted as a sort of lieutenant to Hunter, who, as the reader has already
been informed, was not a practical painter.
When there was a price to be given for some painting work, Misery
sometimes took Crass with him to look over it and help him to estimate the
amount of time and material it would take.
Crass was thus in a position of more than ordinary importance, not o=
nly
being superior to the 'hands', but also ranking above the other sub-foremen=
who
had charge of the 'jobs'.
It was Crass and these sub-foremen who were to
blame for most of the scamping and driving, because if it had not been for =
them
neither Rushton nor Hunter would have known how to scheme the work.
Of course, Hunter and Rushton wanted to drive =
and
scamp, but not being practical men they would not have known how if it had =
not
been for Crass and the others, who put them up to all the tricks of the tra=
de.
Crass knew that when the men stayed till half =
past
seven they were in the habit of ceasing work for a few minutes to eat a
mouthful of grub about six o'clock, so he suggested to Misery that as it was
not possible to stop this, it would be a good plan to make the men stop work
altogether from half past five till six, and lose half an hour's pay; and to
make up the time, instead of leaving off at seven-thirty, they could work t=
ill
eight.
Misery had known of and winked at the former p=
ractice,
for he knew that the men could not work all that time without something to =
eat,
but Crass's suggestion seemed a much better way, and it was adopted.
When the other masters in Mugsborough heard of
this great reform they all followed suit, and it became the rule in that to=
wn,
whenever it was necessary to work overtime, for the men to stay till eight
instead of half past seven as formerly, and they got no more pay than befor=
e.
Previous to this summer it had been the almost
invariable rule to have two men in each room that was being painted, but Cr=
ass
pointed out to Misery that under such circumstances they wasted time talkin=
g to
each other, and they also acted as a check on one another: each of them
regulated the amount of work he did by the amount the other did, and if the
'job' took too long it was always difficult to decide which of the two was =
to
blame: but if they were made to work alone, each of them would be on his
mettle; he would not know how much the others were doing, and the fear of b=
eing
considered slow in comparison with others would make them all tear into it =
all
they could.
Misery thought this a very good idea, so the
solitary system was introduced, and as far as practicable, one room, one man
became the rule.
They even tried to make the men distemper large
ceilings single-handed, and succeeded in one or two cases, but after several
ceilings had been spoilt and had to be washed off and done over again, they
gave that up: but nearly all the other work was now arranged on the 'solita=
ry
system', and it worked splendidly: each man was constantly in a state of pa=
nic
as to whether the others were doing more work than himself.
Another suggestion that Crass made to Misery w=
as
that the sub-foremen should be instructed never to send a man into a room to
prepare it for painting.
'If you sends a man into a room to get it read=
y,'
said Crass, ''e makes a meal of it! 'E
spends as much time messin' about rubbin' down and stoppin' up as it would =
take
to paint it. But,' he added, with a
cunning leer, 'give 'em a bit of putty and a little bit of glass-paper, and=
the
paint at the stand, and then 'e gits it in 'is mind as 'e's going in there =
to
paint it! And 'e doesn't mess abou=
t much
over the preparing of it'.
These and many other suggestions--all sorts of
devices for scamping and getting over the work--were schemed out by Crass a=
nd
the other sub-foremen, who put them into practice and showed them to Misery=
and
Rushton in the hope of currying favour with them and being 'kept on'. And
between the lot of them they made life a veritable hell for themselves, and=
the
hands, and everybody else around them.
And the mainspring of it all was--the greed and selfishness of one m=
an,
who desired to accumulate money! F=
or
this was the only object of all the driving and bullying and hatred and cur=
sing
and unhappiness--to make money for Rushton, who evidently considered himsel=
f a
deserving case.
It is sad and discreditable, but nevertheless
true, that some of the more selfish of the philanthropists often became wea=
ry
of well-doing, and lost all enthusiasm in the good cause. At such times they used to say that the=
y were
'Bloody well fed up' with the whole business and 'Tired of tearing their bl=
oody
guts out for the benefit of other people' and every now and then some of th=
ese
fellows would 'chuck up' work, and go on the booze, sometimes stopping away=
for
two or three days or a week at a time.
And then, when it was all over, they came back, very penitent, to ask
for another 'start', but they generally found that their places had been
filled.
If they happened to be good 'sloggers'--men who
made a practice of 'tearing their guts out' when they did work--they were
usually forgiven, and after being admonished by Misery, permitted to resume
work, with the understanding that if ever it occurred again they would get =
the
'infernal'--which means the final and irrevocable--sack.
There was once a job at a shop that had been a
high-class restaurant kept by a renowned Italian chef. It had been known as
=
'MACARONI'S ROYAL ITALIAN CAFE'
Situated on the Grand Parade, it was a favouri=
te
resort of the 'Elite', who frequented it for afternoon tea and coffee and f=
or
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 oth=
er
part was transformed into flats.
Rushton had the contract for the work. When the men went there to 'do it up' t=
hey
found the interior of the house in a state of indescribable filth: the ceil=
ings
discoloured with smoke and hung with cobwebs, the wallpapers smeared and bl=
ack
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 a=
nd
ornamented with childish drawings made with burnt sticks and blacklead penc=
ils,
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 descripti=
on
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 ceil=
ing,
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 ba=
ck
of the table, there was a long narrow cavity or trough, about six inches de=
ep,
four inches wide and as long as the width of the window, the sill forming t=
he
bottom of the cavity.
This trough was filled with all manner of
abominations: fragments of fat and decomposed meat, legs of rabbits and fow=
ls,
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. S=
o 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 anot=
her
pint with him before going back. W=
hen
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 ba=
ck
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 o=
ut
of one of the bottles or a punch in the bloody nose--whichever he liked!
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 shouti=
ng
at them because he said he could not see what they had done. It looked as if they had been asleep al=
l the
morning: Here it was nearly ten o'clock, and as far as he could see, they h=
ad
done Nothing!
When he was gone they drank the rest of the be=
er
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, a=
nd
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 paintwor=
k!'
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 a=
nd
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 remai=
ned 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 passag=
e,
shouting out inquiries as to where all that water came from. Then they heard him advancing towards t=
hem
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 p=
ail
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 t=
he
passage.
They went out to see what he wanted, and he to=
ld
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 th=
em
better than to have all their pieces at once--they had spent all their money
and wanted another drink. Bill Bat=
es
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 th=
em
through the trap-door.
The news of this exploit spread all over the t=
own
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 sp=
ree
and had got the sack for it and most of the chaps said it served them
right. Such conduct as that was go=
ing
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 aw=
ay
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!'
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 wor=
th,
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 sn=
eak
into the other's room and criticize it and point out the faults to anyone e=
lse
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 h=
ad
studied how to avoid all suspicion of being unduly civil:
Ha=
rlow
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 s=
aid
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 o=
f 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 R=
oyal
Cafe till called for.
Mi=
ster
Harlow, Dear Sir: Wood you ki=
nely
oblige me bi cummin to the paint shop
as soon as you can make it convenient as there is a sealin' to be
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 bac=
k to
tear into his own room. 'Same as y=
ou,
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 mad= e a mistake or had an accident or got into any trouble he seldom or never got a= ny sympathy from his fellow workmen. On the contrary, most of them at such times seemed rather pleased than otherwise.<= o:p>
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 wa=
s 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 matte=
r, 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 bur=
n off
this window he did not like to say that he was not used to the work: he hop=
ed
to be able to do it. But he was ve=
ry
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 la=
mp
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 mea=
ltimes
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 thi=
ng 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 al=
l: it
was a ceiling that needed special treatment and they had not been allowed t=
o 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 unfortunat=
es
had been disgraced, increased their own chances of being 'kept on'. And so it was with nearly everything. W=
ith a
few exceptions, they had an immense amount of respect for Rushton and Hunte=
r,
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 in=
to
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 reas=
on;
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 Satur=
day
afternoon just after pay-time one would think them the best friends and mat=
es
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 thi=
ck
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 prevent=
ed
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 i=
s 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 w=
alk
from the shop and at pay-time a number of the men used to go in there to ta=
ke 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',&qu=
ot;
'e ses. "Oh," I ses, loo=
kin'
'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 l=
ike
that--"and I'll attend to it," I ses, "but not otherwise,&qu=
ot;
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. Ye=
s,
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 t=
all
man with a very loud voice--a chap who nearly fell down dead every time Rus=
hton
or Misery looked at him. 'I'm a bl=
oke
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!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 t=
he
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,' sa=
id 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 fo=
ur
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 bl=
oody
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 n=
ever
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 chuc=
ked
the pot o' w'ite paint hover 'im, an' kicked 'im down the bloody stairs.'
'Serve 'im blooming well right, too,' said Cra=
ss
as he took a fresh glass of beer from one of the others, who had just 'stoo=
d'
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' we=
nt
'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 ca=
lls
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 q=
uite
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 speci=
al
manner, he proposed the following toast, which was drunk with enthusiasm:
'To
hell with the man, May he n=
ever
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 mo=
st 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 mi=
x 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. Acr=
oss
the fore part of the boot this hard leather had warped into ridges and vall=
eys,
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 an=
d 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.
He nearly always had an hour for dinner, but he
did not always have it at the same time: sometimes he had it at twelve o'cl=
ock
and sometimes not till two. It all
depended upon what stuff had to be taken to the job.
Often it happened that some men at a distant j=
ob
required some material to use immediately after dinner, and perhaps Crass w=
as
not able to get it ready till twelve o'clock, so that it was not possible to
take it before dinner-time, and if Bert left it till after dinner the men w=
ould
be wasting their time waiting for it: so in such cases he took it there fir=
st
and had his dinner when he came back.
Sometimes he got back about half past twelve, =
and
it was necessary for him to take out another lot of material at one o'clock=
.
In such a case he 'charged' half an hour overt=
ime
on his time sheet--he used to get twopence an hour for overtime.
Sometimes Crass sent him with a handcart to one
job to get a pair of steps or tressels, or a plank, or some material or oth=
er,
and take them to another job, and on these occasions it was often very late
before he was able to take his meals.
Instead of getting his breakfast at eight, it was often nearly nine
before he got back to the shop, and frequently he had to go without dinner
until half past one or two.
Sometimes he could scarcely manage to carry the
pots of paint to the jobs; his feet were so hot and sore. When he had to push the cart it was wor=
se
still, and often when knocking-off time came he felt so tired that he could
scarcely manage to walk home.
But the weather was not always hot or fine:
sometimes it was quite cold, almost like winter, and there was a lot of rain
that summer. At such times the boy
frequently got wet through several times a day as he went from one job to
another, and he had to work all the time in his wet clothes and boots, which
were usually old and out of repair and let in the water.
One of the worst jobs that he had to do was wh=
en a
new stock of white lead came in. T=
his
stuff came in wooden barrels containing two hundredweight, and he used to h=
ave
to dig it out of these barrels with a trowel, and put it into a metal tank,
where it was kept covered with water, and the empty barrels were returned to
the makers.
When he was doing this work he usually managed=
to
get himself smeared all over with the white lead, and this circumstance, and
the fact that he was always handling paint or some poisonous material or ot=
her
was doubtless the cause of the terrible pains he often had in his stomach--=
pains
that sometimes caused him to throw himself down and roll on the ground in
agony.
One afternoon Crass sent him with a handcart t=
o a
job that Easton, Philpot, Harlow and Owen were just finishing. He got there about half past four and h=
elped
the men to load up the things, and afterwards walked alongside the cart with
them back to the shop.
On the way they all noticed and remarked to ea=
ch
other that the boy looked tired and pale and that he seemed to limp: but he=
did
not say anything, although he guessed that they were talking about him. They arrived at the shop a little before
knocking-off time--about ten minutes past five.
Bert helped them to unload, and afterwards, while they were putting
their things away and 'charging up' the unused materials they had brought b=
ack,
he pushed the cart over to the shed where it was kept, on the other side of=
the
yard. He did not return to the sho=
p at
once and a few minutes later when Harlow came out into the yard to get a bu=
cket
of water to wash their hands with, he saw the boy leaning on the side of the
cart, crying, and holding one foot off the ground.
Harlow asked him what was the matter, and whil=
e he
was speaking to him the others came out to see what was up: the boy said he=
had
rheumatism or growing pains or something in his leg, 'just here near the kn=
ee'.
But he didn't say much, he just cried miserably, and turned his head slowly
from side to side, avoiding the looks of the men because he felt ashamed th=
at
they should see him cry.
When they saw how ill and miserable he looked,=
the
men all put their hands in their pockets to get some coppers to give to him=
so
that he could ride home on the tram.
They gave him fivepence altogether, more than enough to ride all the
way; and Crass told him to go at once--there was no need to wait till half
past; but before he went Philpot got a small glass bottle out of his tool b=
ag
and filled it with oil and turps--two of turps and one of oil--which he gav=
e to
Bert to rub into his leg before going to bed: The turps--he explained--was =
to
cure the pain and the oil was to prevent it from hurting the skin. He was to get his mother to rub it in f=
or him
if he were too tired to do it himself.
Bert promised to observe these directions, and, drying his tears, to=
ok
his dinner basket and limped off to catch the tram.
It was a few days after this that Hunter met w=
ith
an accident. He was tearing off on=
his
bicycle to one of the jobs about five minutes to twelve to see if he could
catch anyone leaving off for dinner before the proper time, and while going
down a rather steep hill the front brake broke--the rubbers of the rear one
were worn out and failed to act--so Misery to save himself from being smash=
ed
against the railings of the houses at the bottom of the hill, threw himself=
off
the machine, with the result that his head and face and hands were terribly=
cut
and bruised. He was so badly knock=
ed
about that he had to remain at home for nearly three weeks, much to the del=
ight
of the men and the annoyance--one might even say the indignation--of Mr
Rushton, who did not know enough about the work to make out estimates witho=
ut
assistance. There were several lar=
ge
jobs to be tendered for at the same time, so Rushton sent the specifications
round to Hunter's house for him to figure out the prices, and nearly all the
time that Misery was at home he was sitting up in bed, swathed in bandages,
trying to calculate the probable cost of these jobs. Rushton did not come to see him, but he=
sent
Bert nearly every day, either with some specifications, or some accounts, or
something of that sort, or with a note inquiring when Hunter thought he wou=
ld
be able to return to work.
All sorts of rumours became prevalent amongst =
the
men concerning Hunter's condition. He
had 'broken his spiral column', he had 'conjunction of the brain', or he had
injured his 'innards' and would probably never be able to 'do no more
slave-drivin''. Crass--who had hel=
ped Mr
Rushton to 'price up' several small jobs--began to think it might not be al=
together
a bad thing for himself if something were to happen to Hunter, and he began=
to
put on side and to assume airs of authority.
He got one of the light-weights to assist him in his work of colourm=
an
and made him do all the hard work, while he spent part of his own time visi=
ting
the different jobs to see how the work progressed.
Crass's appearance did him justice. He was wearing a pair of sporting trous=
ers
the pattern of which consisted of large black and white squares. The previous owner of these trousers was
taller and slighter than Crass, so although the legs were about a couple of
inches too long, they fitted him rather tightly, so much so that it was
fortunate that he had his present job of colourman, for if he had had to do=
any
climbing up and down ladders or steps, the trousers would have burst. His
jacket was also two or three sizes too small, and the sleeves were so short
that the cuffs of his flanelette shirt were visible. This coat was made of serge, and its co=
lour
had presumably once been blue, but it was now a sort of heliotrope and viol=
et:
the greater part being of the former tint, and the parts under the sleeves =
of
the latter. This jacket fitted very tightly across the shoulders and back a=
nd
being much too short left his tightly clad posteriors exposed to view.
He however seemed quite unconscious of anything
peculiar in his appearance and was so bumptious and offensive that most of =
the
men were almost glad when Nimrod came back.
They said that if Crass ever got the job he would be a dam' sight wo=
rse
than Hunter. As for the latter, fo=
r a
little while after his return to work it was said that his illness had impr=
oved
his character: he had had time to think things over; and in short, he was e=
ver
so much better than before: but it was not long before this story began to =
be
told the other way round. He was w=
orse
than ever! and a thing that happened about a fortnight after his return cau=
sed
more ill feeling and resentment against him and Rushton than had ever exist=
ed
previously. What led up to it was
something that was done by Bundy's mate, Ted Dawson.
This poor wretch was scarcely ever seen withou=
t a
load of some sort or other: carrying a sack of cement or plaster, a heavy
ladder, a big bucket of mortar, or dragging a load of scaffolding on a
cart. He must have been nearly as =
strong
as a horse, because after working in this manner for Rushton & Co. from=
six
in the morning till half past five at night, he usually went to work in his
garden for two or three hours after tea, and frequently went there for an h=
our
or so in the morning before going to work.
The poor devil needed the produce of his garden to supplement his wa=
ges,
for he had a wife and three children to provide for and he earned only--or
rather, to be correct, he was paid only--fourpence an hour.
There was an old house to which they were maki=
ng
some alterations and repairs, and there was a lot of old wood taken out of =
it:
old, decayed floorboards and stuff of that kind, wood that was of no use
whatever except to burn.
Bundy and his mate were working there, and one
night, Misery came a few minutes before half past five and caught Dawson in=
the
act of tying up a small bundle of this wood.
When Hunter asked him what he was going to do with it he made no att=
empt
at prevarication or concealment: he said he was going to take it home for
fire-wood, because it was of no other use.
Misery kicked up a devil of a row and ordered him to leave the wood
where it was: it had to be taken to the yard, and it was nothing to do with
Dawson or anyone else whether it was any use or not! If he caught anyone ta=
king
wood away he would sack them on the spot. Hunter shouted very loud so that =
all
the others might hear, and as they were all listening attentively in the ne=
xt
room, where they were taking their aprons off preparatory to going home, th=
ey
got the full benefit of his remarks.
The following Saturday when the hands went to =
the
office for their money they were each presented with a printed card bearing=
the
following legend:
Un=
der no
circumstances is any article or material, however trifling, to be taken away by workmen for
their private use, whether waste
material or not, from any workshop or place where work is being done. Foremen are hereby instructed to see
that this order is obeyed and to
report any such act coming to their
knowledge. Any man breaking=
this
rule will be either dismissed w=
ithout
notice or given into custody. =
Rushton & Co.
Most of the men took these cards with the
envelopes containing their wages and walked away without making any comment=
--in
fact, most of them were some distance away before they realized exactly what
the card was about. Two or three o=
f them
stood a few steps away from the pay window in full view of Rushton and Mise=
ry
and ostentatiously tore the thing into pieces and threw them into the
street. One man remained at the pay
window while he read the card--and then flung it with an obscene curse into
Rushton's face, and demanded his back day, which they gave him without any =
remark
or delay, the other men who were not yet paid having to wait while he made =
out
his time-sheet for that morning.
The story of this card spread all over the pla=
ce
in a very short time. It became the talk of every shop in the town. Whenever any of Rushton's men encounter=
ed the
employees of another firm, the latter used to shout after them--'However
trifling!'--or 'Look out, chaps! 'Ere comes some of Rushton's pickpockets.'=
Amongst Rushton's men themselves it became a
standing joke or form of greeting to say when one met another--'Remember! However trifling!'
If one of their number was seen going home wit=
h an
unusual amount of paint or whitewash on his hands or clothes, the others wo=
uld
threaten to report him for stealing the material. They used to say that however trifling =
the
quantity, it was against orders to take it away.
Harlow drew up a list of rules which he said Mr
Rushton had instructed him to communicate to the men. One of these rules provided that everyb=
ody
was to be weighed upon arrival at the job in the morning and again at
leaving-off time: any man found to have increased in weight was to be
discharged.
There was also much cursing and covert resentm=
ent
about it; the men used to say that such a thing as that looked well coming =
from
the likes of Rushton and Hunter, and they used to remind each other of the
affair of the marble-topped console table, the barometer, the venetian blin=
ds
and all the other robberies.
None of them ever said anything to either Mise=
ry
or Rushton about the cards, but one morning when the latter was reading his
letters at the breakfast table, on opening one of them he found that it
contained one of the notices, smeared with human excrement. He did not eat any more breakfast that
morning.
It was not to be much wondered at that none of
them had the courage to openly resent the conditions under which they had to
work, for although it was summer, there were many men out of employment, an=
d it
was much easier to get the sack than it was to get another job.
None of the men were ever caught stealing
anything, however trifling, but all the same during the course of the summer
five or six of them were captured by the police and sent to jail--for not b=
eing
able to pay their poor rates.
All through the summer Owen continued to make
himself objectionable and to incur the ridicule of his fellow workmen by
talking about the causes of poverty and of ways to abolish it.
Most of the men kept two shillings or half a c=
rown
of their wages back from their wives for pocket money, which they spent on =
beer
and tobacco. There were a very few=
who
spent a little more than this, and there were a still smaller number who sp=
ent
so much in this way that their families had to suffer in consequence.
Most of those who kept back half a crown or th=
ree
shillings from their wives did so on the understanding that they were to buy
their clothing out of it. Some of =
them
had to pay a shilling a week to a tallyman or credit clothier. These were the ones who indulged in sho=
ddy
new suits--at long intervals. Othe=
rs
bought--or got their wives to buy for them--their clothes at second-hand sh=
ops,
'paying off' about a shilling or so a week and not receiving the things till
they were paid for.
There were a very large proportion of them who=
did
not spend even a shilling a week for drink: and there were numerous others =
who,
while not being formally total abstainers, yet often went for weeks together
without either entering a public house or tasting intoxicating drink in any
form.
Then there were others who, instead of drinking
tea or coffee or cocoa with their dinners or suppers, drank beer. This did not cost more than the teetotal
drinks, but all the same there are some persons who say that those who swell
the 'Nation's Drink Bill' by drinking beer with their dinners or suppers ar=
e a
kind of criminal, and that they ought to be compelled to drink something el=
se:
that is, if they are working people. As
for the idle classes, they of course are to be allowed to continue to make
merry, 'drinking whisky, wine and sherry', to say nothing of having their b=
eer
in by the barrel and the dozen--or forty dozen--bottles. But of course that's a different matter,
because these people make so much money out of the labour of the working cl=
asses
that they can afford to indulge in this way without depriving their childre=
n of
the necessaries of life.
There is no more cowardly, dastardly slander t=
han
is contained in the assertion that the majority or any considerable proport=
ion
of working men neglect their families through drink. It is a condemned lie. There are some w=
ho do,
but they are not even a large minority.
They are few and far between, and are regarded with contempt by their
fellow workmen.
It will be said that their families had to suf=
fer
for want of even the little that most of them spent in that way: but the
persons that use this argument should carry it to its logical conclusion. Tea is an unnecessary and harmful drink=
; it
has been condemned by medical men so often that to enumerate its evil quali=
ties
here would be waste of time. The same can be said of nearly all the cheap
temperance drinks; they are unnecessary and harmful and cost money, and, li=
ke
beer, are drunk only for pleasure.
What right has anyone to say to working men th=
at
when their work is done they should not find pleasure in drinking a glass or
two of beer together in a tavern or anywhere else? Let those who would presume to condemn =
them
carry their argument to its logical conclusion and condemn pleasure of every
kind. Let them persuade the working
classes to lead still simpler lives; to drink water instead of such unwhole=
some
things as tea, coffee, beer, lemonade and all the other harmful and unneces=
sary
stuff. They would then be able to =
live
ever so much more cheaply, and as wages are always and everywhere regulated=
by
the cost of living, they would be able to work for lower pay.
These people are fond of quoting the figures of
the 'Nation's Drink Bill,' as if all this money were spent by the working
classes! But if the amount of money
spent in drink by the 'aristocracy', the clergy and the middle classes were
deducted from the 'Nation's Drink Bill', it would be seen that the amount s=
pent
per head by the working classes is not so alarming after all; and would
probably not be much larger than the amount spent on drink by those who con=
sume
tea and coffee and all the other unwholesome and unnecessary 'temperance'
drinks.
The fact that some of Rushton's men spent about
two shillings a week on drink while they were in employment was not the cau=
se
of their poverty. If they had never spent a farthing for drink, and if their
wretched wages had been increased fifty percent, they would still have been=
in
a condition of the most abject and miserable poverty, for nearly all the
benefits and privileges of civilization, nearly everything that makes life
worth living, would still have been beyond their reach.
It is inevitable, so long as men have to live =
and
work under such heartbreaking, uninteresting conditions as at present that a
certain proportion of them will seek forgetfulness and momentary happiness =
in
the tavern, and the only remedy for this evil is to remove the cause; and w=
hile
that is in process, there is something else that can be done and that is,
instead of allowing filthy drinking dens, presided over by persons whose
interest it is to encourage men to drink more bad beer than is good for the=
m or
than they can afford,--to have civilized institutions run by the State or t=
he
municipalities for use and not merely for profit. Decent pleasure houses, where no drunke=
nness
or filthiness would be tolerated--where one could buy real beer or coffee or
tea or any other refreshments; where men could repair when their day's work=
was
over and spend an hour or two in rational intercourse with their fellows or
listen to music and singing. Taver=
ns to
which they could take their wives and children without fear of defilement, =
for
a place that is not fit for the presence of a woman or a child is not fit to
exist at all.
Owen, being a teetotaller, did not spend any of
his money on drink; but he spent a lot on what he called 'The Cause'. Every week he bought some penny or twop=
enny
pamphlets or some leaflets about Socialism, which he lent or gave to his ma=
tes;
and in this way and by means of much talk he succeeded in converting a few =
to
his party. Philpot, Harlow and a few others used to listen with interest, a=
nd
some of them even paid for the pamphlets they obtained from Owen, and after
reading them themselves, passed them on to others, and also occasionally 'g=
ot
up' arguments on their own accounts.
Others were simply indifferent, or treated the subject as a kind of
joke, ridiculing the suggestion that it was possible to abolish poverty. Th=
ey
repeated that there had 'always been rich and poor in the world and there
always would be, so there was an end of it'.
But the majority were bitterly hostile; not to Owen, but to
Socialism. For the man himself mos=
t of
them had a certain amount of liking, especially the ordinary hands because =
it
was known that he was not a 'master's man' and that he had declined to 'take
charge' of jobs which Misery had offered to him. But to Socialism they were savagely and
malignantly opposed. Some of those=
who
had shown some symptoms of Socialism during the past winter when they were
starving had now quite recovered and were stout defenders of the Present
System.
Barrington was still working for the firm and
continued to maintain his manner of reserve, seldom speaking unless address=
ed
but all the same, for several reasons, it began to be rumoured that he shar=
ed
Owen's views. He always paid for t=
he
pamphlets that Owen gave him, and on one occasion, when Owen bought a thous=
and
leaflets to give away, Barrington contributed a shilling towards the half-c=
rown
that Owen paid for them. But he never took any part in the arguments that
sometimes raged during the dinner-hour or at breakfast-time.
It was a good thing for Owen that he had his
enthusiasm for 'the cause' to occupy his mind.
Socialism was to him what drink was to some of the others--the thing
that enable them to forget and tolerate the conditions under which they were
forced to exist. Some of them were=
so
muddled with beer, and others so besotted with admiration of their Liberal =
and
Tory masters, that they were oblivious of the misery of their own lives, an=
d in
a similar way, Owen was so much occupied in trying to rouse them from their
lethargy and so engrossed in trying to think out new arguments to convince =
them
of the possibility of bringing about an improvement in their condition that=
he
had no time to dwell upon his own poverty; the money that he spent on leafl=
ets
and pamphlets to give away might have been better spent on food and clothing
for himself, because most of those to whom he gave them were by no means
grateful; but he never thought of that; and after all, nearly everyone spen=
ds
money on some hobby or other. Some
people deny themselves the necessaries or comforts of life in order that th=
ey
may be able to help to fatten a publican.
Others deny themselves in order to enable a lazy parson to live in
idleness and luxury; and others spend much time and money that they really =
need
for themselves in buying Socialist literature to give away to people who do=
n't
want to know about Socialism.
One Sunday morning towards the end of July, a =
band
of about twenty-five men and women on bicycles invaded the town. Two of them--who rode a few yards in fr=
ont of
the others, had affixed to the handlebars of each of their machines a slend=
er,
upright standard from the top of one of which fluttered a small flag of cri=
mson
silk with 'International Brotherhood and Peace' in gold letters. The other standard was similar in size =
and
colour, but with a different legend: 'One for all and All for one.'
As they rode along they gave leaflets to the
people in the streets, and whenever they came to a place where there were m=
any
people they dismounted and walked about, giving their leaflets to whoever w=
ould
accept them. They made several long
halts during their progress along the Grand Parade, where there was a
considerable crowd, and then they rode over the hill to Windley, which they
reached a little before opening time.
There were little crowds waiting outside the several public houses a=
nd a
number of people passing through the streets on their way home from Church =
and
Chapel. The strangers distributed
leaflets to all those who would take them, and they went through a lot of t=
he
side streets, putting leaflets under the doors and in the letter-boxes. When they had exhausted their stock they
remounted and rode back the way they came.
Meantime the news of their arrival had spread,=
and
as they returned through the town they were greeted with jeers and booing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Presently someone threw a stone, and as=
there
happened to be plenty of stones just there several others followed suit and
began running after the retreating cyclists, throwing stones, hooting and
cursing.
The leaflet which had given rise to all this f=
ury
read as follows:
WHAT IS SOCIA=
LISM?
At
present the workers, with hand and brain produce continually food, clothing and all useful and
beautiful things in great abund=
ance.
BU=
T THEY
LABOUR IN VAIN--for they are mostly poor and often in want.
They find it a hard struggle to live.
Their women and children
suffer, and their old age is branded with pauperism.
Socialism is a plan by which poverty will be abolished, and everyone enabled to live in plenty a=
nd
comfort, with leisure and oppor=
tunity
for ampler life.
If=
you
wish to hear more of this plan, come to the field at the Cross Roads on the hill at Windley, =
on
Tuesday evening next at 8 P.M. =
and
LOOK OUT FOR THE
SOCIALIST VAN
The cyclists rode away amid showers of stones
without sustaining much damage. On=
e had
his hand cut and another, who happened to look round, was struck on the
forehead, but these were the only casualties.
On the following Tuesday evening, long before =
the
appointed time, there was a large crowd assembled at the cross roads or the
hill at Windley, waiting for the appearance of the van, and they were evide=
ntly
prepared to give the Socialists a warm reception. There was only one policeman in uniform=
there
but there were several in plain clothes amongst the crowd.
Crass, Dick Wantley, the Semi-drunk, Sawkins, =
Bill
Bates and several other frequenters of the Cricketers were amongst the crow=
d,
and there were also a sprinkling of tradespeople, including the Old Dear an=
d Mr
Smallman, the grocer, and a few ladies and gentlemen--wealthy visitors--but=
the
bulk of the crowd were working men, labourers, mechanics and boys.
As it was quite evident that the crowd meant
mischief--many of them had their pockets filled with stones and were armed =
with
sticks--several of the Socialists were in favour of going to meet the van to
endeavour to persuade those in charge from coming, and with that object they
withdrew from the crowd, which was already regarding them with menacing loo=
ks,
and went down the road in the direction from which the van was expected to
come. They had not gone very far,
however, before the people, divining what they were going to do, began to
follow them and while they were hesitating what course to pursue, the Socia=
list
van, escorted by five or six men on bicycles, appeared round the corner at =
the
bottom of the hill.
As soon as the crowd saw it, they gave an exul=
tant
cheer, or, rather, yell, and began running down the hill to meet it, and in=
a
few minutes it was surrounded by a howling mob.
The van was drawn by two horses; there was a door and a small platfo=
rm
at the back and over this was a sign with white letters on a red ground:
'Socialism, the only hope of the Workers.'
The driver pulled up, and another man on the
platform at the rear attempted to address the crowd, but his voice was
inaudible in the din of howls, catcalls, hooting and obscene curses. After about an hour of this, as the cro=
wd
began pushing against the van and trying to overturn it, the terrified hors=
es
commenced to get restive and uncontrollable, and the man on the box attempt=
ed
to drive up the hill. This seemed to still further infuriate the horde of
savages who surrounded the van. Numbers of them clutched the wheels and tur=
ned
them the reverse way, screaming that it must go back to where it came from;
several of them accordingly seized the horses' heads and, amid cheers, turn=
ed
them round.
The man on the platform was still trying to ma=
ke
himself heard, but without success. The
strangers who had come with the van and the little group of local Socialist=
s,
who had forced their way through the crowd and gathered together close to t=
he
platform in front of the would-be speaker, only increased the din by their
shouts of appeal to the crowd to 'give the man a fair chance'. This little bodyguard closed round the =
van as
it began to move slowly downhill, but they were not sufficiently numerous to
protect it from the crowd, which, not being satisfied with the rate at which
the van was proceeding, began to shout to each other to 'Run it away!' 'Take
the brake off!' and several savage rushes were made with the intention of
putting these suggestions into execution.
Some of the defenders were hampered with their
bicycles, but they resisted as well as they were able, and succeeded in kee=
ping
the crowd off until the foot of the hill was reached, and then someone threw
the first stone, which by a strange chance happened to strike one of the
cyclists whose head was already bandaged--it was the same man who had been =
hit
on the Sunday. This stone was soon
followed by others, and the man on the platform was the next to be struck.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He got it right on the mouth, and as he=
put
up his handkerchief to staunch the blood another struck him on the forehead
just above the temple, and he dropped forward on his face on to the platfor=
m as
if he had been shot.
As the speed of the vehicle increased, a regul=
ar
hail of stones fell upon the roof and against the sides of the van and whiz=
zed
past the retreating cyclists, while the crowd followed close behind, cheeri=
ng,
shrieking out volleys of obscene curses, and howling like wolves.
'We'll give the b--rs Socialism!' shouted Cras=
s,
who was literally foaming at the mouth.
'We'll teach 'em to come 'ere trying to underm=
ined
our bloody morality,' howled Dick Wantley as he hurled a lump of granite th=
at
he had torn up from the macadamized road at one of the cyclists.
They ran on after the van until it was out of
range, and then they bethought themselves of the local Socialists; but they
were nowhere to be seen; they had prudently withdrawn as soon as the van had
got fairly under way, and the victory being complete, the upholders of the
present system returned to the piece of waste ground on the top of the hill,
where a gentleman in a silk hat and frockcoat stood up on a little hillock =
and
made a speech. He said nothing abo=
ut the
Distress Committee or the Soup Kitchen or the children who went to school
without proper clothes or food, and made no reference to what was to be done
next winter, when nearly everybody would be out of work. These were matters=
he
and they were evidently not at all interested in. But he said a good deal about the Glori=
ous
Empire! and the Flag! and the Royal Family.
The things he said were received with rapturous applause, and at the
conclusion of his address, the crowd sang the National Anthem with great en=
thusiasm
and dispersed, congratulating themselves that they had shown to the best of
their ability what Mugsborough thought of Socialism and the general opinion=
of
the crowd was that they would hear nothing more from the Socialist van.
But in this they were mistaken, for the very n=
ext
Sunday evening a crowd of Socialists suddenly materialized at the Cross
Roads. Some of them had come by tr=
ain,
others had walked from different places and some had cycled.
A crowd gathered and the Socialists held a
meeting, two speeches being delivered before the crowd recovered from their
surprise at the temerity of these other Britishers who apparently had not s=
ense
enough to understand that they had been finally defeated and obliterated la=
st
Tuesday evening: and when the cyclist with the bandaged head got up on the
hillock some of the crowd actually joined in the hand-clapping with which t=
he
Socialists greeted him.
In the course of his speech he informed them t=
hat
the man who had come with the van and who had been felled whilst attempting=
to
speak from the platform was now in hospital.
For some time it had been probable that he would not recover, but he=
was
now out of danger, and as soon as he was well enough there was no doubt tha=
t he
would come there again.
Upon this Crass shouted out that if ever the
Vanners did return, they would finish what they had begun last Tuesday. He would not get off so easy next time.=
But when he said this, Crass--not being=
able
to see into the future--did not know what the reader will learn in due time,
that the man was to return to that place under different circumstances.
When they had finished their speech-making one=
of
the strangers who was acting as chairman invited the audience to put questi=
ons,
but as nobody wanted to ask any, he invited anyone who disagreed with what =
had
been said to get up on the hillock and state his objections, so that the
audience might have an opportunity of judging for themselves which side was
right; but this invitation was also neglected.
Then the chairman announced that they were coming there again next
Sunday at the same time, when a comrade would speak on 'Unemployment and
Poverty, the Cause and the Remedy', and then the strangers sang a song call=
ed
'England Arise', the first verse being:
England Arise, the long, long night is over, Faint in the east, behold the Da=
wn
appear Out of your evil dre=
am of
toil and sorrow Arise, O En=
gland!
for the day is here!
During the progress of the meeting several of =
the
strangers had been going out amongst the crowd giving away leaflets, which =
many
of the people gloomily refused to accept, and selling penny pamphlets, of w=
hich
they managed to dispose of about three dozen.
Before declaring the meeting closed, the chair=
man
said that the speaker who was coming next week resided in London: he was no=
t a
millionaire, but a workman, the same as nearly all those who were there
present. They were not going to pay him anything for coming, but they inten=
ded
to pay his railway fare. Therefore=
next
Sunday after the meeting there would be a collection, and anything over the
amount of the fare would be used for the purchase of more leaflets such as
those they were now giving away. He
hoped that anyone who thought that any of the money went into the pockets of
those who held the meeting would come and join: then they could have their
share.
The meeting now terminated and the Socialists =
were
suffered to depart in peace. Some =
of
them, however, lingered amongst the crowd after the main body had departed,=
and
for a long time after the meeting was over little groups remained on the fi=
eld
excitedly discussing the speeches or the leaflets.
The next Sunday evening when the Socialists ca=
me
they found the field at the Cross Roads in the possession of a furious, hos=
tile
mob, who refused to allow them to speak, and finally they had to go away
without having held a meeting. The=
y came
again the next Sunday, and on this occasion they had a speaker with a very
loud--literally a stentorian--voice, and he succeeded in delivering an addr=
ess,
but as only those who were very close were able to hear him, and as they we=
re
all Socialists, it was not of much effect upon those for whom it was intend=
ed.
They came again the next Sunday and nearly eve=
ry
other Sunday during the summer: sometimes they were permitted to hold their
meeting in comparative peace and at other times there was a row. They made several converts, and many pe=
ople
declared themselves in favour of some of the things advocated, but they were
never able to form a branch of their society there, because nearly all those
who were convinced were afraid to publicly declare themselves lest they sho=
uld
lose their employment or customers.
Now a=
nd
then a transient gleam of sunshine penetrated the gloom in which the lives =
of
the philanthropists were passed. T=
he
cheerless monotony was sometimes enlivened with a little innocent merriment.
Every now and then there was a funeral which took Misery and Crass away for=
the
whole afternoon, and although they always tried to keep the dates secret, t=
he
men generally knew when they were gone.
Sometimes the people in whose houses they were
working regaled them with tea, bread and butter, cake or other light
refreshments, and occasionally even with beer--very different stuff from the
petrifying liquid they bought at the Cricketers for twopence a pint. At other places, where the people of the
house were not so generously disposed, the servants made up for it, and
entertained them in a similar manner without the knowledge of their masters=
and
mistresses. Even when the mistress=
es
were too cunning to permit of this, they were seldom able to prevent the men
from embracing the domestics, who for their part were quite often willing t=
o be
embraced; it was an agreeable episode that helped to vary the monotony of t=
heir
lives, and there was no harm done.
It was rather hard lines on the philanthropists
sometimes when they happened to be working in inhabited houses of the better
sort. They always had to go in and=
out
by the back way, generally through the kitchen, and the crackling and hissi=
ng
of the poultry and the joints of meat roasting in the ovens, and the odours=
of
fruit pies and tarts, and plum puddings and sage and onions, were simply
maddening. In the back-yards of th=
ese
houses there were usually huge stacks of empty beer, stout and wine bottles,
and others that had contained whisky, brandy or champagne.
The smells of the delicious viands that were b=
eing
prepared in the kitchen often penetrated into the dismantled rooms that the
philanthropists were renovating, sometimes just as they were eating their o=
wn
wretched fare out of their dinner basket, and washing it down with draughts=
of
the cold tea or the petrifying liquid they sometimes brought with them in
bottles.
Sometimes, as has been said, the people of the
house used to send up some tea and bread and butter or cakes or other
refreshments to the workmen, but whenever Hunter got to know of it being do=
ne
he used to speak to the people about it and request that it be discontinued=
, as
it caused the men to waste their time.
But the event of the year was the Beano, which
took place on the last Saturday in August, after they had been paying in for
about four months. The cost of the
outing was to be five shillings a head, so this was the amount each man had=
to
pay in, but it was expected that the total cost--the hire of the brakes and=
the
cost of the dinner--would come out at a trifle less than the amount stated,=
and
in that case the surplus would be shared out after the dinner. The amount of the share-out would be gr=
eater
or less according to other circumstances, for it generally happened that ap=
art
from the subscriptions of the men, the Beano fund was swelled by charitable
donations from several quarters, as will be seen later on.
When the eventful day arrived, the hands, inst=
ead
of working till one, were paid at twelve o'clock and rushed off home to hav=
e a
wash and change.
The brakes were to start from the 'Cricketers'=
at
one, but it was arranged, for the convenience of those who lived at Windley,
that they were to be picked up at the Cross Roads at one-thirty.
There were four brakes altogether--three large
ones for the men and one small one for the accommodation of Mr Rushton and a
few of his personal friends, Didlum, Grinder, Mr Toonarf, an architect and =
Mr
Lettum, a house and estate Agent. =
One of
the drivers was accompanied by a friend who carried a long coachman's
horn. This gentleman was not paid =
to
come, but, being out of work, he thought that the men would be sure to stand
him a few drinks and that they would probably make a collection for him in
return for his services.
Most of the chaps were smoking twopenny cigars,
and had one or two drinks with each other to try to cheer themselves up bef=
ore
they started, but all the same it was a melancholy procession that wended i=
ts
way up the hill to Windley. To jud=
ge
from the mournful expression on the long face of Misery, who sat on the box
beside the driver of the first large brake, and the downcast appearance of =
the
majority of the men, one might have thought that it was a funeral rather th=
an a
pleasure party, or that they were a contingent of lost souls being conducte=
d to
the banks of the Styx. The man who=
from
time to time sounded the coachman's horn might have passed as the angel
sounding the last trump, and the fumes of the cigars were typical of the sm=
oke
of their torment, which ascendeth up for ever and ever.
A brief halt was made at the Cross Roads to pi=
ck
up several of the men, including Philpot, Harlow, Easton, Ned Dawson, Sawki=
ns,
Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk. The=
two
last-named were now working for Smeariton and Leavit, but as they had been
paying in from the first, they had elected to go to the Beano rather than h=
ave
their money back. The Semi-drunk and one or two other habitual boozers were
very shabby and down at heel, but the majority of the men were decently
dressed. Some had taken their Sunday clothes out of pawn especially for the
occasion. Others were arrayed in n=
ew
suits which they were going to pay for at the rate of a shilling a week.
When all were seated a fresh start was made. The small brake, with Rushton, Didlum,
Grinder and two or three other members of the Band, led the way. Next came the largest brake with Misery=
on
the box. Beside the driver of the third brake was Payne, the foreman carpen=
ter.
Crass occupied a similar position of honour on the fourth brake, on the back
step of which was perched the man with the coachman's horn.
Crass--who had engaged the brakes--had arranged
with the drivers that the cortege should pass through the street where he a=
nd
Easton lived, and as they went by Mrs Crass was standing at the door with t=
he
two young men lodgers, who waved their handkerchiefs and shouted greetings.=
A
little further on Mrs Linden and Easton's wife were standing at the door to=
see
them go by. In fact, the notes of =
the
coachman's horn alarmed most of the inhabitants, who crowded to their windo=
ws
and doors to gaze upon the dismal procession as it passed.
The mean streets of Windley were soon left far
behind and they found themselves journeying along a sunlit, winding road,
bordered with hedges of hawthorn, holly and briar, past rich, brown fields =
of
standing corn, shimmering with gleams of gold, past apple-orchards where
bending boughs were heavily loaded with mellow fruits exhaling fragrant odo=
urs,
through the cool shades of lofty avenues of venerable oaks, whose overarched
and interlacing branches formed a roof of green, gilt and illuminated with
quivering spots and shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trembling
leaves; over old mossy stone bridges, spanning limpid streams that duplicat=
ed
the blue sky and the fleecy clouds; and then again, stretching away to the
horizon on every side over more fields, some rich with harvest, others fill=
ed
with drowsing cattle or with flocks of timid sheep that scampered away at t=
he
sound of the passing carriages. Se=
veral
times they saw merry little companies of rabbits frisking gaily in and out =
of
the hedges or in the fields beside the sheep and cattle. At intervals, away in the distance, nes=
tling
in the hollows or amid sheltering trees, groups of farm buildings and stack=
s of
hay; and further on, the square ivy-clad tower of an ancient church, or per=
haps
a solitary windmill with its revolving sails alternately flashing and darke=
ning
in the rays of the sun. Past thatc=
hed
wayside cottages whose inhabitants came out to wave their hands in friendly
greeting. Past groups of sunburnt,
golden-haired children who climbed on fences and five-barred gates, and wav=
ed
their hats and cheered, or ran behind the brakes for the pennies the men th=
rew
down to them.
From time to time the men in the brakes made
half-hearted attempts at singing, but it never came to much, because most of
them were too hungry and miserable. They
had not had time to take any dinner and would not have taken any even if th=
ey
had the time, for they wished to reserve their appetites for the banquet at=
the
Queen Elizabeth, which they expected to reach about half past three. However, they cheered up a little after=
the
first halt--at the Blue Lion, where most of them got down and had a drink.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Some of them, including the Semi-drunk,=
Ned
Dawson, Bill Bates and Joe Philpot--had two or three drinks, and felt so mu=
ch
happier for them that, shortly after they started off again, sounds of melo=
dy
were heard from the brake the three first named rode in--the one presided o=
ver
by Crass--but it was not very successful, and even after the second halt--a=
bout
five miles further on--at the Warrior's Head, they found it impossible to s=
ing
with any heartiness. Fitful bursts of song arose from time to time from eac=
h of
the brakes in turn, only to die mournfully away. It is not easy to sing on an empty stom=
ach
even if one has got a little beer in it; and so it was with most of them. They were not in a mood to sing, or to
properly appreciate the scenes through which they were passing. They wanted their dinners, and that was=
the
reason why this long ride, instead of being a pleasure, became after a whil=
e, a
weary journey that seemed as if it were never coming to an end.
The next stop was at the Bird in Hand, a waysi=
de
public house that stood all by itself in a lonely hollow. The landlord was a fat, jolly-looking m=
an,
and there were several customers in the bar--men who looked like
farm-labourers, but there were no other houses to be seen anywhere. This extraordinary circumstance exercis=
ed the
minds of our travellers and formed the principal topic of conversation until
they arrived at the Dew Drop Inn, about half an hour afterwards. The first brake, containing Rushton and=
his
friends, passed on without stopping here.
The occupants of the second brake, which was only a little way behind
the first, were divided in opinion whether to stop or go on. Some shouted o=
ut
to the driver to pull up, others ordered him to proceed, and more were
undecided which course to pursue--a state of mind that was not shared by the
coachman, who, knowing that if they stopped somebody or other would be sure=
to
stand him a drink, had no difficulty whatever in coming to a decision, but =
drew
rein at the inn, an example that was followed by both the other carriages as
they drove up.
It was a very brief halt, not more than half t=
he
men getting down at all, and those who remained in the brakes grumbled so m=
uch
at the delay that the others drank their beer as quickly as possible and the
journey was resumed once more, almost in silence. No attempts at singing, no noisy laught=
er;
they scarcely spoke to each other, but sat gloomily gazing out over the
surrounding country.
Instructions had been given to the drivers not=
to
stop again till they reached the Queen Elizabeth, and they therefore drove =
past
the World Turned Upside Down without stopping, much to the chagrin of the
landlord of that house, who stood at the door with a sickly smile upon his
face. Some of those who knew him s=
houted
out that they would give him a call on their way back, and with this he had=
to
be content.
They reached the long-desired Queen Elizabeth =
at
twenty minutes to four, and were immediately ushered into a large room wher=
e a
round table and two long ones were set for dinner--and they were set in a
manner worthy of the reputation of the house.
The cloths that covered the tables and the
serviettes, arranged fanwise in the drinking glasses, were literally as whi=
te
as snow, and about a dozen knives and forks and spoons were laid for each
person. Down the centre of the table glasses of delicious yellow custard and
cut-glass dishes of glistening red and golden jelly alternated with vases of
sweet-smelling flowers.
The floor of the dining-room was covered with
oilcloth--red flowers on a pale yellow ground; the pattern was worn off in
places, but it was all very clean and shining.
Whether one looked at the walls with the old-fashioned varnished oak
paper, or at the glossy piano standing across the corner near the
white-curtained window, at the shining oak chairs or through the open casem=
ent
doors that led into the shady garden beyond, the dominating impression one
received was that everything was exquisitely clean.
The landlord announced that dinner would be se=
rved
in ten minutes, and while they were waiting some of them indulged in a drin=
k at
the bar--just as an appetizer--whilst the others strolled in the garden or,=
by
the landlord's invitation, looked over the house. Amongst other places, they glanced into=
the
kitchen, where the landlady was superintending the preparation of the feast,
and in this place, with its whitewashed walls and red-tiled floor, as in ev=
ery
other part of the house, the same absolute cleanliness reigned supreme.
'It's a bit differint from the Royal Caff, whe=
re
we got the sack, ain't it?' remarked the Semi-drunk to Bill Bates as they m=
ade
their way to the dining-room in response to the announcement that dinner was
ready.
'Not arf!' replied Bill.
Rushton, with Didlum and Grinder and his other friends, sat at the round table near the piano. Hunter took the head of the longer of the other two tables and Crass= the foot, and on either side of Crass were Bundy and Slyme, who had acted with = him as the Committee who had arranged the Beano. Payne, the foreman carpenter, occupied the head of the other table.<= o:p>
The dinner was all that could be desired; it w=
as
almost as good as the kind of dinner that is enjoyed every day by those per=
sons
who are too lazy to work but are cunning enough to make others work for the=
m.
There was soup, several entrees, roast beef,
boiled mutton, roast turkey, roast goose, ham, cabbage, peas, beans and swe=
ets
galore, plum pudding, custard, jelly, fruit tarts, bread and cheese and as =
much
beer or lemonade as they liked to pay for, the drinks being an extra; and a=
fterwards
the waiters brought in cups of coffee for those who desired it. Everything was up to the knocker, and
although they were somewhat bewildered by the multitude of knives and forks,
they all, with one or two exceptions, rose to the occasion and enjoyed
themselves famously. The excellent decorum observed being marred only by on=
e or
two regrettable incidents. The fir=
st of
these occurred almost as soon as they sat down, when Ned Dawson who, althou=
gh a
big strong fellow, was not able to stand much beer, not being used to it, w=
as
taken ill and had to be escorted from the room by his mate Bundy and another
man. They left him somewhere outside and he came back again about ten minut=
es
afterwards, much better but looking rather pale, and took his seat with the
others.
The turkeys, the roast beef and the boiled mut=
ton,
the peas and beans and the cabbage, disappeared with astonishing rapidity,
which was not to be wondered at, for they were all very hungry from the long
drive, and nearly everyone made a point of having at least one helping of
everything there was to be had. So=
me of
them went in for two lots of soup. Then
for the next course, boiled mutton and ham or turkey: then some roast beef =
and
goose. Then a little more boiled m=
utton
with a little roast beef. Each of =
the
three boys devoured several times his own weight of everything, to say noth=
ing
of numerous bottles of lemonade and champagne ginger beer.
Crass frequently paused to mop the perspiration
from his face and neck with his serviette.
In fact everybody had a good time.
There was enough and to spare of everything to eat, the beer was of =
the
best, and all the time, amid the rattle of the crockery and the knives and
forks, the proceedings were enlivened by many jests and flashes of wit that=
continuously
kept the table in a roar.
'Chuck us over another dollop of that there wh=
ite
stuff, Bob,' shouted the Semi-drunk to Crass, indicating the blancmange.
Crass reached out his hand and took hold of the
dish containing the 'white stuff', but instead of passing it to the Semi-dr=
unk,
he proceeded to demolish it himself, gobbling it up quickly directly from t=
he
dish with a spoon.
'Why, you're eating it all yerself, yer bleede=
r,'
cried the Semi-drunk indignantly, as soon as he realized what was happening=
.
'That's all right, matey,' replied Crass affab=
ly
as he deposited the empty dish on the table.
'It don't matter, there's plenty more where it come from. Tell the landlord to bring in another l=
ot.'
Upon being applied to, the landlord, who was
assisted by his daughter, two other young women and two young men, brought =
in
several more lots and so the Semi-drunk was appeased.
As for the plum-pudding--it was a fair knock-o=
ut;
just like Christmas: but as Ned Dawson and Bill Bates had drunk all the sau=
ce
before the pudding was served, they all had to have their first helping wit=
hout
any. However, as the landlord brou=
ght in
another lot shortly afterwards, that didn't matter either.
As soon as dinner was over, Crass rose to make=
his
statement as secretary. Thirty-sev=
en men
had paid five shillings each: that made nine pounds five shillings. The committee had decided that the three
boys--the painters' boy, the carpenters' boy and the front shop boy--should=
be
allowed to come half-price: that made it nine pounds twelve and six. In addition to paying the ordinary
five-shilling subscription, Mr Rushton had given one pound ten towards the
expenses. (Loud cheers.) And sever=
al
other gentlemen had also given something towards it. Mr Sweater, of the Cave, one pound.
As for the expenses, the dinner was two and si=
x a
head, and there was forty-five of them there, so that came to five pounds
twelve and six. Then there was the hire of the brakes, also two and six a h=
ead,
five pound twelve and six, which left a surplus of five pound fifteen to be
shared out (applause), which came to three shillings each for the thirty-se=
ven
men, and one and fourpence for each of the boys. (Loud and prolonged cheers.)
Crass, Slyme and Bundy now walked round the ta=
bles
distributing the share-out, which was very welcome to everybody, especially
those who had spent nearly all their money during the journey from Mugsboro=
ugh,
and when this ceremony was completed, Philpot moved a hearty vote of thanks=
to
the committee for the manner in which they had carried out their duties, wh=
ich
was agreed to with acclamation. Th=
en
they made a collection for the waiters, and the three waitresses, which
amounted to eleven shillings, for which the host returned thanks on behalf =
of
the recipients, who were all smiles.
Then Mr Rushton requested the landlord to serve
drinks and cigars all round. Some =
had
cigarettes and the teetotallers had lemonade or ginger beer. Those who did not smoke themselves took=
the
cigar all the same and gave it to someone else who did. When all were supplied there suddenly a=
rose
loud cries of 'Order!' and it was seen that Hunter was upon his feet.
As soon as silence was obtained, Misery said t=
hat
he believed that everyone there present would agree with him, when he said =
that
they should not let the occasion pass without drinking the 'ealth of their
esteemed and respected employer, Mr Rushton.
(Hear, hear.) Some of them =
had
worked for Mr Rushton on and off for many years, and as far as THEY was
concerned it was not necessary for him (Hunter) to say much in praise of Mr
Rushton. (Hear, hear.) They knew Mr Rushton as well as he did
himself and to know him was to esteem him.
(Cheers.) As for the new hands, although they did not know Mr Rushto=
n as
well as the old hands did, he felt sure that they would agree that as no one
could wish for a better master. (L=
oud
applause.) He had much pleasure in
asking them to drink Mr Rushton's health.
Everyone rose.
'Musical honours, chaps,' shouted Crass, waving
his glass and leading off the singing which was immediately joined in with
great enthusiasm by most of the men, the Semi-drunk conducting the music wi=
th a
table knife:
For
he's a jolly good fellow, F=
or he's
a jolly good fellow, For he=
's a
jolly good fel-ell-O, And s=
o say
all of us, So 'ip, 'ip, 'ip,
'ooray! So 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, '=
ooray!
For
he's a jolly good fellow, F=
or
'e's a jolly good fellow Fo=
r 'e's
a jolly good fel-ell-O, And=
so
say all of us.
'Now three cheers!' shouted Crass, leading off=
.
Hip,
hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip,=
hip,
hooray! Hip, hip, hip, hoor=
ay!
Everyone present drank Rushton's health, or at=
any
rate went through the motions of doing so, but during the roar of cheering =
and
singing that preceded it several of the men stood with expressions of conte=
mpt
or uneasiness upon their faces, silently watching the enthusiasts or lookin=
g at
the ceiling or on the floor.
'I will say this much,' remarked the Semidrunk=
as
they all resumed their seats--he had had several drinks during dinner, besi=
des
those he had taken on the journey--I will say this much, although I did hav=
e a
little misunderstanding with Mr Hunter when I was workin' at the Royal Caff=
, I
must admit that this is the best firm that's ever worked under me.'
This statement caused a shout of laughter, whi=
ch,
however, died away as Mr Rushton rose to acknowledge the toast to his
health. He said that he had now be=
en in
business for nearly sixteen years and this was--he believed--the eleventh
outing he had had the pleasure of attending. During all that time the busin=
ess
had steadily progressed and had increased in volume from year to year, and =
he
hoped and believed that the progress made in the past would be continued in=
the
future. (Hear, hear.) Of course, he realized that the success=
of
the business depended very largely upon the men as well as upon himself; he=
did
his best in trying to get work for them, and it was necessary--if the busin=
ess
was to go on and prosper--that they should also do their best to get the wo=
rk
done when he had secured it for them. (Hear, hear.) The masters could not do
without the men, and the men could not live without the masters. (Hear, hear.)
It was a matter of division of labour: the men worked with their han=
ds
and the masters worked with their brains, and one was no use without the
other. He hoped the good feeling w=
hich
had hitherto existed between himself and his workmen would always continue,=
and
he thanked them for the way in which they had responded to the toast of his
health.
Loud cheers greeted the conclusion of this spe=
ech,
and then Crass stood up and said that he begged to propose the health of Mr
'Unter. (Hear, hear.) He wasn't go=
ing to
make a long speech as he wasn't much of a speaker. (Cries of 'You're all right,' 'Go on,'
etc.) But he felt sure as they wou=
ld all
hagree with him when he said that--next to Mr Rushton--there wasn't no one =
the
men had more respect and liking for than Mr 'Unter. (Cheers.)
A few weeks ago when Mr 'Unter was laid up, many of them began to be
afraid as they was going to lose 'im. He
was sure that all the 'ands was glad to 'ave this hoppertunity of
congratulating him on his recovery (Hear, hear) and of wishing him the best=
of
'ealth in the future and hoping as he would be spared to come to a good many
more Beanos.
Loud applause greeted the conclusion of Crass's
remarks, and once more the meeting burst into song:
For
he's a jolly good fellow Fo=
r he's
a jolly good fellow. For he=
's a
jolly good fellow, And so s=
ay all
of us. So 'ip, 'ip, 'ip,
'ooray! So 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, '=
ooray!
When they had done cheering, Nimrod rose. His voice trembled a little as he thank=
ed
them for their kindness, and said that he hoped he deserved their
goodwill. He could only say that a=
s he
was sure as he always tried to be fair and considerate to everyone. (Cheers.)
He would now request the landlord to replenish their glasses. (Hear, hear.)
As soon as the drinks were served, Nimrod again
rose and said he wished to propose the healths of their visitors who had so
kindly contributed to their expenses--Mr Lettum, Mr Didlum, Mr Toonarf and =
Mr
Grinder. (Cheers.) They were very
pleased and proud to see them there (Hear, hear), and he was sure the men w=
ould
agree with him when he said that Messrs Lettum, Didlum, Toonarf and Grinder
were jolly good fellows.
To judge from the manner in which they sang the
chorus and cheered, it was quite evident that most of the hands did agree.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When they left off, Grinder rose to rep=
ly on
behalf of those included in the toast. He said that it gave them much pleas=
ure
to be there and take part in such pleasant proceedings and they were glad to
think that they had been able to help to bring it about. It was very gratifying to see the good
feeling that existed between Mr Rushton and his workmen, which was as it sh=
ould
be, because masters and men was really fellow workers--the masters did the =
brain
work, the men the 'and work. They =
was
both workers, and their interests was the same.
He liked to see men doing their best for their master and knowing th=
at
their master was doing his best for them, that he was not only a master, bu=
t a
friend. That was what he (Grinder)=
liked
to see--master and men pulling together--doing their best, and realizing th=
at
their interests was identical. (Cheers.)
If only all masters and men would do this they would find that every=
thing
would go on all right, there would be more work and less poverty. Let the men do their best for their mas=
ters,
and the masters do their best for their men, and they would find that that =
was
the true solution of the social problem, and not the silly nonsense that was
talked by people what went about with red flags. (Cheers and laughter.) Most of those fellows were chaps who wa=
s too
lazy to work for their livin'. (He=
ar,
hear.) They could take it from him=
that,
if ever the Socialists got the upper hand there would just be a few of the =
hartful
dodgers who would get all the cream, and there would be nothing left but 'a=
rd
work for the rest. (Hear. hear.) T=
hat's
wot hall those hagitators was after: they wanted them (his hearers) to work=
and
keep 'em in idleness. (Hear, hear.=
) On
behalf of Mr Didlum, Mr Toonarf, Mr Lettum and himself, he thanked them for
their good wishes, and hoped to be with them on a sim'ler occasion in the
future.
Loud cheers greeted the termination of his spe=
ech,
but it was obvious from some of the men's faces that they resented Grinder's
remarks. These men ridiculed Socialism and regularly voted for the continua=
nce
of capitalism, and yet they were disgusted and angry with Grinder! There was
also a small number of Socialists--not more than half a dozen altogether--w=
ho
did not join in the applause. Thes=
e men
were all sitting at the end of the long table presided over by Payne. None of them had joined in the applause=
that
greeted the speeches, and so far neither had they made any protest. Some of them turned very red as they li=
stened
to the concluding sentences of Grinder's oration, and others laughed, but n=
one
of them said anything. They knew b=
efore
they came that there was sure to be a lot of 'Jolly good fellow' business a=
nd
speechmaking, and they had agreed together beforehand to take no part one w=
ay
or the other, and to refrain from openly dissenting from anything that migh=
t be
said, but they had not anticipated anything quite so strong as this.
When Grinder sat down some of those who had
applauded him began to jeer at the Socialists.
'What have you got to say to that?' they shouted. 'That's up against yer!'<= o:p>
'They ain't got nothing to say now.'
'Why don't some of you get up and make a speec=
h?'
This last appeared to be a very good idea to t=
hose
Liberals and Tories who had not liked Grinder's observations, so they all b=
egan
to shout 'Owen!' 'Owen!' 'Come on 'ere.
Get up and make a speech!' 'Be a man!' and so on. Several of those who had been loudest in
applauding Grinder also joined in the demand that Owen should make a speech,
because they were certain that Grinder and the other gentlemen would be abl=
e to
dispose of all his arguments; but Owen and the other Socialists made no
response except to laugh, so presently Crass tied a white handkerchief on a
cane walking-stick that belonged to Mr Didlum, and stuck it in the vase of
flowers that stood on the end of the table where the Socialist group were
sitting.
When the noise had in some measure ceased, Gri=
nder
again rose. 'When I made the few r=
emarks
that I did, I didn't know as there was any Socialists 'ere: I could tell fr=
om
the look of you that most of you had more sense. At the same time I'm rather glad I said=
what
I did, because it just shows you what sort of chaps these Socialists are.
They're pretty artful--they know when to talk and when to keep their mouths
shut. What they like is to get hol=
d of a
few ignorant workin' men in a workshop or a public house, and then they can
talk by the mile--reg'ler shop lawyers, you know wot I mean--I'm right and
everybody else is wrong.
(Laughter.) You know the so=
rt of
thing I mean. When they finds
theirselves in the company of edicated people wot knows a little more than =
they
does theirselves, and who isn't likely to be misled by a lot of claptrap, w=
hy
then, mum's the word. So next time you hears any of these shop lawyers'
arguments, you'll know how much it's worth.'
Most of the men were delighted with this speec=
h,
which was received with much laughing and knocking on the tables. They remarked to each other that Grinde=
r was
a smart man: he'd got the Socialists weighed up just about right--to an oun=
ce.
Then, it was seen that Barrington was on his f=
eet
facing Grinder and a sudden, awe-filled silence fell.
'It may or may not be true,' began Barrington,
'that Socialists always know when to speak and when to keep silent, but the
present occasion hardly seemed a suitable one to discuss such subjects.
'We are here today as friends and want to forg=
et
our differences and enjoy ourselves for a few hours. But after what Mr Grinder has said I am=
quite
ready to reply to him to the best of my ability.
'The fact that I am a Socialist and that I am =
here
today as one of Mr Rushton's employees should be an answer to the charge th=
at
Socialists are too lazy to work for their living. And as to taking advantage of the ignor=
ance
and simplicity of working men and trying to mislead them with nonsensical
claptrap, it would have been more to the point if Mr Grinder had taken some
particular Socialist doctrine and had proved it to be untrue or misleading,
instead of adopting the cowardly method of making vague general charges tha=
t he
cannot substantiate. He would find=
it
far more difficult to do that than it would be for a Socialist to show that
most of what Mr Grinder himself has been telling us is nonsensical claptrap=
of
the most misleading kind. He tells=
us
that the employers work with their brains and the men with their hands. If it is true that no brains are requir=
ed to
do manual labour, why put idiots into imbecile asylums? Why not let them do some of the hand wo=
rk for
which no brains are required? As t=
hey
are idiots, they would probably be willing to work for even less than the i=
deal
"living wage". If Mr Gri=
nder
had ever tried, he would know that manual workers have to concentrate their=
minds
and their attention on their work or they would not be able to do it at
all. His talk about employers bein=
g not
only the masters but the "friends" of their workmen is also mere
claptrap because he knows as well as we do, that no matter how good or bene=
volent
an employer may be, no matter how much he might desire to give his men good
conditions, it is impossible for him to do so, because he has to compete
against other employers who do not do that. It is the bad employer--the
sweating, slave-driving employer--who sets the pace and the others have to
adopt the same methods--very often against their inclinations--or they would
not be able to compete with him. I=
f any
employer today were to resolve to pay his workmen not less wages than he wo=
uld
be able to live upon in comfort himself, that he would not require them to =
do
more work in a day than he himself would like to perform every day of his o=
wn
life, Mr Grinder knows as well as we do that such an employer would be bank=
rupt
in a month; because he would not be able to get any work except by taking i=
t at
the same price as the sweaters and the slave-drivers.
'He also tells us that the interests of masters
and men are identical; but if an employer has a contract, it is to his inte=
rest
to get the work done as soon as possible; the sooner it is done the more pr=
ofit
he will make; but the more quickly it is done, the sooner will the men be o=
ut
of employment. How then can it be =
true
that their interests are identical?
'Again, let us suppose that an employer is, sa=
y,
thirty years of age when he commences business, and that he carries it on f=
or
twenty years. Let us assume that he employs forty men more or less regularly
during that period and that the average age of these men is also thirty yea=
rs
at the time the employer commences business.
At the end of the twenty years it usually happens that the employer =
has
made enough money to enable him to live for the remainder of his life in ea=
se
and comfort. But what about the workman?
All through those twenty years they have earned but a bare living wa=
ge
and have had to endure such privations that those who are not already dead =
are
broken in health.
'In the case of the employer there had been tw=
enty
years of steady progress towards ease and leisure and independence. In the case of the majority of the men =
there
were twenty years of deterioration, twenty years of steady, continuous and
hopeless progress towards physical and mental inefficiency: towards the
scrap-heap, the work-house, and premature death. What is it but false, misleading, nonse=
nsical
claptrap to say that their interests were identical with those of their
employer?
'Such talk as that is not likely to deceive any
but children or fools. We are not children, but it is very evident that Mr
Grinder thinks that we are fools.
'Occasionally it happens, through one or more =
of a
hundred different circumstances over which he has no control, or through so=
me
error of judgement, that after many years of laborious mental work an emplo=
yer
is overtaken by misfortune, and finds himself no better and even worse off =
than
when he started; but these are exceptional cases, and even if he becomes
absolutely bankrupt he is no worse off than the majority of the workmen.
'At the same time it is quite true that the re=
al
interests of employers and workmen are the same, but not in the sense that =
Mr
Grinder would have us believe. Und=
er the
existing system of society but a very few people, no matter how well off th=
ey
may be, can be certain that they or their children will not eventually come=
to
want; and even those who think they are secure themselves, find their happi=
ness
diminished by the knowledge of the poverty and misery that surrounds them on
every side.
'In that sense only is it true that the intere=
sts
of masters and men are identical, for it is to the interest of all, both ri=
ch
and poor, to help to destroy a system that inflicts suffering upon the many=
and
allows true happiness to none. It =
is to
the interest of all to try and find a better way.'
Here Crass jumped up and interrupted, shouting=
out
that they hadn't come there to listen to a lot of speechmaking--a remark th=
at
was greeted with unbounded applause by most of those present. Loud cries of 'Hear, hear!' resounded t=
hrough
the room, and the Semi-drunk suggested that someone should sing a song.
The men who had clamoured for a speech from Ow=
en
said nothing, and Mr Grinder, who had been feeling rather uncomfortable, was
secretly very glad of the interruption.
The Semi-drunk's suggestion that someone should
sing a song was received with unqualified approbation by everybody, includi=
ng
Barrington and the other Socialists, who desired nothing better than that t=
he
time should be passed in a manner suitable to the occasion. The landlord's
daughter, a rosy girl of about twenty years of age, in a pink print dress, =
sat
down at the piano, and the Semi-drunk, taking his place at the side of the
instrument and facing the audience, sang the first song with appropriate
gestures, the chorus being rendered enthusiastically by the full strength of
the company, including Misery, who by this time was slightly drunk from
drinking gin and ginger beer:
'Come, come, come an' 'ave a drink with me Down by the ole Bull and Bush. Come, come, come an' shake 'ands=
with
me Down by the ole Bull and
Bush. Wot cheer me little G=
ermin
band! Fol the diddle di do!=
Come an' take 'old of me 'and
Protracted knocking on the tables greeted the =
end
of the song, but as the Semi-drunk knew no other except odd verses and
choruses, he called upon Crass for the next, and that gentleman accordingly
sang 'Work, Boys, Work' to the tune of 'Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are
marching'. As this song is the
Marseillaise of the Tariff Reform Party, voicing as it does the highest ide=
als
of the Tory workmen of this country, it was an unqualified success, for mos=
t of
them were Conservatives.
'Now
I'm not a wealthy man, But I
lives upon a plan Wot will =
render
me as 'appy as a King; An' =
if you
will allow, I'll sing it to you now, =
For time you know is always on the wing.
Work, boys, work and be contented =
So long as you've enough to buy a meal. For if you will but try, you'll =
be
wealthy--bye and bye-- If y=
ou'll
only put yer shoulder to the wheel.'
'Altogether, boys,' shouted Grinder, who was a
strong Tariff Reformer, and was delighted to see that most of the men were =
of
the same way of thinking; and the 'boys' roared out the chorus once more:
Work, boys, work and be contented =
So long as you've enough to buy a meal For if you will but try, you'll =
be
wealthy--bye and bye If you=
'll
only put your shoulder to the wheel.
As they sang the words of this noble chorus the
Tories seemed to become inspired with lofty enthusiasm. It is of course impossible to say for
certain, but probably as they sang there arose before their exalted imagina=
tions,
a vision of the Past, and looking down the long vista of the years that were
gone, they saw that from their childhood they had been years of poverty and
joyless toil. They saw their fathe=
rs and
mothers, weaned and broken with privation and excessive labour, sinking
unhonoured into the welcome oblivion of the grave.
And then, as a change came over the spirit of
their dream, they saw the Future, with their own children travelling along =
the
same weary road to the same kind of goal.
It is possible that visions of this character =
were
conjured up in their minds by the singing, for the words of the song gave
expression to their ideal of what human life should be. That was all they wanted--to be allowed=
to
work like brutes for the benefit of other people. They did not want to be
civilized themselves and they intended to take good care that the children =
they
had brought into the world should never enjoy the benefits of civilization
either. As they often said:
'Who and what are our children that they shoul=
dn't
be made to work for their betters?
They're not Gentry's children, are they?
The good things of life was never meant for the likes of them. Let 'em work! That's wot the likes of t=
hem
was made for, and if we can only get Tariff Reform for 'em they will always=
be
sure of plenty of it--not only Full Time, but Overtime! As for edication, travellin' in furrin'
parts, an' enjoying life an' all sich things as that, they was never meant =
for
the likes of our children--they're meant for Gentry's children! Our children is only like so much dirt
compared with Gentry's children! T=
hat's
wot the likes of us is made for--to Work for Gentry, so as they can 'ave pl=
enty
of time to enjoy theirselves; and the Gentry is made to 'ave a good time so=
as
the likes of us can 'ave Plenty of Work.'
There were several more verses, and by the time
they had sung them all, the Tories were in a state of wild enthusiasm. Even Ned Dawson, who had fallen asleep =
with
his head pillowed on his arms on the table, roused himself up at the end of
each verse, and after having joined in the chorus, went to sleep again.
At the end of the song they gave three cheers =
for
Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work, and then Crass, who, as the singer of the
last song, had the right to call upon the next man, nominated Philpot, who
received an ovation when he stood up, for he was a general favourite. He ne=
ver
did no harm to nobody, and he was always wiling to do anyone a good turn
whenever he had the opportunity. S=
houts
of 'Good old Joe' resounded through the room as he crossed over to the pian=
o,
and in response to numerous requests for 'The old song' he began to sing 'T=
he
Flower Show':
'Whilst walkin' out the other night, not knowing where to go I saw a bill upon a wall about a
Flower Show.
So I
thought the flowers I'd go and see to pass away the night. And when I got into that Show it=
was a
curious sight. So with your=
kind
intention and a little of your aid,
Tonight some flowers I'll mention which I hope will never fade.'
Omnes: To-night some
flowers I'll mention which I hope will never fade.'
There were several more verses, from which it
appeared that the principal flowers in the Show were the Rose, the Thistle =
and
the Shamrock.
When he had finished, the applause was so
deafening and the demands for an encore so persistent that to satisfy them =
he
sang another old favourite--'Won't you buy my pretty flowers?'
'Ever coming, ever going,
Men and women hurry by,
Heedless of the tear-drops gleaming, In her sad and wistful eye How her little heart is sighing<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Thro' the cold and dreary hours,=
Only listen to her crying, "Won't you buy my pretty
flowers?"'
When the last verse of this sang had been sung
five er six times, Philpot exercised his right of nominating the next singe=
r,
and called upon Dick Wantley, who with many suggestive gestures and grimaces
sang 'Put me amongst the girls', and afterwards called upon Payne, the fore=
man carpenter,
who gave 'I'm the Marquis of Camberwell Green'.
There was a lot of what music-hall artists call
'business' attached to his song, and as he proceeded, Payne, who was ghastly
pale and very nervous, went through a lot of galvanic motions and gestures,
bowing and scraping and sliding about and flourishing his handkerchief in
imitation of the courtly graces of the Marquis.
During this performance the audience maintained an appalling silence,
which so embarrassed Payne that before he was half-way through the song he =
had
to stop because he could not remember the rest.
However, to make up for this failure he sang another called 'We all =
must
die, like the fire in the grate'. =
This
also was received in a very lukewarm manner by the crowd, same of whom laug=
hed
and others suggested that if he couldn't sing any better than that, the soo=
ner
HE was dead the better.
This was followed by another Tory ballad, the
chorus being as follows:
His
clothes may be ragged, his hands may be soiled. But where's the disgrace if for =
bread
he has toiled. His 'art is =
in the
right place, deny it no one can
The backbone of Old England is the honest workin' man.'
After a few more songs it was decided to adjou=
rn
to a field at the rear of the tavern to have a game of cricket. Sides were formed, Rushton, Didlum, Gri=
nder,
and the other gentlemen taking part just as if they were only common people,
and while the game was in progress the rest played ring quoits or reclined =
on
the grass watching the players, whilst the remainder amused themselves drin=
king
beer and playing cards and shove-ha'penny in the bar parlour, or taking wal=
ks
around the village sampling the beer at the other pubs, of which there were
three.
The time passed in this manner until seven o'c=
lock,
the hour at which it had been arranged to start on the return journey; but
about a quarter of an hour before they set out an unpleasant incident occur=
red.
During the time that they were playing cricket=
a
party of glee singers, consisting of four young girls and five men, three of
whom were young fellows, the other two being rather elderly, possibly the
fathers of some of the younger members of the party, came into the field and
sang several part songs for their entertainment. Towards the close of the game most of t=
he men
had assembled in this field, and during a pause in the singing the musicians
sent one of their number, a shy girl about eighteen years of age--who seeme=
d as
if she would rather that someone else had the task--amongst the crowd to ma=
ke a
collection. The girl was very nerv=
ous
and blushed as she murmured her request, and held out a straw hat that
evidently belonged to one of the male members of the glee party. A few of the men gave pennies, some ref=
used
or pretended not to see either the girl or the hat, others offered to give =
her
some money for a kiss, but what caused the trouble was that two or three of
those who had been drinking more than was good for them dropped the still
burning ends of their cigars, all wet with saliva as they were, into the hat
and Dick Wantley spit into it.
The girl hastily returned to her companions, a=
nd
as she went some of the men who had witnessed the behaviour of those who had
insulted her, advised them to make themselves scarce, as they stood a good =
chance
of getting a thrashing from the girl's friends.
They said it would serve them dam' well right if they did get a
hammering.
Partly sobered by fear, the three culprits sne=
aked
off and hid themselves, pale and trembling with terror, under the box seats=
of
the three brakes. They had scarcel=
y left
when the men of the glee party came running up, furiously demanding to see
those who had insulted the girl. A=
s they
could get no satisfactory answer, one of their number ran back and presently
returned, bringing the girl with him, the other young women following a lit=
tle
way behind.
She said she could not see the men they were
looking for, so they went down to the public house to see if they could find
them there, some of the Rushton's men accompanying them and protesting their
indignation.
The time passed quickly enough and by half past
seven the brakes were loaded up again and a start made for the return journ=
ey.
They called at all the taverns on the road, an=
d by
the time they reached the Blue Lion half of them were three sheets in the w=
ind,
and five or six were very drunk, including the driver of Crass's brake and =
the
man with the bugle. The latter was=
so
far gone that they had to let him lie down in the bottom of the carriage
amongst their feet, where he fell asleep, while the others amused themselve=
s by
blowing weird shrieks out of the horn.
There was an automatic penny-in-the-slot piano=
at
the Blue Lion and as that was the last house of the road they made a rather
long stop there, playing hooks and rings, shove-ha'penny, drinking, singing,
dancing and finally quarrelling.
Several of them seemed disposed to quarrel with
Newman. All sorts of offensive rem=
arks
were made at him in his hearing. O=
nce
someone ostentatiously knocked his glass of lemonade over, and a little lat=
er
someone else collided violently with him just as he was in the act of drink=
ing,
causing his lemonade to spill all over his clothes. The worst of it was that most of these =
rowdy
ones were his fellow passengers in Crass's brake, and there was not much ch=
ance
of getting a seat in either of the other carriages, for they were overcrowd=
ed
already.
From the remarks he overheard from time to tim=
e,
Newman guessed the reason of their hostility, and as their manner towards h=
im
grew more menacing, he became so nervous that he began to think of quietly
sneaking off and walking the remainder of the way home by himself, unless he
could get somebody in one of the other brakes to change seats with him.
Whilst these thoughts were agitating his mind,=
Dick
Wantley suddenly shouted out that he was going to go for the dirty tyke who=
had
offered to work under price last winter.
It was his fault that they were all working for
sixpence halfpenny and he was going to wipe the floor with him. Some of his friends eagerly offered to
assist, but others interposed, and for a time it looked as if there was goi=
ng
to be a free fight, the aggressors struggling hard to get at their inoffens=
ive
victim.
Eventually, however, Newman found a seat in
Misery's brake, squatting on the floor with his back to the horses, thankful
enough to be out of reach of the drunken savages, who were now roaring out
ribald songs and startling the countryside, as they drove along, with unear=
thly
blasts on the coach horn.
Meantime, although none of them seemed to noti=
ce
it, the brake was travelling at a furious rate, and swaying about from side=
to
side in a very erratic manner. It =
would
have been the last carriage, but things had got a bit mixed at the Blue Lion
and, instead of bringing up the rear of the procession, it was now second, =
just
behind the small vehicle containing Rushton and his friends.
Crass several times reminded them that the oth=
er
carriage was so near that Rushton must be able to hear every word that was
said, and these repeated admonitions at length enraged the Semi-drunk, who
shouted out that they didn't care a b--r if he could hear. Who the bloody hell was he? To hell with him!
'Damn Rushton, and you too!' cried Bill Bates,
addressing Crass. 'You're only a dirty toe-rag!
That's all you are--a bloody rotter! That's the only reason you gets=
put
in charge of jobs--'cos you're a good nigger-driver! You're a bloody sight worse than Rushto=
n or
Misery either! Who was it started =
the
one-man, one-room dodge, eh? Why, you, yer bleeder!'
'Knock 'im orf 'is bleedin' perch,' suggested
Bundy.
Everybody seemed to think this was a very good
idea, but when the Semi-drunk attempted to rise for the purpose of carrying=
it
out, he was thrown down by a sudden lurch of the carriage on the top of the
prostrate figure of the bugle man and by the time the others had assisted h=
im
back to his seat they had forgotten all about their plan of getting rid of
Crass.
Meantime the speed of the vehicle had increase=
d to
a fearful rate.
Rushton and the other occupants of the little
wagonette in front had been for some time shouting to them to moderate the =
pace
of their horses, but as the driver of Crass's brake was too drunk to unders=
tand
what they said he took no notice, and they had no alternative but to increa=
se
their own speed to avoid being run down.
The drunken driver now began to imagine that they were trying to race
him, and became fired with the determination to pass them. It was a very narrow road, but there wa=
s just
about room to do it, and he had sufficient confidence in his own skill with=
the
ribbons to believe that he could get past in safety.
The terrified gesticulations and the shouts of
Rushton's party only served to infuriate him, because he imagined that they
were jeering at him for not being able to overtake them. He stood up on the footboard and lashed=
the
horses till they almost flew over the ground, while the carriage swayed and
skidded in a fearful manner.
In front, the horses of Rushton's conveyance w=
ere
also galloping at top speed, the vehicle bounding and reeling from one side=
of
the road to the other, whilst its terrified occupants, whose faces were
blanched with apprehension, sat clinging to their seats and to each other,
their eyes projecting from the sockets as they gazed back with terror at th=
eir
pursuers, some of whom were encouraging the drunken driver with promises of
quarts of beer, and urging on the horses with curses and yells.
Crass's fat face was pallid with fear as he cl=
ung
trembling to his seat. Another man=
, very
drunk and oblivious of everything, was leaning over the side of the brake,
spewing into the road, while the remainder, taking no interest in the race,
amused themselves by singing--conducted by the Semi-drunk--as loud as they
could roar:
'Has
anyone seen a Germin band, =
Germin
Band, Germin Band? I've been
lookin' about, Pom--Pom, Po=
m,
Pom, Pom!
'I've searched every pub, both near and far, Near and far, near and far, I want my Fritz, What plays tiddley bits On the big trombone!'
The other two brakes had fallen far behind.
Most of the other men who rode in Nimrod's bra=
ke
were of the 'religious' working man type.
Ignorant, shallow-pated dolts, without as much intellectuality as an
average cat. Attendants at various=
PSAs
and 'Church Mission Halls' who went every Sunday afternoon to be lectured on
their duty to their betters and to have their minds--save the mark!--addled=
and
stultified by such persons as Rushton, Sweater, Didlum and Grinder, not to
mention such mental specialists as the holy reverend Belchers and Boshers, =
and
such persons as John Starr.
At these meetings none of the 'respectable'
working men were allowed to ask any questions, or to object to, or find fau=
lt
with anything that was said, or to argue, or discuss, or criticize. They had to sit there like a lot of chi=
ldren
while they were lectured and preached at and patronized. Even as sheep before their shearers are=
dumb,
so they were not permitted to open their mouths. For that matter they did not wish to be
allowed to ask any questions, or to discuss anything. They would not have been able to. They sat there and listened to what was=
said,
but they had but a very hazy conception of what it was all about.
Most of them belonged to these PSAs merely for=
the
sake of the loaves and fishes. Eve=
ry now
and then they were awarded prizes--Self-help by Smiles, and other books
suitable for perusal by persons suffering from almost complete obliteration=
of
the mental faculties. Besides other
benefits there was usually a Christmas Club attached to the 'PSA' or 'Missi=
on'
and the things were sold to the members slightly below cost as a reward for
their servility.
They were for the most part tame, broken-spiri=
ted,
poor wretches who contentedly resigned themselves to a life of miserable to=
il
and poverty, and with callous indifference abandoned their offspring to the
same fate. Compared with such as t=
hese,
the savages of New Guinea or the Red Indians are immensely higher in the sc=
ale
of manhood. They are free! They call no man master; and if they do=
not
enjoy the benefits of science and civilization, neither do they toil to cre=
ate
those things for the benefit of others.
And as for their children--most of those savages would rather knock =
them
on the head with a tomahawk than allow them to grow up to be half-starved
drudges for other men.
But these were not free: their servile lives w=
ere
spent in grovelling and cringing and toiling and running about like little =
dogs
at the behest of their numerous masters.
And as for the benefits of science and civilization, their only share
was to work and help to make them, and then to watch other men enjoy them.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And all the time they were tame and qui=
et and
content and said, 'The likes of us can't expect to 'ave nothing better, and=
as
for our children wot's been good enough for us is good enough for the likes=
of
them.'
But although they were so religious and
respectable and so contented to be robbed on a large scale, yet in small
matters, in the commonplace and petty affairs of their everyday existence, =
most
of these men were acutely alive to what their enfeebled minds conceived to =
be
their own selfish interests, and they possessed a large share of that singu=
lar
cunning which characterizes this form of dementia.
That was why they had chosen to ride in Nimrod=
's
brake--because they wished to chum up with him as much as possible, in orde=
r to
increase their chances of being kept on in preference to others who were no=
t so
respectable.
Some of these poor creatures had very large he=
ads,
but a close examination would have shown that the size was due to the
extraordinary thickness of the bones.
The cavity of the skull was not so large as the outward appearance of
the head would have led a casual observer to suppose, and even in those
instances where the brain was of a fair size, it was of inferior quality, b=
eing
coarse in texture and to a great extent composed of fat.
Although most of them were regular attendants =
at
some place of so-called worship, they were not all teetotallers, and some of
them were now in different stages of intoxication, not because they had had=
a
great deal to drink, but because--being usually abstemious--it did not take
very much to make them drunk.
From time to time this miserable crew tried to
enliven the journey by singing, but as most of them only knew odd choruses =
it
did not come to much. As for the f=
ew who
did happen to know all the words of a song, they either had no voices or we=
re
not inclined to sing. The most
successful contribution was that of the religious maniac, who sang several
hymns, the choruses being joined in by everybody, both drunk and sober.
The strains of these hymns, wafted back through
the balmy air to the last coach, were the cause of much hilarity to its
occupants who also sang the choruses. As
they had all been brought up under 'Christian' influences and educated in
'Christian' schools, they all knew the words: 'Work, for the night is comin=
g',
'Turn poor Sinner and escape Eternal Fire', 'Pull for the Shore' and 'Where=
is
my Wandering Boy?'
The last reminded Harlow of a song he knew nea=
rly
all the words of, 'Take the news to Mother', the singing of which was much
appreciated by all present and when it was finished they sang it all over
again, Philpot being so affected that he actually shed tears; and Easton
confided to Owen that there was no getting away from the fact that a boy's =
best
friend is his mother.
In this last carriage, as in the other two, th=
ere
were several men who were more or less intoxicated and for the same
reason--because not being used to taking much liquor, the few extra glasses
they had drunk had got into their heads.
They were as sober a lot of fellows as need be at ordinary times, and
they had flocked together in this brake because they were all of about the =
same
character--not tame, contented imbeciles like most of those in Misery's car=
nage,
but men something like Harlow, who, although dissatisfied with their condit=
ion,
doggedly continued the hopeless, weary struggle against their fate.
They were not teetotallers and they never went=
to
either church or chapel, but they spent little in drink or on any form of
enjoyment--an occasional glass of beer or a still rarer visit to a music-ha=
ll
and now and then an outing more or less similar to this being the sum total=
of
their pleasures.
These four brakes might fitly be regarded as so
many travelling lunatic asylums, the inmates of each exhibiting different
degrees and forms of mental disorder.
The occupants of the first--Rushton, Didlum and
Co.--might be classed as criminal lunatics who injured others as well as
themselves. In a properly constituted system of society such men as these w=
ould
be regarded as a danger to the community, and would be placed under such
restraint as would effectually prevent them from harming themselves or
others. These wretches had abandon=
ed
every thought and thing that tends to the elevation of humanity. They had given up everything that makes=
life
good and beautiful, in order to carry on a mad struggle to acquire money wh=
ich
they would never be sufficiently cultured to properly enjoy. Deaf and blind to every other considera=
tion,
to this end they had degraded their intellects by concentrating them upon t=
he
minutest details of expense and profit, and for their reward they raked in
their harvest of muck and lucre along with the hatred and curses of those t=
hey
injured in the process. They knew =
that
the money they accumulated was foul with the sweat of their brother men, and
wet with the tears of little children, but they were deaf and blind and cal=
lous
to the consequences of their greed.
Devoid of every ennobling thought or aspiration, they grovelled on t=
he
filthy ground, tearing up the flowers to get at the worms.
In the coach presided over by Crass, Bill Bate=
s,
the Semi-drunk and the other two or three habitual boozers were all men who=
had
been driven mad by their environment. At
one time most of them had been fellows like Harlow, working early and late
whenever they got the chance, only to see their earnings swallowed up in a =
few
minutes every Saturday by the landlord and all the other host of harpies and
profitmongers, who were waiting to demand it as soon as it was earned. In t=
he
years that were gone, most of these men used to take all their money home
religiously every Saturday and give it to the 'old girl' for the house, and
then, lo and behold, in a moment, yea, even in the twinkling of an eye, it =
was
all gone! Melted away like snow in=
the
sun! and nothing to show for it except an insufficiency of the bare necessa=
ries
of life! But after a time they had become heartbroken and sick and tired of
that sort of thing. They hankered =
after
a little pleasure, a little excitement, a little fun, and they found that it
was possible to buy something like those in quart pots at the pub. They knew
they were not the genuine articles, but they were better than nothing at al=
l, and
so they gave up the practice of giving all their money to the old girl to g=
ive
to the landlord and the other harpies, and bought beer with some of it inst=
ead;
and after a time their minds became so disordered from drinking so much of =
this
beer, that they cared nothing whether the rent was paid or not. They cared but little whether the old g=
irl
and the children had food or clothes. They said, 'To hell with everything a=
nd
everyone,' and they cared for nothing so long as they could get plenty of b=
eer.
The occupants of Nimrod's coach have already b=
een
described and most of them may correctly be classed as being similar to cre=
tin
idiots of the third degree--very cunning and selfish, and able to read and
write, but with very little understanding of what they read except on the m=
ost
common topics.
As for those who rode with Harlow in the last
coach, most of them, as has been already intimated, were men of similar
character to himself. The greater number of them fairly good workmen
and--unlike the boozers in Crass's coach--not yet quite heartbroken, but st=
ill
continuing the hopeless struggle against poverty. These differed from Nimrod's lot inasmu=
ch as
they were not content. They were a=
lways
complaining of their wretched circumstances, and found a certain kind of
pleasure in listening to the tirades of the Socialists against the existing
social conditions, and professing their concurrence with many of the sentim=
ents
expressed, and a desire to bring about a better state of affairs.
Most of them appeared to be quite sane, being =
able
to converse intelligently on any ordinary subject without discovering any
symptoms of mental disorder, and it was not until the topic of Parliamentary
elections was mentioned that evidence of their insanity was forthcoming.
They were usually found in a similar condition=
of
maniacal excitement for some time preceding and during a Parliamentary
election, but afterwards they usually manifested that modification of insan=
ity
which is called melancholia. In fa=
ct
they alternated between these two forms of the disease. During elections, the highest state of
exalted mania; and at ordinary times--presumably as a result of reading abo=
ut
the proceedings in Parliament of the persons whom they had elected--in a st=
ate
of melancholic depression, in their case an instance of hope deferred making
the heart sick.
This condition occasionally proved to be the s=
tage
of transition into yet another modification of the disease--that known as
dipsomania, the phase exhibited by Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk.
Yet another form of insanity was that shown by=
the
Socialists. Like most of their fel=
low
passengers in the last coach, the majority of these individuals appeared to=
be
of perfectly sound mind. Upon ente=
ring
into conversation with them one found that they reasoned correctly and even
brilliantly. They had divided their
favourite subject into three parts.
First; an exact definition of the condition known as Poverty. Secondly; a knowledge of the causes of
Poverty; and thirdly, a rational plan for the cure of Poverty. Those who were opposed to them always f=
ailed
to refute their arguments, and feared, and nearly always refused, to meet t=
hem
in fair fight--in open debate--preferring to use the cowardly and despicable
weapons of slander and misrepresentation.
The fact that these Socialists never encountered their opponents exc=
ept
to defeat them, was a powerful testimony to the accuracy of their reasonings
and the correctness of their conclusions--and yet they were undoubtedly mad.
One might converse with them for an indefinite time on the three divisions =
of
their subject without eliciting any proofs of insanity, but directly one
inquired what means they proposed to employ in order to bring about the
adoption of their plan, they replied that they hoped to do so by reasoning =
with
the others!
Although they had sense enough to understand t=
he
real causes of poverty, and the only cure for poverty, they were neverthele=
ss
so foolish that they entertained the delusion that it is possible to reason
with demented persons, whereas every sane person knows that to reason with a
maniac is not only fruitless, but rather tends to fix more deeply the erron=
eous
impressions of his disordered mind.
The wagonette containing Rushton and his frien=
ds
continued to fly over the road, pursued by the one in which rode Crass, Bill
Bates, and the Semi-drunk; but notwithstanding all the efforts of the drunk=
en
driver, they were unable to overtake or pass the smaller vehicle, and when =
they
reached the foot of the hill that led up to Windley the distance between the
two carriages rapidly increased, and the race was reluctantly abandoned.
When they reached the top of the hill Rushton =
and
his friends did not wait for the others, but drove off towards Mugsborough =
as
fast as they could.
Crass's brake was the next to arrive at the
summit, and they halted there to wait for the other two conveyances and when
they came up all those who lived nearby got out, and some of them sang 'God
Save the King', and then with shouts of 'Good Night', and cries of 'Don't
forget six o'clock Monday morning', they dispersed to their homes and the
carriages moved off once more.
At intervals as they passed through Windley br=
ief
stoppages were made in order to enable others to get out, and by the time t=
hey
reached the top of the long incline that led down into Mugsborough it was
nearly twelve o'clock and the brakes were almost empty, the only passengers
being Owen and four or five others who lived down town. By ones and twos these also departed, d=
isappearing
into the obscurity of the night, until there was none left, and the Beano w=
as
an event of the past.
The o=
utlook
for the approaching winter was--as usual--gloomy in the extreme. One of the leading daily newspapers pub=
lished
an article prophesying a period of severe industrial depression. 'As the warehouses were glutted with the
things produced by the working classes, there was no need for them to do any
more work--at present; and so they would now have to go and starve until su=
ch
time as their masters had sold or consumed the things already produced.'
Most of the writers of these Liberal and Tory
papers seemed to think that all that was necessary was to find 'Work' for t=
he
'working' class! That was their conception of a civilized nation in the twe=
ntieth
century! For the majority of the p=
eople
to work like brutes in order to obtain a 'living wage' for themselves and to
create luxuries for a small minority of persons who are too lazy to work at
all! And although this was all they
thought was necessary, they did not know what to do in order to bring even =
that
much to pass! Winter was returning,
bringing in its train the usual crop of horrors, and the Liberal and Tory
monopolists of wisdom did not know what to do!
Rushton's had so little work in that nearly all
the hands expected that they would be slaughtered the next Saturday after t=
he
'Beano' and there was one man--Jim Smith he was called--who was not allowed=
to
live even till then: he got the sack before breakfast on the Monday morning
after the Beano.
This man was about forty-five years old, but v=
ery
short for his age, being only a little over five feet in height. The other men used to say that Little J=
im was
not made right, for while his body was big enough for a six-footer, his legs
were very short, and the fact that he was rather inclined to be fat added to
the oddity of his appearance.
On the Monday morning after the Beano he was painting an upper room in a house where several other men were working, and= it was customary for the coddy to shout 'Yo! Ho!' at mealtimes, to let the han= ds know when it was time to leave off work. At about ten minutes to eight, Jim had squared the part of the work = he had been doing--the window--so he decided not to start on the door or the skirting until after breakfast. Whilst he was waiting for the foreman to sh= out 'Yo! Ho!' his mind reverted to the Beano, and he began to hum the tunes of = some of the songs that had been sung. He hummed the tune of 'He's a jolly good fellow', and he could not get the tune out of his mind: it kept buzzing in his head. He wondered what time it was? It could not be very far off = eight now, to judge by the amount of work he had done since six o'clock. He had rubbed down and stopped all the woodwork and painted the window. A= jolly good two hours' work! He was only getting sixpence-halfpenny an hour and if he hadn't earned a bob he hadn't earned nothing! Anyhow, whether he= had done enough for 'em or not he wasn't goin' to do no more before breakfast.<= o:p>
The tune of 'He's a jolly good fellow' was sti=
ll
buzzing in his head; he thrust his hands deep down in his trouser pockets, =
and
began to polka round the room, humming softly:
'I
won't do no more before breakfast!
I won't do no more before breakfast! I won't do no more before
breakfast! So 'ip 'ip 'ip
'ooray! So 'ip 'ip 'ip 'oor=
ay So
'ip 'ip 'ooray! I won't do =
no
more before breakfast--etc.'
'No! and you won't do but very little after
breakfast, here!' shouted Hunter, suddenly entering the room.
'I've bin watchin' of you through the crack of=
the
door for the last 'arf hour; and you've not done a dam' stroke all the
time. You make out yer time sheet,=
and
go to the office at nine o'clock and git yer money; we can't afford to pay =
you
for playing the fool.'
Leaving the man dumbfounded and without waiting
for a reply, Misery went downstairs and after kicking up a devil of a row w=
ith
the foreman for the lack of discipline on the job, he instructed him that S=
mith
was not to be permitted to resume work after breakfast. Then he rode away. He had come in so
stealthily that no one had known anything of his arrival until they heard h=
im
bellowing at Smith.
The latter did not stay to take breakfast but =
went
off at once, and when he was gone the other chaps said it served him bloody
well right: he was always singing, he ought to have more sense. You can't do as you like nowadays you k=
now!
Easton--who was working at another job with Cr=
ass
as his foreman--knew that unless some more work came in he was likely to be=
one
of those who would have to go. As =
far as
he could see it was only a week or two at the most before everything would =
be
finished up. But notwithstanding t=
he
prospect of being out of work so soon he was far happier than he had been f=
or
several months past, for he imagined he had discovered the cause of Ruth's
strange manner.
This knowledge came to him on the night of the
Beano. When he arrived home he fou=
nd
that Ruth had already gone to bed: she had not been well, and it was Mrs
Linden's explanation of her illness that led Easton to think that he had
discovered the cause of the unhappiness of the last few months. Now that he knew--as he thought--he bla=
med
himself for not having been more considerate and patient with her. At the same time he was at a loss to
understand why she had not told him about it herself. The only explanation =
he
could think of was the one suggested by Mrs Linden--that at such times women
often behaved strangely. However t=
hat
might be, he was glad to think he knew the reason of it all, and he resolved
that he would be more gentle and forebearing with her.
The place where he was working was practically
finished. It was a large house cal=
led
'The Refuge', very similar to 'The Cave', and during the last week or two, =
it
had become what they called a 'hospital'. That is, as the other jobs became
finished the men were nearly all sent to this one, so that there was quite a
large crowd of them there. The ins=
ide
work was all finished--with the exception of the kitchen, which was used as=
a
mess room, and the scullery, which was the paint shop.
Everybody was working on the job. Poor old Joe Philpot, whose rheumatism =
had
been very bad lately, was doing a very rough job--painting the gable from a
long ladder.
But though there were plenty of younger men mo=
re
suitable for this, Philpot did not care to complain for fear Crass or Misery
should think he was not up to his work.
At dinner time all the old hands assembled in the kitchen, including=
Crass,
Easton, Harlow, Bundy and Dick Wantley, who still sat on a pail behind his
usual moat.
Philpot and Harlow were absent and everybody
wondered what had become of them.
Several times during the morning they had been
seen whispering together and comparing scraps of paper, and various theories
were put forward to account for their disappearance. Most of the men thought they must have =
heard
something good about the probable winner of the Handicap and had gone to put
something on. Some others thought =
that
perhaps they had heard of another 'job' about to be started by some other f=
irm
and had gone to inquire about it.
'Looks to me as if they'll stand a very good
chance of gettin' drowned if they're gone very far,' remarked Easton, refer=
ring
to the weather. It had been threatening to rain all the morning, and during=
the
last few minutes it had become so dark that Crass lit the gas, so that--as =
he
expressed it--they should be able to see the way to their mouths. Outside, =
the
wind grew more boisterous every moment; the darkness continued to increase,=
and
presently there succeeded a torrential downfall of rain, which beat fiercely
against the windows, and poured in torrents down the glass. The men glanced gloomily at each other.=
No
more work could be done outside that day, and there was nothing left to do
inside. As they were paid by the h=
our,
this would mean that they would have to lose half a day's pay.
'If it keeps on like this we won't be able to =
do
no more work, and we won't be able to go home either,' remarked Easton.
'Well, we're all right 'ere, ain't we?' said t=
he
man behind the moat; 'there's a nice fire and plenty of heasy chairs. Wot the 'ell more do you want?'
'Yes,' remarked another philosopher. 'If we only had a shove-ha'penny table =
or a
ring board, I reckon we should be able to enjoy ourselves all right.'
Philpot and Harlow were still absent, and the
others again fell to wondering where they could be.
'I see old Joe up on 'is ladder only a few min=
utes
before twelve,' remarked Wantley.
Everyone agreed that it was a mystery.
At this moment the two truants returned, looki=
ng
very important.
Philpot was armed with a hammer and carried a =
pair
of steps, while Harlow bore a large piece of wallpaper which the two of them
proceeded to tack on the wall, much to the amusement of the others, who read
the announcement opposite written in charcoal.
Every day at meals since Barrington's unexpect=
ed
outburst at the Beano dinner, the men had been trying their best to 'kid him
on' to make another speech, but so far without success. If anything, he had been even more sile=
nt and
reserved than before, as if he felt some regret that he had spoken as he ha=
d on
that occasion. Crass and his disci=
ples
attributed Barrington's manner to fear that he was going to get the sack for
his trouble and they agreed amongst themselves that it would serve him bloo=
dy
well right if 'e did get the push.
When they had fixed the poster on the wall,
Philpot stood the steps in the corner of the room, with the back part facing
outwards, and then, everything being ready for the lecturer, the two sat do=
wn
in their accustomed places and began to eat their dinners, Harlow remarking
that they would have to buck up or they would be too late for the meeting; =
and
the rest of the crowd began to discuss the poster.
'Wot the 'ell does PLO mean?' demanded Bundy, =
with
a puzzled expression.
'Plain Layer On,' answered Philpot modestly.
''Ave you ever 'eard the Professor preach befo=
re?'
inquired the man on the pail, addressing Bundy.
Imperial Bankq=
uet
Hall 'The Refuge'
Professor
Barrington
WILL DELIVER A
ORATIO=
N
ENTITLED
THE GREAT SEC=
RET,
OR HOW TO=
LIVE
WITHOUT WORK
The Rev. Joe Ph=
ilpot
PLO (Late absconding secr=
etary
of the light refreshment fund) =
Will take the chair and
anything else
he can lay his hands on.
At The End Of The
Lecture A
MEETING WILL BE ARRANG=
ED And carried out according to the Marquis of Queens=
bury's
Rules.
A Collection will=
be
took up in a=
id of
the cost of printing 'Only once, at the Beano,' replied th=
at
individual; 'an' that was once too often!'
'Finest speaker I ever 'eard,' said the man on=
the
pail with enthusiasm. 'I wouldn't =
miss
this lecture for anything: this is one of 'is best subjects. I got 'ere about two hours before the d=
oors
was opened, so as to be sure to get a seat.'
'Yes, it's a very good subject,' said Crass, w=
ith
a sneer. 'I believe most of the La=
bour
Members in Parliament is well up in it.'
'And wot about the other members?' demanded
Philpot. 'Seems to me as if most o=
f them
knows something about it too.'
'The difference is,' said Owen, 'the working
classes voluntarily pay to keep the Labour Members, but whether they like i=
t or
not, they have to keep the others.'
'The Labour members is sent to the 'Ouse of
Commons,' said Harlow, 'and paid their wages to do certain work for the ben=
efit
of the working classes, just the same as we're sent 'ere and paid our wages=
by
the Bloke to paint this 'ouse.'
'Yes,' said Crass; 'but if we didn't do the wo=
rk
we're paid to do, we should bloody soon get the sack.'
'I can't see how we've got to keep the other
members,' said Slyme; 'they're mostly rich men, and they live on their own
money.'
'Of course,' said Crass. 'And I should like to know where we sho=
uld be
without 'em! Talk about us keepin'
them! It seems to me more like it =
that
they keeps us! The likes of us liv=
es on
rich people. Where should we be if=
it
wasn't for all the money they spend and the work they 'as done? If the owner of this 'ouse 'adn't 'ad t=
he
money to spend to 'ave it done up, most of us would 'ave bin out of work th=
is
last six weeks, and starvin', the same as lots of others 'as been.'
'Oh yes, that's right enough,' agreed Bundy. 'Labour is no good without Capital. Before any work can be done there's one=
thing
necessary, and that's money. It wo=
uld be
easy to find work for all the unemployed if the local authorities could only
raise the money.'
'Yes; that's quite true,' said Owen. 'And that proves that money is the caus=
e of
poverty, because poverty consists in being short of the necessaries of life:
the necessaries of life are all produced by labour applied to the raw
materials: the raw materials exist in abundance and there are plenty of peo=
ple
able and willing to work; but under present conditions no work can be done
without money; and so we have the spectacle of a great army of people compe=
lled
to stand idle and starve by the side of the raw materials from which their
labour could produce abundance of all the things they need--they are render=
ed
helpless by the power of Money! Th=
ose
who possess all the money say that the necessaries of life shall not be
produced except for their profit.'
'Yes! and you can't alter it,' said Crass,
triumphantly. 'It's always been li=
ke it,
and it always will be like it.'
''Ear! 'Ear!' shouted the man behind the
moat. 'There's always been rich an=
d poor
in the world, and there always will be.'
Several others expressed their enthusiastic
agreement with Crass's opinion, and most of them appeared to be highly
delighted to think that the existing state of affairs could never be altere=
d.
'It hasn't always been like it, and it won't
always be like it,' said Owen. 'Th=
e time
will come, and it's not very far distant, when the necessaries of life will=
be
produced for use and not for profit. The
time is coming when it will no longer be possible for a few selfish people =
to
condemn thousands of men and women and little children to live in misery and
die of want.'
'Ah well, it won't be in your time, or mine
either,' said Crass gleefully, and most of the others laughed with imbecile
satisfaction.
'I've 'eard a 'ell of a lot about this 'ere
Socialism,' remarked the man behind the moat, 'but up to now I've never met
nobody wot could tell you plainly exactly wot it is.'
'Yes; that's what I should like to know too,' =
said
Easton.
'Socialism means, "What's yours is mine, =
and
what's mine's me own,"' observed Bundy, and during the laughter that
greeted this definition Slyme was heard to say that Socialism meant
Materialism, Atheism and Free Love, and if it were ever to come about it wo=
uld
degrade men and women to the level of brute beasts. Harlow said Socialism was a beautiful i=
deal,
which he for one would be very glad to see realized, and he was afraid it w=
as
altogether too good to be practical, because human nature is too mean and
selfish. Sawkins said that Sociali=
sm was
a lot of bloody rot, and Crass expressed the opinion--which he had culled f=
rom
the delectable columns of the Obscurer--that it meant robbing the industrio=
us
for the benefit of the idle and thriftless.
Philpot had by this time finished his bread and
cheese, and, having taken a final draught of tea, he rose to his feet, and
crossing over to the corner of the room, ascended the pulpit, being immedia=
tely
greeted with a tremendous outburst of hooting, howling and booing, which he
smilingly acknowledged by removing his cap from his bald head and bowing
repeatedly. When the storm of shri=
eks,
yells, groans and catcalls had in some degree subsided, and Philpot was abl=
e to
make himself heard, he addressed the meeting as follows:
'Gentlemen: First of all I beg to thank you ve=
ry
sincerely for the magnificent and cordial reception you have given me on th=
is
occasion, and I shall try to deserve your good opinion by opening the meeti=
ng
as briefly as possible.
'Putting all jokes aside, I think we're all ag=
reed
about one thing, and that is, that there's plenty of room for improvement in
things in general. (Hear, hear.) As our other lecturer, Professor Owen,
pointed out in one of 'is lectures and as most of you 'ave read in the
newspapers, although British trade was never so good before as it is now, t=
here
was never so much misery and poverty, and so many people out of work, and so
many small shopkeepers goin' up the spout as there is at this partickiler t=
ime. Now, some people tells us as the way to=
put
everything right is to 'ave Free Trade and plenty of cheap food. Well, we've
got them all now, but the misery seems to go on all around us all the
same. Then there's other people te=
lls us
as the 'Friscal Policy' is the thing to put everything right. ("Hear, hear" from Crass and
several others.) And then there's
another lot that ses that Socialism is the only remedy. Well, we all know pretty well wot Free =
Trade
and Protection means, but most of us don't know exactly what Socialism mean=
s;
and I say as it's the dooty of every man to try and find out which is the r=
ight
thing to vote for, and when 'e's found it out, to do wot 'e can to 'elp to
bring it about. And that's the rea=
son
we've gorn to the enormous expense of engaging Professor Barrington to come
'ere this afternoon and tell us exactly what Socialism is.
''As I 'ope you're all just as anxious to 'ear=
it
as I am myself, I will not stand between you and the lecturer no longer, but
will now call upon 'im to address you.'
Philpot was loudly applauded as he descended f=
rom
the pulpit, and in response to the clamorous demands of the crowd, Barringt=
on,
who in the meantime had yielded to Owen's entreaties that he would avail
himself of this opportunity of proclaiming the glad tidings of the good time
that is to be, got up on the steps in his turn.
Harlow, desiring that everything should be done
decently and in order, had meantime arranged in front of the pulpit a
carpenter's sawing stool, and an empty pail with a small piece of board laid
across it, to serve as a seat and a table for the chairman. Over the table he draped a large red
handkerchief. At the right he plac=
ed a
plumber's large hammer; at the left, a battered and much-chipped jam-jar, f=
ull
of tea. Philpot having taken his seat on the pail at this table and announc=
ed
his intention of bashing out with the hammer the brains of any individual w=
ho
ventured to disturb the meeting, Barrington commenced:
'Mr Chairman and Gentlemen. For the sake of clearness, and in order=
to
avoid confusing one subject with another, I have decided to divide the orat=
ion
into two parts. First, I will try =
to
explain as well as I am able what Socialism is.
I will try to describe to you the plan or system upon which the
Co-operative Commonwealth of the future will be organized; and, secondly, I
will try to tell you how it can be brought about. But before proceeding with the first pa=
rt of
the subject, I would like to refer very slightly to the widespread delusion
that Socialism is impossible because it means a complete change from an ord=
er
of things which has always existed. We
constantly hear it said that because there have always been rich and poor in
the world, there always must be. I=
want
to point out to you first of all, that it is not true that even in its
essential features, the present system has existed from all time; it is not
true that there have always been rich and poor in the world, in the sense t=
hat
we understand riches and poverty today.
'These statements are lies that have been inve=
nted
for the purpose of creating in us a feeling of resignation to the evils of =
our
condition. They are lies which have been fostered by those who imagine that=
it
is to their interest that we should be content to see our children condemne=
d to
the same poverty and degradation that we have endured ourselves.
I do not propose--because there is not time,
although it is really part of my subject--to go back to the beginnings of
history, and describe in detail the different systems of social organization
which evolved from and superseded each other at different periods, but it is
necessary to remind you that the changes that have taken place in the past =
have
been even greater than the change proposed by Socialists today. The change from savagery and cannibalis=
m when
men used to devour the captives they took in war--to the beginning of chatt=
el
slavery, when the tribes or clans into which mankind were divided--whose so=
cial
organization was a kind of Communism, all the individuals belonging to the =
tribe
being practically social equals, members of one great family--found it more
profitable to keep their captives as slaves than to eat them. The change from the primitive Communism=
of
the tribes, into the more individualistic organization of the nations, and =
the
development of private ownership of the land and slaves and means of
subsistence. The change from chatt=
el
slavery into Feudalism; and the change from Feudalism into the earlier form=
of
Capitalism; and the equally great change from what might be called the
individualistic capitalism which displaced Feudalism, to the system of
Co-operative Capitalism and Wage Slavery of today.'
'I believe you must 'ave swollered a bloody
dictionary,' exclaimed the man behind the moat.
'Keep horder,' shouted Philpot, fiercely, stri=
king
the table with the hammer, and there were loud shouts of 'Chair' and 'Chuck=
'im
out,' from several quarters.
When order was restored, the lecturer proceede=
d:
'So it is not true that practically the same s=
tate
of affairs as we have today has always existed.
It is not true that anything like the poverty that prevails at prese=
nt
existed at any previous period of the world's history. When the workers were the property of t=
heir
masters, it was to their owners' interest to see that they were properly
clothed and fed; they were not allowed to be idle, and they were not allowe=
d to
starve. Under Feudalism also, alth=
ough
there were certain intolerable circumstances, the position of the workers w=
as,
economically, infinitely better than it is today. The worker was in subjection to his Lor=
d, but
in return his lord had certain responsibilities and duties to perform, and
there was a large measure of community of interest between them.
'I do not intend to dwell upon this pout at
length, but in support of what I have said I will quote as nearly as I can =
from
memory the words of the historian Froude.
'"I do not believe," says Mr Froude,
"that the condition of the people in Mediaeval Europe was as miserable=
as
is pretended. I do not believe tha=
t the
distribution of the necessaries of life was as unequal as it is at
present. If the tenant lived hard,=
the
lord had little luxury. Earls and countesses breakfasted at five in the
morning, on salt beef and herring, a slice of bread and a draught of ale fr=
om a
blackjack. Lords and servants dined in the same hall and shared the same
meal."
'When we arrive at the system that displaced
Feudalism, we find that the condition of the workers was better in every way
than it is at present. The instrum=
ents
of production--the primitive machinery and the tools necessary for the crea=
tion
of wealth--belonged to the skilled workers who used them, and the things th=
ey
produced were also the property of those who made them.
'In those days a master painter, a master
shoemaker, a master saddler, or any other master tradesmen, was really a
skilled artisan working on his own account.
He usually had one or two apprentices, who were socially his equals,
eating at the same table and associating with the other members of his fami=
ly. It was quite a common occurrence for the
apprentice--after he had attained proficiency in his work--to marry his
master's daughter and succeed to his master's business. In those days to be a "master"
tradesman meant to be master of the trade, not merely of some underpaid dru=
dges
in one's employment. The apprentic=
es
were there to master the trade, qualifying themselves to become master work=
ers
themselves; not mere sweaters and exploiters of the labour of others, but
useful members of society. In thos=
e days,
because there was no labour-saving machinery the community was dependent for
its existence on the productions of hand labour. Consequently the majority of the people=
were
employed in some kind of productive work, and the workers were honoured and
respected citizens, living in comfort on the fruits of their labour. They were not rich as we understand wea=
lth
now, but they did not starve and they were not regarded with contempt, as a=
re
their successors of today.
'The next great change came with the introduct=
ion
of steam machinery. That power came to the aid of mankind in their struggle=
for
existence, enabling them to create easily and in abundance those things of
which they had previously been able to produce only a bare sufficiency. A wonderful power--equalling and surpas=
sing
the marvels that were imagined by the writers of fairy tales and Eastern
stories--a power so vast--so marvellous, that it is difficult to find words=
to
convey anything like an adequate conception of it.
'We all remember the story, in The Arabian Nig=
hts,
of Aladdin, who in his poverty became possessed of the Wonderful Lamp and--=
he
was poor no longer. He merely had =
to rub
the Lamp--the Genie appeared, and at Aladdin's command he produced an abund=
ance
of everything that the youth could ask or dream of. With the discovery of steam machinery,
mankind became possessed of a similar power to that imagined by the Eastern
writer. At the command of its mast=
ers
the Wonderful Lamp of Machinery produces an enormous, overwhelming, stupend=
ous
abundance and superfluity of every material thing necessary for human exist=
ence
and happiness. With less labour th=
an was
formerly required to cultivate acres, we can now cultivate miles of land. In response to human industry, aided by
science and machinery, the fruitful earth teems with such lavish abundance =
as
was never known or deemed possible before.
If you go into the different factories and workshops you will see
prodigious quantities of commodities of every kind pouring out of the wonde=
rful
machinery, literally like water from a tap.
'One would naturally and reasonably suppose th=
at
the discovery or invention of such an aid to human industry would result in
increased happiness and comfort for every one; but as you all know, the rev=
erse
is the case; and the reason of that extraordinary result, is the reason of =
all
the poverty and unhappiness that we see around us and endure today--it is
simply because--the machinery became the property of a comparatively few
individuals and private companies, who use it not for the benefit of the
community but to create profits for themselves.
'As this labour-saving machinery became more
extensively used, the prosperous class of skilled workers gradually
disappeared. Some of the wealthier=
of
them became distributers instead of producers of wealth; that is to say, th=
ey
became shopkeepers, retailing the commodities that were produced for the mo=
st
part by machinery. But the majorit=
y of
them in course of time degenerated into a class of mere wage earners, havin=
g no
property in the machines they used, and no property in the things they made=
.
'They sold their labour for so much per hour, =
and
when they could not find any employer to buy it from them, they were reduce=
d to
destitution.
'Whilst the unemployed workers were starving a=
nd
those in employment not much better off, the individuals and private compan=
ies
who owned the machinery accumulated fortunes; but their profits were dimini=
shed
and their working expenses increased by what led to the latest great change=
in
the organization of the production of the necessaries of life--the formatio=
n of
the Limited Companies and the Trusts; the decision of the private companies=
to
combine and co-operate with each other in order to increase their profits a=
nd
decrease their working expenses. T=
he
results of these combines have been--an increase in the quantities of the
things produced: a decrease in the number of wage earners employed--and
enormously increased profits for the shareholders.
'But it is not only the wage-earning class tha=
t is
being hurt; for while they are being annihilated by the machinery and the
efficient organization of industry by the trusts that control and are begin=
ning
to monopolize production, the shopkeeping classes are also being slowly but
surely crushed out of existence by the huge companies that are able by the
greater magnitude of their operations to buy and sell more cheaply than the
small traders.
'The consequence of all this is that the major=
ity
of the people are in a condition of more or less abject poverty--living from
hand to mouth. It is an admitted fact that about thirteen millions of our
people are always on the verge of starvation.
The significant results of this poverty face us on every side. The alarming and persistent increase of
insanity. The large number of woul=
d-be
recruits for the army who have to be rejected because they are physically
unfit; and the shameful condition of the children of the poor. More than one-third of the children of =
the
working classes in London have some sort of mental or physical defect; defe=
cts
in development; defects of eyesight; abnormal nervousness; rickets, and men=
tal
dullness. The difference in height=
and
weight and general condition of the children in poor schools and the childr=
en
of the so-called better classes, constitutes a crime that calls aloud to He=
aven
for vengeance upon those who are responsible for it.
'It is childish to imagine that any measure of
Tariff Reform or Political Reform such as a paltry tax on foreign-made good=
s or
abolishing the House of Lords, or disestablishing the Church--or miserable =
Old
Age Pensions, or a contemptible tax on land, can deal with such a state of
affairs as this. They have no Hous=
e of
Lords in America or France, and yet their condition is not materially diffe=
rent
from ours. You may be deceived into
thinking that such measures as those are great things. You may fight for them and vote for the=
m, but
after you have got them you will find that they will make no appreciable
improvement in your condition. You=
will
still have to slave and drudge to gain a bare sufficiency of the necessarie=
s of
life. You will still have to eat the same kind of food and wear the same ki=
nd
of clothes and boots as now. Your
masters will still have you in their power to insult and sweat and drive. Your general condition will be just the=
same
as at present because such measures as those are not remedies but red herri=
ngs,
intended by those who trail them to draw us away from the only remedy, whic=
h is
to be found only in the Public Ownership of the Machinery, and the National
Organization of Industry for the production and distribution of the necessa=
ries
of life, not for the profit of a few but for the benefit of all!
'That is the next great change; not merely
desirable, but imperatively necessary and inevitable! That is Socialism!
'It is not a wild dream of Superhuman
Unselfishness. No one will be aske=
d to
sacrifice himself for the benefit of others or to love his neighbours better
than himself as is the case under the present system, which demands that the
majority shall unselfishly be content to labour and live in wretchedness for
the benefit of a few. There is no =
such
principle of Philanthropy in Socialism, which simply means that even as all
industries are now owned by shareholders, and organized and directed by
committees and officers elected by the shareholders, so shall they in future
belong to the State, that is, the whole people--and they shall be organized=
and
directed by committees and officers elected by the community.
'Under existing circumstances the community is
exposed to the danger of being invaded and robbed and massacred by some for=
eign
power. Therefore the community has organized and owns and controls an Army =
and
Navy to protect it from that danger.
Under existing circumstances the community is menaced by another equ=
ally
great danger--the people are mentally and physically degenerating from lack=
of
proper food and clothing. Socialis=
ts say
that the community should undertake and organize the business of producing =
and
distributing all these things; that the State should be the only employer of
labour and should own all the factories, mills, mines, farms, railways, fis=
hing
fleets, sheep farms, poultry farms and cattle ranches.
'Under existing circumstances the community is
degenerating mentally and physically because the majority cannot afford to =
have
decent houses to live in. Socialis=
ts say
that the community should take in hand the business of providing proper hou=
ses
for all its members, that the State should be the only landlord, that all t=
he
land and all the houses should belong to the whole people...
'We must do this if we are to keep our old pla=
ce
in the van of human progress. A na=
tion
of ignorant, unintelligent, half-starved, broken-spirited degenerates cannot
hope to lead humanity in its never-ceasing march onward to the conquest of =
the
future.
'Vain, mightiest fleet of iron framed; Vain the all-shattering guns Unless proud England keep, untam=
ed, The stout hearts of her sons.
'All the evils that I have referred to are only
symptoms of the one disease that is sapping the moral, mental and physical =
life
of the nation, and all attempts to cure these symptoms are foredoomed to
failure, simply because they are the symptoms and not the disease. All the =
talk
of Temperance, and the attempts to compel temperance, are foredoomed to
failure, because drunkenness is a symptom, and not the disease.
'India is a rich productive country. Every year millions of pounds worth of =
wealth
are produced by her people, only to be stolen from them by means of the Mon=
ey
Trick by the capitalist and official class. Her industrious sons and daught=
ers,
who are nearly all total abstainers, live in abject poverty, and their mise=
ry
is not caused by laziness or want of thrift, or by Intemperance. They are poor for the same reason that =
we are
poor--Because we are Robbed.
'The hundreds of thousands of pounds that are
yearly wasted in well-meant but useless charity accomplish no lasting good,
because while charity soothes the symptoms it ignores the disease, which
is--the PRIVATE OWNERSHIP of the means of producing the necessaries of life,
and the restriction of production, by a few selfish individuals for their o=
wn
profit. And for that disease there=
is no
other remedy than the one I have told you of--the PUBLIC OWNERSHIP and
cultivation of the land, the PUBLIC OWNERSHIP OF the mines, railways, canal=
s,
ships, factories and all the other means of production, and the establishme=
nt
of an Industrial Civil Service--a National Army of Industry--for the purpos=
e of
producing the necessaries, comforts and refinements of life in that abundan=
ce
which has been made possible by science and machinery--for the use and bene=
fit
of THE WHOLE OF THE PEOPLE.'
'Yes: and where's the money to come from for a=
ll
this?' shouted Crass, fiercely.
'Hear, hear,' cried the man behind the moat.
'There's no money difficulty about it,' replied
Barrington. 'We can easily find al=
l the
money we shall need.'
'Of course,' said Slyme, who had been reading =
the
Daily Ananias, 'there's all the money in the Post Office Savings Bank. The Socialists could steal that for a s=
tart;
and as for the mines and land and factories, they can all be took from the
owners by force.'
'There will be no need for force and no need to
steal anything from anybody.'
'And there's another thing I objects to,' said
Crass. 'And that's all this 'ere t=
alk
about hignorance: wot about all the money wots spent every year for edicati=
on?'
'You should rather say--"What about all t=
he
money that's wasted every year on education?" What can be more brutal and senseless t=
han
trying to "educate" a poor little, hungry, ill-clad child? Such so-called "instruction" =
is
like the seed in the parable of the Sower, which fell on stony ground and
withered away because it had no depth of earth; and even in those cases whe=
re
it does take root and grow, it becomes like the seed that fell among thorns=
and
the thorns grew up and choked it, and it bore no fruit.
'The majority of us forget in a year or two all
that we learnt at school because the conditions of our lives are such as to
destroy all inclination for culture or refinement. We must see that the children are prope=
rly
clothed and fed and that they are not made to get up in the middle of the n=
ight
to go to work for several hours before they go to school. We must make it illegal for any greedy,
heartless profit-hunter to hire them and make them labour for several hours=
in
the evening after school, or all day and till nearly midnight on Saturday.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> We must first see that our children are=
cared
for, as well as the children of savage races, before we can expect a proper
return for the money that we spend on education.'
'I don't mind admitting that this 'ere scheme =
of
national ownership and industries is all right if it could only be done,' s=
aid
Harlow, 'but at present, all the land, railways and factories, belongs to
private capitalists; they can't be bought without money, and you say you ai=
n't
goin' to take 'em away by force, so I should like to know how the bloody 'e=
ll
you are goin' to get 'em?'
'We certainly don't propose to buy them with
money, for the simple reason that there is not sufficient money in existenc=
e to
pay for them.
'If all the gold and silver money in the World
were gathered together into one heap, it would scarcely be sufficient to buy
all the private property in England. The
people who own all these things now never really paid for them with money--=
they
obtained possession of them by means of the "Money Trick" which O=
wen
explained to us some time ago.'
'They obtained possession of them by usin' the=
ir
brain,' said Crass. 'Exactly,' replied the lecturer. 'They tell us themselves that that is h=
ow
they got them away from us; they call their profits the "wages of inte=
lligence". Whilst we have been working, they have =
been
using their intelligence in order to obtain possession of the things we have
created. The time has now arrived =
for us
to use our intelligence in order to get back the things they have robbed us=
of,
aid to prevent them from robbing us any more.
As for how it is to be done, we might copy the methods that they have
found so successful.'
'Oh, then you DO mean to rob them after all,'
cried Slyme, triumphantly. 'If it'=
s true
that they robbed the workers, and if we're to adopt the same method then we=
'll
be robbers too!'
'When a thief is caught having in his possessi=
on
the property of others it is not robbery to take the things away from him a=
nd
to restore them to their rightful owners,' retorted Barrington.
'I can't allow this 'ere disorder to go on no
longer,' shouted Philpot, banging the table with the plumber's hammer as
several men began talking at the same time.
'There will be plenty of tuneropperty for
questions and opposition at the hend of the horation, when the pulpit will =
be
throwed open to anyone as likes to debate the question. I now calls upon the professor to proce=
ed
with the second part of the horation: and anyone wot interrupts will get a =
lick
under the ear-'ole with this'--waving the hammer--'and the body will be chu=
cked
out of the bloody winder.'
Loud cheers greeted this announcement. It was still raining heavily, so they t=
hought
they might as well pass the time listening to Barrington as in any other wa=
y.
'A large part of the land may be got back in t=
he
same way as it was taken from us. =
The
ancestors of the present holders obtained possession of it by simply passing
Acts of Enclosure: the nation should regain possession of those lands by
passing Acts of Resumption. And with regard to the other land, the present
holders should be allowed to retain possession of it during their lives and
then it should revert to the State, to be used for the benefit of all. Brit=
ain
should belong to the British people, not to a few selfish individuals. As for the railways, they have already =
been
nationalized in some other countries, and what other countries can do we ca=
n do
also. In New Zealand, Australia, S=
outh
Africa, Germany, Belgium, Italy, Japan and some other countries some of the
railways are already the property of the State. As for the method by which =
we
can obtain possession of them, the difficulty is not to discover a method, =
but
rather to decide which of many methods we shall adopt. One method would be to simply pass an A=
ct
declaring that as it was contrary to the public interest that they should be
owned by private individuals, the railways would henceforth be the property=
of
the nation. All railways servants,
managers and officials would continue in their employment; the only differe=
nce
being that they would now be in the employ of the State. As to the shareholders--'
'They could all be knocked on the 'ead, I
suppose,' interrupted Crass.
'Or go to the workhouse,' said Slyme.
'Or to 'ell,' suggested the man behind the moa=
t.
'--The State would continue to pay to the shar=
eholders
the same dividends they had received on an average for, say, the previous t=
hree
years. These payments would be con=
tinued
to the present shareholders for life, or the payments might be limited to a
stated number of years and the shares would be made non-transferable, like =
the
railway tickets of today. As for the factories, shops, and other means of
production and distribution, the State must adopt the same methods of doing
business as the present owners. I =
mean
that even as the big Trusts and companies are crushing--by competition--the
individual workers and small traders, so the State should crush the trusts =
by
competition. It is surely justifia=
ble
for the State to do for the benefit of the whole people that which the
capitalists are already doing for the profit of a few shareholders. The fir=
st
step in this direction will be the establishment of Retail Stores for the
purpose of supplying all national and municipal employees with the necessar=
ies
of life at the lowest possible prices.
At first the Administration will purchase these things from the priv=
ate
manufacturers, in such large quantities that it will be able to obtain them=
at
the very cheapest rate, and as there will be no heavy rents to pay for showy
shops, and no advertising expenses, and as the object of the Administration
will be not to make profit, but to supply its workmen and officials with go=
ods
at the lowest price, they will be able to sell them much cheaper than the
profit-making private stores.
'The National Service Retail Stores will be for
the benefit of only those in the public service; and gold, silver or copper
money will not be accepted in payment for the things sold. At first, all public servants will cont=
inue
to be paid in metal money, but those who desire it will be paid all or part=
of
their wages in paper money of the same nominal value, which will be accepte=
d in
payment for their purchases at the National Stores and at the National Hote=
ls,
Restaurants and other places which will be established for the convenience =
of
those in the State service. The mo=
ney
will resemble bank-notes. It will =
be
made of a special very strong paper, and will be of all value, from a penny=
to
a pound.
'As the National Service Stores will sell
practically everything that could be obtained elsewhere, and as twenty
shillings in paper money will be able to purchase much more at the stores t=
han
twenty shillings of metal money would purchase anywhere else, it will not be
long before nearly all public servants will prefer to be paid in paper mone=
y. As far as paying the salaries and wages=
of
most of its officials and workmen is concerned, the Administration will not
then have any need of metal money. But
it will require metal money to pay the private manufacturers who supply the
goods sold in the National Stores. But--all these things are made by labour=
; so
in order to avoid having to pay metal money for them, the State will now
commence to employ productive labour.
All the public land suitable for the purpose will be put into
cultivation and State factories will be established for manufacturing food,
boots, clothing, furniture and all other necessaries and comforts of life.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> All those who are out of employment and
willing to work, will be given employment on these farms and in these
factories. In order that the men
employed shall not have to work unpleasantly hard, and that their hours of
labour may be as short as possible--at first, say, eight hours per day--and
also to make sure that the greatest possible quantity of everything shall be
produced, these factories and farms will be equipped with the most up-to-da=
te
and efficient labour-saving machinery.
The people employed in the farms and factories will be paid with pap=
er
money... The commodities they produce will go to replenish the stocks of the
National Service Stores, where the workers will be able to purchase with th=
eir
paper money everything they need.
'As we shall employ the greatest possible numb=
er
of labour-saving machines, and adopt the most scientific methods in our far=
ms
and factories, the quantities of goods we shall be able to produce will be =
so
enormous that we shall be able to pay our workers very high wages--in paper
money--and we shall be able to sell our produce so cheaply, that all public
servants will be able to enjoy abundance of everything.
'When the workers who are being exploited and
sweated by the private capitalists realize how much worse off they are than=
the
workers in the employ of the State, they will come and ask to be allowed to
work for the State, and also, for paper money.
That will mean that the State Army of Productive Workers will be
continually increasing in numbers. More State factories will be built, more
land will be put into cultivation. Men
will be given employment making bricks, woodwork, paints, glass, wallpapers=
and
all kinds of building materials and others will be set to work building--on
State land--beautiful houses, which will be let to those employed in the
service of the State. The rent wil=
l be
paid with paper money.
'State fishing fleets will be established and =
the
quantities of commodities of all kinds produced will be so great that the S=
tate
employees and officials will not be able to use it all. With their paper money they will be abl=
e to
buy enough and more than enough to satisfy all their needs abundantly, but
there will still be a great and continuously increasing surplus stock in the
possession of the State.
'The Socialist Administration will now acquire=
or
build fleets of steam trading vessels, which will of course be manned and
officered by State employees--the same as the Royal Navy is now. These fleets of National trading vessel=
s will
carry the surplus stocks I have mentioned, to foreign countries, and will t=
here
sell or exchange them for some of the products of those countries, things t=
hat
we do not produce ourselves. These things will be brought to England and so=
ld
at the National Service Stores, at the lowest possible price, for paper mon=
ey,
to those in the service of the State.
This of course will only have the effect of introducing greater vari=
ety
into the stocks--it will not diminish the surplus: and as there would be no
sense in continuing to produce more of these things than necessary, it would
then be the duty of the Administration to curtail or restrict production of=
the
necessaries of life. This could be=
done
by reducing the hours of the workers without reducing their wages so as to
enable them to continue to purchase as much as before.
'Another way of preventing over production of =
mere
necessaries and comforts will be to employ a large number of workers produc=
ing
the refinements and pleasures of life, more artistic houses, furniture,
pictures, musical instruments and so forth.
'In the centre of every district a large Insti=
tute
or pleasure house could be erected, containing a magnificently appointed and
decorated theatre; Concert Hall, Lecture Hall, Gymnasium, Billiard Rooms,
Reading Rooms, Refreshment Rooms, and so on.
A detachment of the Industrial Army would be employed as actors, art=
istes,
musicians, singers and entertainers. In
fact everyone that could be spared from the most important work of all--tha=
t of
producing the necessaries of life--would be employed in creating pleasure,
culture, and education. All these people--like the other branches of the pu=
blic
service--would be paid with paper money, and with it all of them would be a=
ble
to purchase abundance of all those things which constitute civilization.
'Meanwhile, as a result of all this, the
kind-hearted private employers and capitalists would find that no one would=
come
and work for them to be driven and bullied and sweated for a miserable trif=
le
of metal money that is scarcely enough to purchase sufficient of the
necessaries of life to keep body and soul together.
'These kind-hearted capitalists will protest
against what they will call the unfair competition of State industry, and s=
ome
of them may threaten to leave the country and take their capital with
them... As most of these persons a=
re too
lazy to work, and as we will not need their money, we shall be very glad to=
see
them go. But with regard to their =
real
capital--their factories, farms, mines or machinery--that will be a differe=
nt
matter... To allow these things to
remain idle and unproductive would constitute an injury to the community. So a law will be passed, declaring that=
all
land not cultivated by the owner, or any factory shut down for more than a
specified time, will be taken possession of by the State and worked for the
benefit of the community... Fair c=
ompensation
will be paid in paper money to the former owners, who will be granted an in=
come
or pension of so much a year either for life or for a stated period accordi=
ng
to circumstances and the ages of the persons concerned.
'As for the private traders, the wholesale and
retail dealers in the things produced by labour, they will be forced by the
State competition to close down their shops and warehouses--first, because =
they
will not be able to replenish their stocks; and, secondly, because even if =
they
were able to do so, they would not be able to sell them. This will throw out of work a great hos=
t of
people who are at present engaged in useless occupations; the managers and
assistants in the shops of which we now see half a dozen of the same sort i=
n a
single street; the thousands of men and women who are slaving away their li=
ves
producing advertisements, for, in most cases, a miserable pittance of metal
money, with which many of them are unable to procure sufficient of the
necessaries of life to secure them from starvation.
'The masons, carpenters, painters, glaziers, a=
nd
all the others engaged in maintaining these unnecessary stores and shops wi=
ll
all be thrown out of employment, but all of them who are willing to work wi=
ll
be welcomed by the State and will be at once employed helping either to pro=
duce
or distribute the necessaries and comforts of life. They will have to work fewer hours than
before... They will not have to wo=
rk so
hard--for there will be no need to drive or bully, because there will be pl=
enty
of people to do the work, and most of it will be done by machinery--and with
their paper money they will be able to buy abundance of the things they hel=
p to
produce. The shops and stores where
these people were formerly employed will be acquired by the State, which wi=
ll
pay the former owners fair compensation in the same manner as to the factory
owners. Some of the buildings will=
be
utilized by the State as National Service Stores, others transformed into
factories and others will be pulled down to make room for dwellings, or pub=
lic
buildings... It will be the duty o=
f the
Government to build a sufficient number of houses to accommodate the famili=
es
of all those in its employment, and as a consequence of this and because of=
the
general disorganization and decay of what is now called "business"=
;,
all other house property of all kinds will rapidly depreciate in value. The slums and the wretched dwellings now
occupied by the working classes--the miserable, uncomfortable, jerry-built
"villas" occupied by the lower middle classes and by
"business" people, will be left empty and valueless upon the hand=
s of
their rack renting landlords, who will very soon voluntarily offer to hand =
them
and the ground they stand upon to the state on the same terms as those acco=
rded
to the other property owners, namely--in return for a pension. Some of these people will be content to=
live
in idleness on the income allowed them for life as compensation by the Stat=
e:
others will devote themselves to art or science and some others will offer
their services to the community as managers and superintendents, and the St=
ate
will always be glad to employ all those who are willing to help in the Great
Work of production and distribution.
'By this time the nation will be the sole empl=
oyer
of labour, and as no one will be able to procure the necessaries of life
without paper money, and as the only way to obtain this will be working, it
will mean that every mentally and physically capable person in the community
will be helping in the great work of PRODUCTION and DISTRIBUTION. We shall not need as at present, to mai=
ntain
a police force to protect the property of the idle rich from the starving
wretches whom they have robbed. Th=
ere
will be no unemployed and no overlapping of labour, which will be organized=
and
concentrated for the accomplishment of the only rational object--the creati=
on
of the things we require... For ev=
ery
one labour-saving machine in use today, we will, if necessary, employ a
thousand machines! and consequently there will be produced such a stupendou=
s,
enormous, prodigious, overwhelming abundance of everything that soon the
Community will be faced once more with the serious problem of OVER-PRODUCTI=
ON.
'To deal with this, it will be necessary to re=
duce
the hours of our workers to four or five hours a day... All young people will be allowed to con=
tinue
at public schools and universities and will not be required to take any par=
t in
the work or the nation until they are twenty-one years of age. At the age of forty-five, everyone will=
be
allowed to retire from the State service on full pay... All these will be able to spend the res=
t of
their days according to their own inclinations; some will settle down quiet=
ly
at home, and amuse themselves in the same ways as people of wealth and leis=
ure
do at the present day--with some hobby, or by taking part in the organizati=
on
of social functions, such as balls, parties, entertainments, the organizati=
on
of Public Games and Athletic Tournaments, Races and all kinds of sports.
'Some will prefer to continue in the service of
the State. Actors, artists, sculpt=
ors,
musicians and others will go on working for their own pleasure and
honour... Some will devote their l=
eisure
to science, art, or literature. Ot=
hers
will prefer to travel on the State steamships to different parts of the wor=
ld
to see for themselves all those things of which most of us have now but a d=
im
and vague conception. The wonders =
of
India and Egypt, the glories of Rome, the artistic treasures of the contine=
nt
and the sublime scenery of other lands.
'Thus--for the first time in the history of
humanity--the benefits and pleasures conferred upon mankind by science and
civilization will be enjoyed equally by all, upon the one condition, that t=
hey
shall do their share of the work, that is necessary in order to, make all t=
hese
things possible.
'These are the principles upon which the
CO-OPERATIVE COMMONWEALTH of the future will be organized. The State in which no one will be
distinguished or honoured above his fellows except for Virtue or Talent.
'A State wherein it will be possible to put in=
to
practice the teachings of Him whom so many now pretend to follow. A society which shall have justice and
co-operation for its foundation, and International Brotherhood and love for=
its
law.
'Such are the days that shall be! but What are the deeds of today, In the days of the years we dwel=
l in, That wear our lives away? Why, then, and for what we are
waiting? There are but three
words to speak "We will
it," and what is the foreman
but the dream strong wakened and weak? 'Oh, why and for what are we wai=
ting,
while our brothers droop and
die? And on every wind of t=
he
heavens, a wasted life goes=
by. 'How long shall they reproach us,
where crowd on crowd they
dwell Poor ghosts of the wi=
cked
city, gold crushed, hungry
hell? 'Through squalid life=
they
laboured in sordid grief th=
ey
died Those sons of a mighty
mother, those props of Engl=
and's
pride. They are gone, there=
is
none can undo it, nor save =
our
souls from the curse, But m=
any a
million cometh, and shall t=
hey be
better or worse?
'It
is We must answer and hasten and open wide the door, For the rich man's hurrying terr=
or,
and the slow foot hope of t=
he
poor, Yea, the voiceless wr=
ath of
the wretched and their unlearned
discontent, We must =
give
it voice and wisdom, till the waiting tide be spent Come then since all things call =
us,
the living and the dead, An=
d o'er
the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.'
As Barrington descended from the Pulpit and wa=
lked
back to his accustomed seat, a loud shout of applause burst from a few men =
in
the crowd, who stood up and waved their caps and cheered again and again. W=
hen
order was restored, Philpot rose and addressed the meeting:
'Is there any gentleman wot would like to ask =
the
Speaker a question?'
No one spoke and the Chairman again put the
question without obtaining any response, but at length one of the new hands=
who
had been 'taken on' about a week previously to replace another painter who =
had
been sacked for being too slow--stood up and said there was one point that =
he
would like a little more information about.
This man had two patches on the seat of his trousers, which were also
very much frayed and ragged at the bottoms of the legs: the lining of his c=
oat
was all in rags, as were also the bottoms of the sleeves; his boots were old
and had been many times mended and patched; the sole of one of them had beg=
un
to separate from the upper and he had sewn these parts together with a few
stitches of copper wire. He had be=
en out
of employment for several weeks and it was evident from the pinched express=
ion
of his still haggard face that during that time he had not had sufficient to
eat. This man was not a drunkard,
neither was he one of those semi-mythical persons who are too lazy to
work. He was married and had sever=
al
children. One of them, a boy of fo=
urteen
years old, earned five shillings a week as a light porter at a Grocer's.
Being a householder the man had a vote, but he=
had
never hitherto taken much interest in what he called 'politics'. In his opinion, those matters were not =
for
the likes of him. He believed in l=
eaving
such difficult subjects to be dealt with by his betters. In his present unhappy condition he was=
a
walking testimonial to the wisdom and virtue and benevolence of those same
'betters' who have hitherto managed the affairs of the world with results so
very satisfactory for themselves.
'I should like to ask the speaker,' he said,
'supposin' all this that 'e talks about is done--what's to become of the Ki=
ng,
and the Royal Family, and all the Big Pots?'
''Ear, 'ear,' cried Crass, eagerly--and Ned Da=
wson
and the man behind the moat both said that that was what they would like to
know, too.
'I am much more concerned about what is to bec=
ome
of ourselves if these things are not done,' replied Barrington. 'I think we should try to cultivate a l=
ittle
more respect of our own families and to concern ourselves a little less abo=
ut
"Royal" Families. I fail=
to
see any reason why we should worry ourselves about those people; they're all
right--they have all they need, and as far as I am aware, nobody wishes to =
harm
them and they are well able to look after themselves. They will fare the sa=
me
as the other rich people.'
'I should like to ask,' said Harlow, 'wot's to
become of all the gold and silver and copper money? Wouldn't it be of no use at all?'
'It would be of far more use under Socialism t=
han
it is at present. The State would of course become possessed of a large
quantity of it in the early stages of the development of the Socialist syst=
em,
because--at first--while the State would be paying all its officers and
productive workers in paper, the rest of the community--those not in State
employ--would be paying their taxes in gold as at present. All travellers on
the State railways--other than State employees--would pay their fares in me=
tal
money, and gold and silver would pour into the State Treasury from many oth=
er
sources. The State would receive g=
old
and silver and--for the most part--pay out paper. By the time the system of State employm=
ent
was fully established, gold and silver would only be of value as metal and =
the
State would purchase it from whoever possessed and wished to sell it--at so
much per pound as raw material: instead of hiding it away in the vaults of =
banks,
or locking it up in iron safes, we shall make use of it. Some of the gold will be manufactured i=
nto
articles of jewellery, to be sold for paper money and worn by the sweethear=
ts
and wives and daughters of the workers; some of it will be beaten out into =
gold
leaf to be used in the decoration of the houses of the citizens and of publ=
ic
buildings. As for the silver, it w=
ill be
made into various articles of utility for domestic use. The workers will not then, as now, have=
to
eat their food with poisonous lead or brass spoons and forks, we shall have
these things of silver and if there is not enough silver we shall probably =
have
a non-poisonous alloy of that metal.'
'As far as I can make out,' said Harlow, 'the
paper money will be just as valuable as gold and silver is now. Well, wot's to prevent artful dodgers l=
ike
old Misery and Rushton saving it up and buying and selling things with it, =
and
so livin' without work?'
'Of course,' said Crass, scornfully. 'It would never do!'
'That's a very simple matter; any man who lives
without doing any useful work is living on the labour of others, he is robb=
ing
others of part of the result of their labour.
The object of Socialism is to stop this robbery, to make it impossib=
le. So no one will be able to hoard up or a=
ccumulate
the paper money because it will be dated, and will become worthless if it is
not spent within a certain time after its issue. As for buying and selling for profit--f=
rom
whom would they buy? And to whom would they sell?'
'Well, they might buy some of the things the
workers didn't want, for less than the workers paid for them, and then they
could sell 'em again.'
'They'd have to sell them for less than the pr=
ice
charged at the National Stores, and if you think about it a little you'll s=
ee
that it would not be very profitable. It
would be with the object of preventing any attempts at private trading that=
the
Administration would refuse to pay compensation to private owners in a lump
sum. All such compensations would =
be
paid, as I said, in the form of a pension of so much per year.
'Another very effective way to prevent private
trading would be to make it a criminal offence against the well-being of the
community. At present many forms of business are illegal unless you take ou=
t a
licence; under Socialism no one would be allowed to trade without a licence,
and no licences would be issued.'
'Wouldn't a man be allowed to save up his mone=
y if
he wanted to, demanded Slyme with indignation.
'There will be nothing to prevent a man going
without some of the things he might have if he is foolish enough to do so, =
but
he would never be able to save up enough to avoid doing his share of useful
service. Besides, what need would =
there
be for anyone to save? One's old a=
ge
would be provided for. No one coul=
d ever
be out of employment. If one was ill the State hospitals and Medical Service
would be free. As for one's children, they would attend the State Free Scho=
ols
and Colleges and when of age they would enter the State Service, their futu=
res
provided for. Can you tell us why =
anyone
would need or wish to save?'
Slyme couldn't.
'Are there any more questions?' demanded Philp=
ot.
'While we are speaking of money,' added
Barrington, 'I should like to remind you that even under the present system
there are many things which cost money to maintain, that we enjoy without
having to pay for directly. The pu=
blic
roads and pavements cost money to make and maintain and light. So do the parks, museums and bridges. But they are free to all. Under a Socialist Administration this
principle will be extended--in addition to the free services we enjoy now we
shall then maintain the trains and railways for the use of the public, free.
And as time goes on, this method of doing business will be adopted in many
other directions.'
'I've read somewhere,' said Harlow, 'that when=
ever
a Government in any country has started issuing paper money it has always l=
ed
to bankruptcy. How do you know tha=
t the
same thing would not happen under a Socialist Administration?'
''Ear, 'ear,' said Crass. 'I was just goin' to say the same thing=
.'
'If the Government of a country began to issue
large amounts of paper money under the present system,' Barrington replied,=
'it
would inevitably lead to bankruptcy, for the simple reason that paper money=
under
the present system--bank-notes, bank drafts, postal orders, cheques or any
other form--is merely a printed promise to pay the amount--in gold or
silver--on demand or at a certain date.
Under the present system if a Government issues more paper money tha=
n it
possesses gold and silver to redeem, it is of course bankrupt. But the paper money that will be issued=
under
a Socialist Administration will not be a promise to pay in gold or silver on
demand or at any time. It will be a
promise to supply commodities to the amount specified on the note, and as t=
here
could be no dearth of those things there could be no possibility of
bankruptcy.'
'I should like to know who's goin' to appoint =
the
hofficers of this 'ere hindustrial harmy,' said the man on the pail. 'We don't want to be bullied and chivie=
d and
chased about by a lot of sergeants and corporals like a lot of soldiers, you
know.'
''Ear, 'ear,' said Crass. 'You must 'ave some masters. Someone's got to be in charge of the wo=
rk.'
'We don't have to put up with any bullying or
chivying or chasing now, do we?' said Barrington. 'So of course we could not have anythin=
g of
that sort under Socialism. We coul=
d not
put up with it at all! Even if it =
were
only for four or five hours a day. Under
the present system we have no voice in appointing our masters and overseers=
and
foremen--we have no choice as to what master we shall work under. If our masters do not treat us fairly w=
e have
no remedy against them. Under Socialism it will be different; the workers w=
ill
be part of the community; the officers or managers and foremen will be the
servants of the community, and if any one of these men were to abuse his
position he could be promptly removed.
As for the details of the organization of the Industrial Army, the
difficulty is, again, not so much to devise a way, but to decide which of m=
any
ways would be the best, and the perfect way will probably be developed only
after experiment and experience. T=
he one
thing we have to hold fast to is the fundamental principle of State employm=
ent
or National service. Production for use and not for profit. The national organization of industry u=
nder
democratic control. One way of arr=
anging
this business would be for the community to elect a Parliament in much the =
same
way as is done at present. The only
persons eligible for election to be veterans of the industrial Army, men and
women who had put in their twenty-five years of service.
'This Administrative Body would have control of
the different State Departments. T=
here
would be a Department of Agriculture, a Department of Railways and so on, e=
ach
with its minister and staff.
'All these Members of Parliament would be the
relatives--in some cases the mothers and fathers of those in the Industrial
Service, and they would be relied upon to see that the conditions of that
service were the best possible.
'As for the different branches of the State
Service, they could be organized on somewhat the same lines as the different
branches of the Public Service are now--like the Navy, the Post Office and =
as
the State Railways in some other countries, or as are the different branche=
s of
the Military Army, with the difference that all promotions will be from the
ranks, by examinations, and by merit only.
As every recruit will have had the same class of education they will=
all
have absolute equality of opportunity and the men who would attain to posit=
ions
of authority would be the best men, and not as at present, the worst.'
'How do you make that out?' demanded Crass.
'Under the present system, the men who become
masters and employers succeed because they are cunning and selfish, not bec=
ause
they understand or are capable of doing the work out of which they make the=
ir
money. Most of the employers in the
building trade for instance would be incapable of doing any skilled work. Very few of them would be worth their s=
alt as
journeymen. The only work they do =
is to
scheme to reap the benefit of the labour of others.
'The men who now become managers and foremen a=
re
selected not because of their ability as craftsmen, but because they are go=
od
slave-drivers and useful producers of profit for their employers.'
'How are you goin' to prevent the selfish and
cunnin', as you call 'em, from gettin' on top THEN as they do now?' said
Harlow.
'The fact that all workers will receive the sa=
me
pay, no matter what class of work they are engaged in, or what their positi=
on,
will ensure our getting the very best man to do all the higher work and to
organize our business.'
Crass laughed: 'What! Everybody to get the same wages?'
'Yes: there will be such an enormous quantity =
of
everything produced, that their wages will enable everyone to purchase
abundance of everything they require.
Even if some were paid more than others they would not be able to sp=
end
it. There would be no need to save=
it,
and as there will be no starving poor, there will be no one to give it away
to. If it were possible to save and
accumulate money it would bring into being an idle class, living on their
fellows: it would lead to the downfall of our system, and a return to the s=
ame
anarchy that exists at present. Be=
sides,
if higher wages were paid to those engaged in the higher work or occupying
positions of authority it would prevent our getting the best men. Unfit persons would try for the positio=
ns
because of the higher pay. That is=
what
happens now. Under the present system men intrigue for and obtain or are
pitchforked into positions for which they have no natural ability at all; t=
he
only reason they desire these positions is because of the salaries attached=
to
them. These fellows get the money and the work is done by underpaid
subordinates whom the world never hears of. Under Socialism, this money
incentive will be done away with, and consequently the only men who will try
for these positions will be those who, being naturally fitted for the work,
would like to do it. For instance a man who is a born organizer will not re=
fuse
to undertake such work because he will not be paid more for it. Such a man will desire to do it and wil=
l esteem
it a privilege to be allowed to do it.
He will revel in it. To thi=
nk out
all the details of some undertaking, to plan and scheme and organize, is not
work for a man like that. It is a
pleasure. But for a man who has so=
ught
and secured such a position, not because he liked the work, but because he
liked the salary--such work as this would be unpleasant labour. Under Socia=
lism
the unfit man would not apply for that post but would strive after some oth=
er
for which he was fit and which he would therefore desire and enjoy. There are some men who would rather have
charge of and organize and be responsible for work than do it with their
hands. There are others who would =
rather
do delicate or difficult or artistic work, than plain work. A man who is a born artist would rather=
paint
a frieze or a picture or carve a statue than he would do plain work, or take
charge of and direct the labour of others.
And there are another sort of men who would rather do ordinary plain
work than take charge, or attempt higher branches for which they have neith=
er
liking or natural talent.
'But there is one thing--a most important point
that you seem to entirely lose sight of, and that is, that all these differ=
ent
kinds and classes are equal in one respect--THEY ARE ALL EQUALLY NECESSARY.
Each is a necessary and indispensable part of the whole; therefore everyone=
who
has done his full share of necessary work is justly entitled to a full shar=
e of
the results. The men who put the s=
lates
on are just as indispensable as the men who lay the foundations. The work of the men who build the walls=
and
make the doors is just as necessary as the work of the men who decorate the
cornice. None of them would be of =
much
use without the architect, and the plans of the architect would come to
nothing, his building would be a mere castle in the air, if it were not for=
the
other workers. Each part of the wo=
rk is
equally necessary, useful and indispensable if the building is to be perfec=
ted. Some of these men work harder with their
brains than with their hands and some work harder with their hands than with
their brains, BUT EACH ONE DOES HIS FULL SHARE OF THE WORK. This truth will be recognized and acted=
upon
by those who build up and maintain the fabric of our Co-operative
Commonwealth. Every man who does h=
is
full share of the useful and necessary work according to his abilities shall
have his full share of the total result.
Herein will be its great difference from the present system, under w=
hich
it is possible for the cunning and selfish ones to take advantage of the
simplicity of others and rob them of part of the fruits of their labour.
'Under the present system there are men at the
head of affairs whose only object is the accumulation of money. Some of them possess great abilities an=
d the
system has practically compelled them to employ those abilities for their o=
wn
selfish ends to the hurt of the community. Some of them have built up great=
fortunes
out of the sweat and blood and tears of men and women and little children.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> For those who delight in such work as t=
his,
there will be no place in our Co-operative Commonwealth.'
'Is there any more questions?' demanded Philpo=
t.
'Yes,' said Harlow. 'If there won't be no extry pay and if a=
nybody
will have all they need for just doing their part of the work, what
encouragement will there be for anyone to worry his brains out trying to in=
vent
some new machine, or make some new discovery?'
'Well,' said Barrington, 'I think that's cover=
ed
by the last answer, but if it were found necessary--which is highly
improbable--to offer some material reward in addition to the respect, estee=
m or
honour that would be enjoyed by the author of an invention that was a boon =
to
the community, it could be arranged by allowing him to retire before the
expiration of his twenty-five years service.
The boon he had conferred on the community by the invention, would be
considered equivalent to so many years work.
But a man like that would not desire to cease working; that sort go =
on
working all their lives, for love.
There's Edison for instance. He
is one of the very few inventors who have made money out of their work; he =
is a
rich man, but the only use his wealth seems to be to him is to procure hims=
elf
facilities for going on with his work; his life is a round of what some peo=
ple
would call painful labour: but it is not painful labour to him; it's just
pleasure, he works for the love of it.
Another way would be to absolve a man of that sort from the necessit=
y of
ordinary work, so as to give him a chance to get on with other inventions.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It would be to the interests of the com=
munity
to encourage him in every way and to place materials and facilities at his
disposal.
'But you must remember that even under the pre=
sent
system, Honour and Praise are held to be greater than money. How many soldiers would prefer money to=
the
honour of wearing the intrinsically valueless Victoria Cross?
'Even now men think less of money than they do=
of
the respect, esteem or honour they are able to procure with it. Many men spend the greater part of their
lives striving to accumulate money, and when they have succeeded, they proc=
eed
to spend it to obtain the respect of their fellow-men. Some of them spend thousands of pounds =
for
the honour of being able to write "MP" after their names. Others buy titles. Others pay huge sums to gain admission =
to
exclusive circles of society. Others give the money away in charity, or fou=
nd
libraries or universities. The rea=
son
they do these things is that they desire to be applauded and honoured by th=
eir
fellow-men.
'This desire is strongest in the most capable
men--the men of genius. Therefore, under Socialism the principal incentive =
to
great work will be the same as now--Honour and Praise. But, under the present system, Honour a=
nd
Praise can be bought with money, and it does not matter much how the money =
was
obtained.
'Under Socialism it will be different. The Cross of Honour and the Laurel Crow=
n will
not be bought and sold for filthy lucre.
They will be the supreme rewards of Virtue and of Talent.'
'Anyone else like to be flattened Out?' inquir=
ed
Philpot.
'What would you do with them what spends all t=
heir
money in drink?' asked Slyme.
'I might reasonably ask you, "What's done
with them or what you propose to do with them now?" There are many men and women whose live=
s are
so full of toil and sorrow and the misery caused by abject poverty, who are=
so
shut out from all that makes life worth living, that the time they spend in=
the
public house is the only ray of sunshine in their cheerless lives. Their mental and material poverty is so=
great
that they are deprived of and incapable of understanding the intellectual a=
nd social
pleasures of civilization... Under
Socialism there will be no such class as this.
Everyone will be educated, and social life and rational pleasure wil=
l be
within the reach of all. Therefore=
we do
not believe that there will be such a class.
Any individuals who abandoned themselves to such a course would be
avoided by their fellows; but if they became very degraded, we should still
remember that they were our brother men and women, and we should regard the=
m as
suffering from a disease inherited from their uncivilized forefathers and t=
ry to
cure them by placing them under some restraint: in an institute for instanc=
e.'
'Another good way to deal with 'em,' said Harl=
ow,
'would be to allow them double pay, so as they could drink themselves to
death. We could do without the lik=
es of
them.'
'Call the next case,' said Philpot.
'This 'ere abundance that you're always talking
about,' said Crass, you can't be sure that it would be possible to produce =
all
that. You're only assoomin' that it could be done.'
Barrington pointed to the still visible outlin=
es
of the 'Hoblong' that Owen had drawn on the wall to illustrate a previous
lecture.
'Even under the present silly system of restri=
cted
production, with the majority of the population engaged in useless,
unproductive, unnecessary work, and large numbers never doing any work at a=
ll,
there is enough produced to go all round after a fashion. More than enough, for in consequence of=
what
they call "Over-Production", the markets are periodically glutted=
with
commodities of all kinds, and then for a time the factories are closed and
production ceases. And yet we can =
all
manage to exist--after a fashion. =
This
proves that if productive industry were organized on the lines advocated by
Socialists there could be produced such a prodigious quantity of everything,
that everyone could live in plenty and comfort.
The problem of how to produce sufficient for all to enjoy abundance =
is
already solved: the problem that then remains is--How to get rid of those w=
hose
greed and callous indifference to the sufferings of others, prevents it bei=
ng
done.'
'Yes! and you'll never be able to get rid of '=
em,
mate,' cried Crass, triumphantly--and the man with the copper wire stitches=
in
his boot said that it couldn't be done.
'Well, we mean to have a good try, anyhow,' sa=
id
Barrington.
Crass and most of the others tried hard to thi=
nk
of something to say in defence of the existing state of affairs, or against=
the
proposals put forward by the lecturer; but finding nothing, they maintained=
a
sullen and gloomy silence. The man=
with
the copper wire stitches in his boot in particular appeared to be very much
upset; perhaps he was afraid that if the things advocated by the speaker ev=
er
came to pass he would not have any boots at all. To assume that he had some such thought=
as
this, is the only rational way to account for his hostility, for in his cas=
e no
change could have been for the worse unless it reduced him to almost absolu=
te
nakedness and starvation.
To judge by their unwillingness to consider any
proposals to alter the present system, one might have supposed that they we=
re
afraid of losing something, instead of having nothing to lose--except their
poverty.
It was not till the chairman had made several
urgent appeals for more questions that Crass brightened up: a glad smile sl=
owly
spread over and illuminated his greasy visage: he had at last thought of a =
most
serious and insurmountable obstacle to the establishment of the Co-operative
Commonwealth.
'What,' he demanded, in a loud voice, 'what are
you goin' to do, in this 'ere Socialist Republic of yours, with them wot WO=
N'T
WORK'!'
As Crass flung this bombshell into the Sociali=
st
camp, the miserable, ragged-trousered crew around him could scarce forbear a
cheer; but the more intelligent part of the audience only laughed.
'We don't believe that there will be any such
people as that,' said Barrington.
'There's plenty of 'em about now, anyway,' sne=
ered
Crass.
'You can't change 'uman nature, you know,' cri=
ed
the man behind the moat, and the one who had the copper wire stitches in his
boot laughed scornfully.
'Yes, I know there are plenty such now,' rejoi=
ned
Barrington. 'It's only what is to =
be
expected, considering that practically all workers live in poverty, and are
regarded with contempt. The condit=
ions
under which most of the work is done at present are so unpleasant and degra=
ding
that everyone refuses to do any unless they are compelled; none of us here,=
for
instance, would continue to work for Rushton if it were not for the fact th=
at
we have either to do so or starve; and when we do work we only just earn en=
ough
to keep body and soul together. Under the present system everybody who can
possibly manage to do so avoids doing any work, the only difference being t=
hat
some people do their loafing better than others. The aristocracy are too lazy to work, b=
ut
they seem to get on all right; they have their tenants to work for them.
'As for what we should do to such individuals =
if there
did happen to be some, I can assure you that we would not treat them as you
treat them now. We would not dress=
them
up in silk and satin and broadcloth and fine linen: we would not embellish
them, as you do, with jewels of gold and jewels of silver and with precious
stones; neither should we allow them to fare sumptuously every day. Our method of dealing with them would be
quite different from yours. In the
Co-operative Commonwealth there will be no place for loafers; whether they =
call
themselves aristocrats or tramps, those who are too lazy to work shall have=
no
share in the things that are produced by the labour of others. Those who do
nothing shall have nothing. If any=
man
will not work, neither shall he eat.
Under the present system a man who is really too lazy to work may st=
op
you in the street and tell you that he cannot get employment. For all you know, he may be telling the
truth, and if you have any feeling and are able, you will help him. But in the Socialist State no one would=
have
such an excuse, because everyone that was willing would be welcome to come =
and
help in the work of producing wealth and happiness for all, and afterwards =
he
would also be welcome to his full share of the results.'
'Any more complaints?' inquired the chairman,
breaking the gloomy silence that followed.
'I don't want anyone to think that I am blaming
any of these present-day loafers,' Barrington added. 'The wealthy ones cannot be expected
voluntarily to come and work under existing conditions and if they were to =
do
so they would be doing more harm than good--they would be doing some poor
wretches out of employment. They a=
re not
to be blamed; the people who are to blame are the working classes themselve=
s,
who demand and vote for the continuance of the present system. As for the other class of loafers--thos=
e at
the bottom, the tramps and people of that sort, if they were to become sober
and industrious tomorrow, they also would be doing more harm than good to t=
he
other workers; it would increase the competition for work. If all the loafers in Mugsborough could
suddenly be transformed into decent house painters next week, Nimrod might =
be
able to cut down the wages another penny an hour. I don't wish to speak disrespectfully of
these tramps at all. Some of them are such simply because they would rather
starve than submit to the degrading conditions that we submit to, they do n=
ot
see the force of being bullied and chased, and driven about in order to gain
semi-starvation and rags. They are=
able
to get those without working; and I sometimes think that they are more wort=
hy
of respect and are altogether a nobler type of beings than a lot of
broken-spirited wretches like ourselves, who are always at the mercy of our
masters, and always in dread of the sack.'
'Any more questions?' said the chairman.
'Do you mean to say as the time will ever come
when the gentry will mix up on equal terms with the likes of us?' demanded =
the
man behind the moat, scornfully.
'Oh, no,' replied the lecturer. When we get Socialism there won't be any
people like us. Everybody will be
civilized.'
The man behind the moat did not seem very
satisfied with this answer, and told the others that he could not see anyth=
ing
to laugh at.
'Is there any more questions?' cried Philpot.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Now is your chance to get some of your=
own
back, but don't hall speak at once.'
'I should like to know who's goin' to do all t=
he
dirty work?' said Slyme. 'If every=
one is
to be allowed to choose 'is own trade, who'd be fool enough to choose to be=
a
scavenger, a sweep, a dustman or a sewer man? nobody wouldn't want to do su=
ch
jobs as them and everyone would be after the soft jobs.'
'Of course,' cried Crass, eagerly clutching at
this last straw. 'The thing sounds=
all
right till you comes to look into it, but it wouldn't never work!'
'It would be very easy to deal with any diffic=
ulty
of that sort,' replied Barrington, 'if it were found that too many people w=
ere
desirous of pursuing certain callings, it would be known that the conditions
attached to those kinds of work were unfairly easy, as compared with other
lines, so the conditions in those trades would be made more severe. A higher degree of skill would be
required. If we found that too many
persons wished to be doctors, architects, engineers and so forth, we would =
increase
the severity of the examinations. =
This
would scare away all but the most gifted and enthusiastic. We should thus at one stroke reduce the
number of applicants and secure the very best men for the work--we should h=
ave
better doctors, better architects, better engineers than before.
'As regards those disagreeable tasks for which
there was a difficulty in obtaining volunteers, we should adopt the opposite
means. Suppose that six hours was =
the
general thing; and we found that we could not get any sewer men; we should
reduce the hours of labour in that department to four, or if necessary to t=
wo,
in order to compensate for the disagreeable nature of the work.
'Another way out of such difficulties would be=
to
have a separate division of the Industrial army to do all such work, and to
make it obligatory for every man to put in his first year of State service =
as a
member of this corps. There would =
be no
hardship in that. Everyone gets the
benefit of such work; there would be no injustice in requiring everyone to
share. This would have the effect =
also
of stimulating invention; it would be to everyone's interest to think out m=
eans
of doing away with such kinds of work and there is no doubt that most of it
will be done by machinery in some way or other.
A few years ago the only way to light up the streets of a town was t=
o go
round to each separate gas lamp and light each jet, one at a time: now, we
press a few buttons and light up the town with electricity. In the future we
shall probably be able to press a button and flush the sewers.'
'What about religion?' said Slyme. 'I suppose there won't be no churches n=
or
chapels; we shall all have to be atheists.'
'Everybody will be perfectly free to enjoy the=
ir
own opinions and to practise any religion they like; but no religion or sect
will be maintained by the State. I=
f any
congregation or body of people wish to have a building for their own exclus=
ive
use as a church or chapel or lecture hall it will be supplied to them by the
State on the same terms as those upon which dwelling houses will be supplie=
d;
the State will construct the special kind of building and the congregation =
will
have to pay the rent, the amount to be based on the cost of construction, in
paper money of course. As far as t=
he
embellishment or decoration of such places is concerned, there will of cour=
se
be nothing to prevent the members of the congregation if they wish from doi=
ng
any such work as that themselves in their own spare time of which they will
have plenty.'
'If everybody's got to do their share of work,
where's the minister and clergymen to come from?'
'There are at least three ways out of that
difficulty. First, ministers of re=
ligion
could be drawn from the ranks of the Veterans--men over forty-five years old
who had completed their term of State service.
You must remember that these will not be worn out wrecks, as too man=
y of
the working classes are at that age now.
They will have had good food and clothing and good general conditions
all their lives; and consequently they will be in the very prime of life. T=
hey
will be younger than many of us now are at thirty; they will be ideal men f=
or
the positions we are speaking of. =
All
well educated in their youth, and all will have had plenty of leisure for s=
elf
culture during the years of their State service and they will have the
additional recommendation that their congregation will not be required to p=
ay
anything for their services.
'Another way: If a congregation wished to reta=
in
the full-time services of a young man whom they thought specially gifted but
who had not completed his term of State service, they could secure him by
paying the State for his services; thus the young man would still remain in
State employment, he would still continue to receive his pay from the Natio=
nal Treasury,
and at the age of forty-five would be entitled to his pension like any other
worker, and after that the congregation would not have to pay the State
anything.
'A third--and as it seems to me, the most
respectable way--would be for the individual in question to act as minister=
or
pastor or lecturer or whatever it was, to the congregation without seeking =
to
get out of doing his share of the State service. The hours of obligatory work would be so
short and the work so light that he would have abundance of leisure to prep=
are
his orations without sponging on his co-religionists.'
''Ear, 'ear!' cried Harlow.
'Of course,' added Barrington, 'it would not o=
nly
be congregations of Christians who could adopt any of these methods. It is possible that a congregation of
agnostics, for instance, might want a separate building or to maintain a
lecturer.'
'What the 'ell's an agnostic?' demanded Bundy.=
'An agnostic,' said the man behind the moat, '=
is a
bloke wot don't believe nothing unless 'e see it with 'is own eyes.'
'All these details,' continued the speaker, 'of
the organization of affairs and the work of the Co-operative Commonwealth, =
are
things which do not concern us at all.
They have merely been suggested by different individuals as showing =
some
ways in which these things could be arranged.
The exact methods to be adopted will be decided upon by the opinion =
of
the majority when the work is being done.
Meantime, what we have to do is to insist upon the duty of the State=
to
provide productive work for the unemployed, the State feeding of
schoolchildren, the nationalization or Socialization of Railways; Land; the
Trusts, and all public services that are still in the hands of private
companies. If you wish to see these
things done, you must cease from voting for Liberal and Tory sweaters,
shareholders of companies, lawyers, aristocrats, and capitalists; and you m=
ust
fill the House of Commons with Revolutionary Socialists. That is--with men who are in favour of =
completely
changing the present system. And i=
n the
day that you do that, you will have solved the poverty
"problem". No more tramp=
ing
the streets begging for a job! No =
more
hungry children at home. No more b=
roken
boots and ragged clothes. No more =
women
and children killing themselves with painful labour whilst strong men stand
idly by; but joyous work and joyous leisure for all.'
'Is there any more questions?' cried Philpot.<= o:p>
'Is it true,' said Easton, 'that Socialists in=
tend
to do away with the Army and Navy?'
'Yes; it is true.
Socialists believe in International Brotherhood and peace. Nearly all wars are caused by profit-se=
eking
capitalists, seeking new fields for commercial exploitation, and by aristoc=
rats
who make it the means of glorifying themselves in the eyes of the deluded
common people. You must remember t=
hat
Socialism is not only a national, but an international movement and when it=
is
realized, there will be no possibility of war, and we shall no longer need =
to
maintain an army and navy, or to waste a lot of labour building warships or
manufacturing arms and ammunition. All
those people who are now employed will then be at liberty to assist in the
great work of producing the benefits of civilization; creating wealth and
knowledge and happiness for themselves and others--Socialism means Peace on
earth and goodwill to all mankind. But
in the meantime we know that the people of other nations are not yet all
Socialists; we do not forget that in foreign countries--just the same as in
Britain--there are large numbers of profit seeking capitalists, who are so
destitute of humanity, that if they thought it could be done successfully a=
nd
with profit to themselves they would not scruple to come here to murder and=
to
rob. We do not forget that in fore=
ign
countries--the same as here--there are plenty of so-called
"Christian" bishops and priests always ready to give their
benediction to any such murderous projects, and to blasphemously pray to the
Supreme Being to help his children to slay each other like wild beasts. And knowing and remembering all this, we
realize that until we have done away with capitalism, aristocracy and
anti-Christian clericalism, it is our duty to be prepared to defend our hom=
es
and our native land. And therefore=
we
are in favour of maintaining national defensive forces in the highest possi=
ble
state of efficiency. But that does=
not
mean that we are in favour of the present system of organizing those
forces. We do not believe in
conscription, and we do not believe that the nation should continue to main=
tain
a professional standing army to be used at home for the purpose of butcheri=
ng
men and women of the working classes in the interests of a handful of
capitalists, as has been done at Featherstone and Belfast; or to be used ab=
road
to murder and rob the people of other nations.
Socialists advocate the establishment of a National Citizen Army, for
defensive purposes only. We believ=
e that
every able bodied man should be compelled to belong to this force and to
undergo a course of military training, but without making him into a
professional soldier, or taking him away from civil life, depriving him of =
the
rights of citizenship or making him subject to military "law" whi=
ch
is only another name for tyranny and despotism.
This Citizen Army could be organized on somewhat similar lines to the
present Territorial Force, with certain differences. For instance, we do not believe--as our
present rulers do--that wealth and aristocratic influence are the two most
essential qualifications for an efficient officer; we believe that all ranks
should be attainable by any man, no matter how poor, who is capable of pass=
ing
the necessary examinations, and that there should be no expense attached to
those positions which the Government grant, or the pay, is not sufficient to
cover. The officers could be appoi=
nted
in any one of several ways: They might be elected by the men they would hav=
e to
command, the only qualification required being that they had passed their
examinations, or they might be appointed according to merit--the candidate =
obtaining
the highest number of marks at the examinations to have the first call on a=
ny
vacant post, and so on in order of merit.
We believe in the total abolition of courts martial, any offence aga=
inst
discipline should be punishable by the ordinary civil law--no member of the
Citizen Army being deprived of the rights of a citizen.'
'What about the Navy?' cried several voices.
'Nobody wants to interfere with the Navy excep=
t to
make its organization more democratic--the same as that of the Citizen
Army--and to protect its members from tyranny by entitling them to be tried=
in
a civil court for any alleged offence.
'It has been proved that if the soil of this
country were scientifically cultivated, it is capable of producing sufficie=
nt
to maintain a population of a hundred millions of people. Our present population is only about fo=
rty
millions, but so long as the land remains in the possession of persons who
refuse to allow it to be cultivated we shall continue to be dependent on ot=
her
countries for our food supply. So =
long
as we are in that position, and so long as foreign countries are governed by
Liberal and Tory capitalists, we shall need the Navy to protect our overseas
commerce from them. If we had a Ci=
tizen
Army such as I have mentioned, of nine or ten millions of men and if the la=
nd
of this country was properly cultivated, we should be invincible at home. No foreign power would ever be mad enou=
gh to
attempt to land their forces on our shores.
But they would now be able to starve us all to death in a month if it
were not for the Navy. It's a sens=
ible
and creditable position, isn't it?' concluded Barrington. 'Even in times of
peace, thousands of people standing idle and tamely starving in their own
fertile country, because a few land "Lords" forbid them to cultiv=
ate
it.'
'Is there any more questions?' demanded Philpo=
t,
breaking a prolonged silence.
'Would any Liberal or Tory capitalist like to =
get
up into the pulpit and oppose the speaker?' the chairman went on, finding t=
hat
no one responded to his appeal for questions.
The silence continued.
'As there's no more questions and no one won't=
get
up into the pulpit, it is now my painful duty to call upon someone to move a
resolution.'
'Well, Mr Chairman,' said Harlow, 'I may say t=
hat
when I came on this firm I was a Liberal, but through listenin' to several
lectures by Professor Owen and attendin' the meetings on the hill at Windley
and reading the books and pamphlets I bought there and from Owen, I came to=
the
conclusion some time ago that it's a mug's game for us to vote for capitali=
sts
whether they calls theirselves Liberals or Tories. They're all alike when
you're workin' for 'em; I defy any man to say what's the difference between=
a
Liberal and a Tory employer. There=
is
none--there can't be; they're both sweaters, and they've got to be, or they
wouldn't be able to compete with each other.
And since that's what they are, I say it's a mug's game for us to vo=
te
'em into Parliament to rule over us and to make laws that we've got to abid=
e by
whether we like it or not. There's nothing to choose between 'em, and the p=
roof
of it is that it's never made much difference to us which party was in or w=
hich
was out. It's quite true that in t=
he
past both of 'em have passed good laws, but they've only done it when public
opinion was so strong in favour of it that they knew there was no getting o=
ut
of it, and then it was a toss up which side did it.
'That's the way I've been lookin' at things
lately, and I'd almost made up my mind never to vote no more, or to trouble
myself about politics at all, because although I could see there was no sen=
se
in voting for Liberal or Tory capitalists, at the same time I must admit I
couldn't make out how Socialism was going to help us. But the explanation of it which Profess=
or
Barrington has given us this afternoon has been a bit of an eye opener for =
me,
and with your permission I should like to move as a resolution, "That =
it
is the opinion of this meeting that Socialism is the only remedy for
Unemployment and Poverty."'
The conclusion of Harlow's address was greeted
with loud cheers from the Socialists, but most of the Liberal and Tory
supporters of the present system maintained a sulky silence.
'I'll second that resolution,' said Easton.
'And I'll lay a bob both ways,' remarked Bundy=
. The resolution was then put, and though=
the
majority were against it, the Chairman declared it was carried unanimously.=
By this time the violence of the storm had in a
great measure abated, but as rain was still falling it was decided not to
attempt to resume work that day.
Besides, it would have been too late, even if the weather had cleared
up.
'P'raps it's just as well it 'as rained,' rema=
rked
one man. 'If it 'adn't some of us =
might
'ave got the sack tonight. As it i=
s,
there'll be hardly enough for all of us to do tomorrer and Saturday mornin'
even if it is fine.'
This was true: nearly all the outside was
finished, and what remained to be done was ready for the final coat. Inside all there was to do was to colou=
r wash
the walls and to give the woodwork of the kitchen and scullery the last coa=
t of
paint.
It was inevitable--unless the firm had some ot=
her
work for them to do somewhere else--that there would be a great slaughter on
Saturday.
'Now,' said Philpot, assuming what he meant to=
be
the manner of a school teacher addressing children, 'I wants you hall to ma=
ke a
speshall heffort and get 'ere very early in the mornin'--say about four
o'clock--and them wot doos the most work tomorrer, will get a prize on
Saturday.'
'What'll it be, the sack?' inquired Harlow.
'Yes,' replied Philpot, 'and not honly will you
get a prize for good conduck tomorrer, but if you all keep on workin' like
we've bin doing lately till you're too hold and wore hout to do any more,
you'll be allowed to go to a nice workhouse for the rest of your lives! and
each one of you will be given a title--"Pauper!"'
And they laughed!
Although the majority of them had mothers or
fathers or other near relatives who had already succeeded to the title--they
laughed!
As they were going home, Crass paused at the g=
ate,
and pointing up to the large gable at the end of the house, he said to Phil=
pot:
'You'll want the longest ladder--the 65, for t=
hat,
tomorrow.'
Philpot looked up at the gable.
It was very high.
The n=
ext
morning after breakfast, Philpot, Sawkins, Harlow and Barrington went to the
Yard to get the long ladder--the 65--so called because it had sixty-five
rungs. It was really what is known=
as a
builder's scaffold ladder, and it had been strengthened by several iron bol=
ts
or rods which passed through just under some of the rungs. One side of the ladder had an iron band=
or
ribbon twisted and nailed round it spirally.
It was not at all suitable for painters' work, being altogether too
heavy and cumbrous. However, as no=
ne of
the others were long enough to reach the high gable at the Refuge, they
managed, with a struggle, to get it down from the hooks and put it on one of
the handcarts and soon passed through the streets of mean and dingy houses =
in
the vicinity of the yard, and began the ascent of the long hill.
There had been a lot of rain during the night,=
and
the sky was still overcast with dark grey clouds. The cart went heavily over the muddy ro=
ad;
Sawkins was at the helm, holding the end of the ladder and steering; the ot=
hers
walked a little further ahead, at the sides of the cart.
It was such hard work that by the time they we=
re
half-way up the hill they were so exhausted and out of breath that they had=
to
stop for a rest.
'This is a bit of all right, ain't it?' remark=
ed
Harlow as he took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his
handkerchief.
While they rested they kept a good look out for
Rushton or Hunter, who were likely to pass by at any moment.
At first, no one made any reply to Harlow's
observation, for they were all out of breath and Philpot's lean fingers
trembled violently as he wiped the perspiration from his face.
'Yes, mate,' he said despondently, after a
while. 'It's one way of gettin' a =
livin'
and there's plenty better ways.'
In addition to the fact that his rheumatism was
exceptionally bad, he felt unusually low-spirited this morning; the gloomy
weather and the prospect of a long day of ladder work probably had somethin=
g to
do with it.
'A "living" is right,' said Barringt=
on
bitterly. He also was exhausted wi=
th the
struggle up the hill and enraged by the woebegone appearance of poor old
Philpot, who was panting and quivering from the exertion.
They relapsed into silence. The unaccountable depression that posse=
ssed
Philpot deprived him of all his usual jocularity and filled him with melanc=
holy
thoughts. He had travelled up and =
down
this hill a great many times before under similar circumstances and he said=
to
himself that if he had half a quid now for every time he had pushed a cart =
up
this road, he wouldn't need to do anyone out of a job all the rest of his l=
ife.
The shop where he had been apprenticed used to=
be
just down at the bottom; the place had been pulled down years ago, and the
ground was now occupied by more pretentious buildings. Not quite so far down the road--on the =
other
side--he could see the church where he used to attend Sunday School when he=
was
a boy, and where he was married just thirty years ago. Presently--when they reached the top of=
the
hill--he would be able to look across the valley and see the spire of the o=
ther
church, the one in the graveyard, where all those who were dear to him had =
been
one by one laid to rest. He felt t=
hat he
would not be sorry when the time came to join them there. Possibly, in the next world--if there w=
ere
such a place--they might all be together once more.
He was suddenly aroused from these thoughts by=
an
exclamation from Harlow.
'Look out! Here comes Rushton.'
They immediately resumed their journey. Rushton was coming up the hill in his
dog-cart with Grinder sitting by his side.
They passed so closely that Philpot--who was on that side of the
cart--was splashed with mud from the wheels of the trap.
'Them's some of your chaps, ain't they?' remar=
ked
Grinder.
'Yes,' replied Rushton. 'We're doing a job up this way.'
'I should 'ave thought it would pay you better=
to
use a 'orse for sich work as that,' said Grinder.
'We do use the horses whenever it's necessary =
for
very big loads, you know,' answered Rushton, and added with a laugh: 'But t=
he
donkeys are quite strong enough for such a job as that.'
The 'donkeys' struggled on up the hill for abo=
ut
another hundred yards and then they were forced to halt again.
'We mustn't stop long, you know,' said Harlow.=
'Most likely he's gone to the job, and =
he'll
wait to see how long it takes us to get there.'
Barrington felt inclined to say that in that c=
ase
Rushton would have to wait, but he remained silent, for he remembered that
although he personally did not care a brass button whether he got the sack =
or
not, the others were not so fortunately circumstanced.
While they were resting, another two-legged do=
nkey
passed by pushing another cart--or rather, holding it back, for he was comi=
ng
slowly down the hill. Another Heir=
of
all the ages--another Imperialist--a degraded, brutalized wretch, clad in
filthy, stinking rags, his toes protruding from the rotten broken boots that
were tied with bits of string upon his stockingless feet. The ramshackle cart was loaded with emp=
ty
bottles and putrid rags, heaped loosely in the cart and packed into a large
sack. Old coats and trousers, dres=
ses,
petticoats, and under-clothing, greasy, mildewed and malodorous. As he crept along with his eyes on the
ground, the man gave utterance at intervals to uncouth, inarticulate sounds=
.
'That's another way of gettin' a livin',' said
Sawkins with a laugh as the miserable creature slunk past.
Harlow also laughed, and Barrington regarded t=
hem
curiously. He thought it strange t=
hat
they did not seem to realize that they might some day become like this man
themselves.
'I've often wondered what they does with all t=
hem
dirty old rags,' said Philpot.
'Made into paper,' replied Harlow, briefly.
'Some of them are,' said Barrington, 'and some=
are
manufactured into shoddy cloth and made into Sunday clothes for working men=
.
'There's all sorts of different ways of gettin=
' a
livin',' remarked Sawkins, after a pause.
'I read in a paper the other day about a bloke wot goes about lookin'
for open trap doors and cellar flaps in front of shops. As soon as he spotted one open, he used=
to go
and fall down in it; and then he'd be took to the 'orspital, and when he got
better he used to go and threaten to bring a action against the shop-keeper=
and
get damages, and most of 'em used to part up without goin' in front of the
judge at all. But one day a slop w=
as a
watchin' of 'im, and seen 'im chuck 'isself down one, and when they picked =
'im
up they found he'd broke his leg. =
So
they took 'im to the 'orspital and when he came out and went round to the s=
hop
and started talkin' about bringin' a action for damages, the slop collared =
'im
and they give 'im six months.'
'Yes, I read about that,' said Harlow, 'and th=
ere
was another case of a chap who was run over by a motor, and they tried to m=
ake
out as 'e put 'isself in the way on purpose; but 'e got some money out of t=
he
swell it belonged to; a 'undered pound I think it was.'
'I only wish as one of their motors would run
inter me,' said Philpot, making a feeble attempt at a joke. 'I lay I'd get some a' me own back out =
of
'em.'
The others laughed, and Harlow was about to ma=
ke
some reply but at that moment a cyclist appeared coming down the hill from =
the
direction of the job. It was Nimro=
d, so
they resumed their journey once more and presently Hunter shot past on his
machine without taking any notice of them...
When they arrived they found that Rushton had =
not
been there at all, but Nimrod had. Crass
said that he had kicked up no end of a row because they had not called at t=
he
yard at six o'clock that morning for the ladder, instead of going for it af=
ter
breakfast--making two journeys instead of one, and he had also been ratty
because the big gable had not been started the first thing that morning.
They carried the ladder into the garden and la=
id
it on the ground along the side of the house where the gable was. A brick wall about eight feet high sepa=
rated
the grounds of 'The Refuge' from those of the premises next door. Between this wall and the side wall of =
the
house was a space about six feet wide and this space formed a kind of alley=
or
lane or passage along the side of the house.
They laid the ladder on the ground along this passage, the 'foot' was
placed about half-way through; just under the centre of the gable, and as it
lay there, the other end of the ladder reached right out to the front raili=
ngs.
Next, it was necessary that two men should go =
up
into the attic--the window of which was just under the point of the gable--=
and
drop the end of a long rope down to the others who would tie it to the top =
of
the ladder. Then two men would sta=
nd on
the bottom rung, so as to keep the 'foot' down, and the three others would =
have
to raise the ladder up, while the two men up in the attic hauled on the rop=
e.
They called Bundy and his mate Ned Dawson to h=
elp,
and it was arranged that Harlow and Crass should stand on the foot because =
they
were the heaviest. Philpot, Bundy,=
and
Barrington were to 'raise', and Dawson and Sawkins were to go up to the att=
ic
and haul on the rope.
'Where's the rope?' asked Crass.
The others looked blankly at him. None of them had thought of bringing on=
e from
the yard.
'Why, ain't there one 'ere?' asked Philpot.
'One 'ere?
Of course there ain't one 'ere!' snarled Crass. 'Do you mean to say as you ain't brough=
t one,
then?'
Philpot stammered out something about having
thought there was one at the house already, and the others said they had not
thought about it at all.
'Well, what the bloody hell are we to do now?'
cried Crass, angrily.
'I'll go to the yard and get one,' suggested
Barrington. 'I can do it in twenty
minutes there and back.'
'Yes! and a bloody fine row there'd be if Hunt=
er
was to see you! 'Ere it's nearly t=
en
o'clock and we ain't made a start on this gable wot we ought to 'ave started
first thing this morning.'
'Couldn't we tie two or three of those short r=
opes
together?' suggested Philpot. 'Tho=
se
that the other two ladders was spliced with?'
As there was sure to be a row if they delayed = long enough to send to the yard, it was decided to act on Philpot's suggestion.<= o:p>
Several of the short ropes were accordingly ti=
ed
together but upon examination it was found that some parts were so weak that
even Crass had to admit it would be dangerous to attempt to haul the heavy =
ladder
up with them.
'Well, the only thing as I can see for it,' he
said, 'is that the boy will 'ave to go down to the yard and get the long
rope. It won't do for anyone else =
to go:
there's been one row already about the waste of time because we didn't call=
at
the yard for the ladder at six o'clock.'
Bert was down in the basement of the house
limewashing a cellar. Crass called him up and gave him the necessary
instructions, chief of which was to get back again as soon as ever he
could. The boy ran off, and while =
they
were waiting for him to come back the others went on with their several
jobs. Philpot returned to the small
gable he had been painting before breakfast, which he had not quite finishe=
d.
As he worked a sudden and unaccountable terror took possession of him. He d=
id
not want to do that other gable; he felt too ill; and he almost resolved th=
at
he would ask Crass if he would mind letting him do something else. There were several younger men who woul=
d not
object to doing it--it would be mere child's play to them, and Barrington h=
ad
already--yesterday--offered to change jobs with him.
But then, when he thought of what the probable
consequences would be, he hesitated to take that course, and tried to persu=
ade
himself that he would be able to get through with the work all right. He did not want Crass or Hunter to mark=
him
as being too old for ladder work.
Bert came back in about half an hour flushed a=
nd
sweating with the weight of the rope and with the speed he had made. He delivered it to Crass and then retur=
ned to
his cellar and went on with the limewashing, while Crass passed the word for
Philpot and the others to come and raise the ladder. He handed the rope to Ned Dawson, who t=
ook it
up to the attic, accompanied by Sawkins; arrived there they lowered one end=
out
of the window down to the others.
'If you ask me,' said Ned Dawson, who was
critically examining the strands of the rope as he passed it out through the
open window, 'If you ask me, I don't see as this is much better than the on=
e we
made up by tyin' the short pieces together.
Look 'ere,'--he indicated a part of the rope that was very frayed and
worn--'and 'ere's another place just as bad.'
'Well, for Christ's sake don't say nothing abo=
ut
it now,' replied Sawkins. 'There's=
been
enough talk and waste of time over this job already.'
Ned made no answer and the end having by this =
time
reached the ground, Bundy made it fast to the ladder, about six rungs from =
the
top.
The ladder was lying on the ground, parallel to
the side of the house. The task of raising it would have been much easier if
they had been able to lay it at right angles to the house wall, but this was
impossible because of the premises next door and the garden wall between the
two houses. On account of its havi=
ng to
be raised in this manner the men at the top would not be able to get a stra=
ight
pull on the rope; they would have to stand back in the room without being a=
ble
to see the ladder, and the rope would have to be drawn round the corner of =
the
window, rasping against the edge of the stone sill and the brickwork.
The end of the rope having been made fast to t=
he
top of the ladder, Crass and Harlow stood on the foot and the other three
raised the top from the ground; as Barrington was the tallest, he took the
middle position--underneath the ladder--grasping the rungs, Philpot being on
his left and Bundy on his right, each holding one side of the ladder.
At a signal from Crass, Dawson and Sawkins beg=
an
to haul on the rope, and the top of the ladder began to rise slowly into the
air.
Philpot was not of much use at this work, which
made it all the harder for the other two who were lifting, besides putting =
an
extra strain on the rope. His lack=
of
strength, and the efforts of Barrington and Bundy to make up for him caused=
the
ladder to sway from side to side, as it would not have done if they had all
been equally capable.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Dawson and Sawkins--altho=
ugh
the ladder was as yet only a little more than half the way up--noticed, as =
they
hauled and strained on the rope, that it had worn a groove for itself in the
corner of the brickwork at the side of the window; and every now and then,
although they pulled with all their strength, they were not able to draw in=
any
part of the rope at all; and it seemed to them as if those others down below
must have let go their hold altogether, or ceased lifting.
That was what actually happened. The three men found the weight so
overpowering, that once or twice they were compelled to relax their efforts=
for
a few seconds, and at those times the rope had to carry the whole weight of=
the
ladder; and the part of the rope that had to bear the greatest strain was t=
he
part that chanced to be at the angle of the brickwork at the side of the
window. And presently it happened =
that
one of the frayed and worn places that Dawson had remarked about was just at
the angle during one of those momentary pauses.
On one end there hung the ponderous ladder, straining the frayed rope
against the corner of the brickwork and the sharp edge of the stone sill, at
the other end were Dawson and Sawkins pulling with all their strength, and =
in
that instant the rope snapped like a piece of thread. One end remained in the hands of Sawkin=
s and
Dawson, who reeled backwards into the room, and the other end flew up into =
the
air, writhing like the lash of a gigantic whip.
For a moment the heavy ladder swayed from side to side: Barrington,
standing underneath, with his hands raised above his head grasping one of t=
he
rungs, struggled desperately to hold it up.
At his right stood Bundy, also with arms upraised holding the side; =
and
on the left, between the ladder and the wall, was Philpot.
For a brief space they strove fiercely to supp=
ort
the overpowering weight, but Philpot had no strength, and the ladder, swayi=
ng over
to the left, crashed down, crushing him upon the ground and against the wal=
l of
the house. He fell face downwards,=
with
the ladder across his shoulders; the side that had the iron bands twisted r=
ound
it fell across the back of his neck, forcing his face against the bricks at=
the
base of the wall. He uttered no cr=
y and
was quite still, with blood streaming from the cuts on his face and trickli=
ng
from his ears.
Barrington was also hurled to the ground with =
his
head and arms under the ladder; his head and face were cut and bleeding and=
he
was unconscious; none of the others was hurt, for they had all had time to =
jump
clear when the ladder fell. Their =
shouts
soon brought all the other men running to the spot, and the ladder was quic=
kly
lifted off the two motionless figures.
At first it seemed that Philpot was dead, but Easton rushed off for a
neighbouring doctor, who came in a few minutes.
He knelt down and carefully examined the crush=
ed
and motionless form of Philpot, while the other men stood by in terrified
silence.
Barrington, who fortunately was but momentarily
stunned was sitting against the wall and had suffered nothing more serious =
than
minor cuts and bruises.
The doctor's examination of Philpot was a very
brief one, and when he rose from his knees, even before he spoke they knew =
from
his manner that their worst fears were realized.
Philpot was dead.
Barri=
ngton
did not do any more work that day, but before going home he went to the
doctor's house and the latter dressed the cuts on his head and arms. Philpot's body was taken away on the
ambulance to the mortuary.
Hunter arrived at the house shortly afterwards=
and
at once began to shout and bully because the painting of the gable was not =
yet
commenced. When he heard of the ac=
cident
he blamed them for using the rope, and said they should have asked for a new
one. Before he went away he had a =
long,
private conversation with Crass, who told him that Philpot had no relatives=
and
that his life was insured for ten pounds in a society of which Crass was al=
so a
member. He knew that Philpot had
arranged that in the event of his death the money was to be paid to the old
woman with whom he lodged, who was a very close friend. The result of this
confidential talk was that Crass and Hunter came to the conclusion that it =
was
probable that she would be very glad to be relieved of the trouble of atten=
ding
to the business of the funeral, and that Crass, as a close friend of the de=
ad
man, and a fellow member of the society, was the most suitable person to ta=
ke
charge of the business for her. He=
was
already slightly acquainted with the old lady, so he would go to see her at
once and get her authority to act on her behalf. Of course, they would not be able to do=
much
until after the inquest, but they could get the coffin made--as Hunter knew=
the
mortuary keeper there would be no difficulty about getting in for a minute =
to
measure the corpse.
This matter having been arranged, Hunter depar=
ted
to order a new rope, and shortly afterwards Crass--having made sure that
everyone would have plenty to do while he was gone--quietly slipped away to=
go
to see Philpot's landlady. He went=
off
so secretly that the men did not know that he had been away at all until th=
ey
saw him come back just before twelve o'clock.
The new rope was brought to the house about one
o'clock and this time the ladder was raised without any mishap. Harlow was put on to paint the gable, a=
nd he
felt so nervous that he was allowed to have Sawkins to stand by and hold the
ladder all the time. Everyone felt
nervous that afternoon, and they all went about their work in an unusually
careful manner.
When Bert had finished limewashing the cellar,
Crass set him to work outside, painting the gate of the side entrance. While the boy was thus occupied he was
accosted by a solemn-looking man who asked him about the accident. The solemn stranger was very sympatheti=
c and
inquired what was the name of the man who had been killed, and whether he w=
as married. Bert informed him that Philpot was a wi=
dower,
and that he had no children.
'Ah, well, that's so much the better, isn't it=
?'
said the stranger shaking his head mournfully.
'It's a dreadful thing, you know, when there's children left unprovi=
ded
for. You don't happen to know wher=
e he
lived, do you?'
'Yes,' said Bert, mentioning the address and
beginning to wonder what the solemn man wanted to know for, and why he appe=
ared
to be so sorry for Philpot since it was quite evident that he had never kno=
wn
him.
'Thanks very much,' said the man, pulling out =
his
pocket-book and making a note of it.
'Thanks very much indeed. G=
ood
afternoon,' and he hurried off.
'Good afternoon, sir,' said Bert and he turned=
to
resume his work. Crass came along the garden just as the mysterious stranger
was disappearing round the corner.
'What did HE want?' said Crass, who had seen t=
he
man talking to Bert.
'I don't know exactly; he was asking about the
accident, and whether Joe left any children, and where he lived. He must be a very decent sort of chap, =
I should
think. He seems quite sorry about =
it.'
'Oh, he does, does he?' said Crass, with a
peculiar expression. 'Don't you know who he is?'
'No,' replied the boy; 'but I thought p'raps he
was a reporter of some paper.
''E ain't no reporter: that's old Snatchum the
undertaker. 'E's smellin' round af=
ter a
job; but 'e's out of it this time, smart as 'e thinks 'e is.'
Barrington came back the next morning to work,=
and
at breakfast-time there was a lot of talk about the accident. They said that it was all very well for
Hunter to talk like that about the rope, but he had known for a long time t=
hat
it was nearly worn out. Newman sai=
d that
only about three weeks previously when they were raising a ladder at another
job he had shown the rope to him, and Misery had replied that there was not=
hing
wrong with it. Several others besi=
des
Newman claimed to have mentioned the matter to Hunter, and each of them sai=
d he
had received the same sort of reply. But
when Barrington suggested that they should attend the inquest and give evid=
ence
to that effect, they all became suddenly silent and in a conversation
Barrington afterwards had with Newman the latter pointed out that if he wer=
e to
do so, it would do no good to Philpot.
It would not bring him back but it would be sure to do himself a lot=
of
harm. He would never get another j=
ob at
Rushton's and probably many of the other employers would 'mark him' as well=
.
'So if YOU say anything about it,' concluded
Newman, 'don't bring my name into it.'
Barrington was constrained to admit that all
things considered it was right for Newman to mind his own business. He felt that it would not be fair to ur=
ge him
or anyone else to do or say anything that would injure themselves.
Misery came to the house about eleven o'clock =
and
informed several of the hands that as work was very slack they would get th=
eir
back day at pay time. He said that=
the
firm had tendered for one or two jobs, so they could call round about Wedne=
sday
and perhaps he might then be able to give some of them another start,
Barrington was not one of those who were 'stood off', although he had expec=
ted
to be on account of the speech he had made at the Beano, and everyone said =
that
he would have got the push sure enough if it had not been for the accident.=
Before he went away, Nimrod instructed Owen and
Crass to go to the yard at once: they would there find Payne the carpenter,=
who
was making Philpot's coffin, which would be ready for Crass to varnish by t=
he
time they got there.
Misery told Owen that he had left the coffin p=
late
and the instructions with Payne and added that he was not to take too much =
time
over the writing, because it was a very cheap job.
When they arrived at the yard, Payne was just
finishing the coffin, which was of elm.
All that remained to be done to it was the pitching of the joints in=
side
and Payne was in the act of lifting the pot of boiling pitch off the fire t=
o do
this.
As it was such a cheap job, there was no time =
to
polish it properly, so Crass proceeded to give it a couple of coats of spir=
it
varnish, and while he was doing this Owen wrote the plate, which was made of
very thin zinc lacquered over to make it look like brass:
JOSEPH
PHILPOT =
Died =
span> September 1st 19-- Aged 56 =
years.
The inquest was held on the following Monday
morning, and as both Rushton and Hunter thought it possible that Barrington
might attempt to impute some blame to them, they had worked the oracle and =
had
contrived to have several friends of their own put on the jury. There was, however, no need for their a=
larm,
because Barrington could not say that he had himself noticed, or called
Hunter's attention to the state of the rope; and he did not wish to mention=
the
names of the others without their permission.
The evidence of Crass and the other men who were called was to the
effect that it was a pure accident. None of them had noticed that the rope =
was
unsound. Hunter also swore that he=
did
not know of it--none of the men had ever called his attention to it; if they
had done so he would have procured a new one immediately.
Philpot's landlady and Mr Rushton were also ca=
lled
as witnesses, and the end was that the jury returned a verdict of accidental
death, and added that they did not think any blame attached to anyone.
The coroner discharged the jury, and as they a=
nd
the witnesses passed out of the room, Hunter followed Rushton outside, with=
the
hope of being honoured by a little conversation with him on the satisfactory
issue of the case; but Rushton went off without taking any notice of him, so
Hunter returned to the room where the court had been held to get the corone=
r's
certificate authorizing the interment of the body. This document is usually
handed to the friends of the deceased or to the undertaker acting for
them. When Hunter got back to the =
room
he found that during his absence the coroner had given it to Philpot's
landlady, who had taken it with her. He
accordingly hastened outside again to ask her for it, but the woman was now=
here
to be seen.
Crass and the other men were also gone; they h=
ad
hurried off to return to work, and after a moment's hesitation Hunter decid=
ed
that it did not matter much about the certificate. Crass had arranged the business with the
landlady and he could get the paper from her later on. Having come to this conclusion, he dism=
issed
the subject from his mind: he had several prices to work out that
afternoon--estimates from some jobs the firm was going to tender for.
That evening, after having been home to tea, C=
rass
and Sawkins met by appointment at the carpenter's shop to take the coffin to
the mortuary, where Misery had arranged to meet them at half past eight
o'clock. Hunter's plan was to have the funeral take place from the mortuary,
which was only about a quarter of an hour's walk from the yard; so tonight =
they
were just going to lift in the body and get the lid screwed down.
It was blowing hard and raining heavily when C=
rass
and Sawkins set out, carrying the coffin--covered with a black cloth--on th=
eir
shoulders. They also took a small pair of tressels for the coffin to stand =
on.
Crass carried one of these slung over his arm and Sawkins the other.
On their way they had to pass the 'Cricketers'=
and
the place looked so inviting that they decided to stop and have a drink--ju=
st
to keep the damp out, and as they could not very well take the coffin inside
with them, they stood it up against the brick wall a little way from the si=
de
of the door: as Crass remarked with a laugh, there was not much danger of
anyone pinching it. The Old Dear s=
erved
them and just as they finished drinking the two half-pints there was a loud
crash outside and Crass and Sawkins rushed out and found that the coffin had
blown down and was lying bottom upwards across the pavement, while the black
cloth that had been wrapped round it was out in the middle of the muddy
road. Having recovered this, they =
shook
as much of the dirt off as they could, and having wrapped it round the coff=
in
again they resumed their journey to the mortuary, where they found Hunter
waiting for them, engaged in earnest conversation with the keeper. The electric light was switched on, and=
as
Crass and Sawkins came in they saw that the marble slab was empty.
The corpse was gone.
'Snatchum came this afternoon with a hand-truck
and a corfin,' explained the keeper. 'I
was out at the time, and the missis thought it was all right so she let him
have the key.'
Hunter and Crass looked blankly at each other.=
'Well, this takes the biskit!' said the latter=
as
soon as he could speak.
'I thought you said you had settled everything=
all
right with the old woman?' said Hunter.
'So I did,' replied Crass. 'I seen 'er on Friday, and I told 'er to
leave it all to me to attend to, and she said she would. I told 'er that Philpot said to me that=
if
ever anything 'appened to 'im I was to take charge of everything for 'er,
because I was 'is best friend. And=
I
told 'er we'd do it as cheap as possible.'
'Well, it seems to me as you've bungled it
somehow,' said Nimrod, gloomily. 'I
ought to have gone and seen 'er myself, I was afraid you'd make a mess of i=
t,'
he added in a wailing tone. 'It's =
always
the same; everything that I don't attend to myself goes wrong.'
An uncomfortable silence fell. Crass thought that the principal piece =
of
bungling in this affair was Hunter's failure to secure possession of the
Coroner's certificate after the inquest, but he was afraid to say so.
Outside, the rain was still falling and drove =
in
through the partly open door, causing the atmosphere of the mortuary to be =
even
more than usually cold and damp. T=
he
empty coffin had been reared against one of the walls and the marble slab w=
as
still stained with blood, for the keeper had not had time to clean it since=
the
body had been removed.
'I can see 'ow it's been worked,' said Crass at
last. 'There's one of the members =
of the
club who works for Snatchum, and 'e's took it on 'isself to give the order =
for
the funeral; but 'e's got no right to do it.'
'Right or no right, 'e's done it,' replied Mis=
ery,
'so you'd better take the box back to the shop.'
Crass and Sawkins accordingly returned to the
workshop, where they were presently joined by Nimrod.
'I've been thinking this business over as I ca=
me
along,' he said, 'and I don't see being beat like this by Snatchum; so you =
two
can just put the tressels and the box on a hand cart and we'll take it over=
to
Philpot's house.'
Nimrod walked on the pavement while the other =
two
pushed the cart, and it was about half past nine, when they arrived at the
street in Windley where Philpot used to live.
They halted in a dark part of the street a few yards away from the h=
ouse
and on the opposite side.
'I think the best thing we can do,' said Miser=
y,
'is for me and Sawkins to wait 'ere while you go to the 'ouse and see 'ow t=
he
land lies. You've done all the business with 'er so far. It's no use takin' the box unless we kn=
ow the
corpse is there; for all we know, Snatchum may 'ave taken it 'ome with 'im.=
'
'Yes; I think that'll be the best way,' agreed
Crass, after a moment's thought.
Nimrod and Sawkins accordingly took shelter in=
the
doorway of an empty house, leaving the handcart at the kerb, while Crass we=
nt
across the street and knocked at Philpot's door. They saw it opened by an elderly woman
holding a lighted candle in her hand; then Crass went inside and the door w=
as
shut. In about a quarter of an hou=
r he
reappeared and, leaving the door partly open behind him, he came out and cr=
ossed
over to where the others were waiting.
As he drew near they could see that he carried a piece of paper in h=
is
hand.
'It's all right,' he said in a hoarse whisper =
as
he came up. I've got the stifficut=
.'
Misery took the paper eagerly and scanned it by
the light of a match that Crass struck.
It was the certificate right enough, and with a sigh of relief Hunter
put it into his note-book and stowed it safely away in the inner pocket of =
his
coat, while Crass explained the result of his errand.
It appeared that the other member of the Socie=
ty, accompanied
by Snatchum, had called upon the old woman and had bluffed her into giving =
them
the order for the funeral. It was =
they
who had put her up to getting the certificate from the Coroner--they had be=
en
careful to keep away from the inquest themselves so as not to arouse Hunter=
's
or Crass's suspicions.
'When they brought the body 'ome this afternoo=
n,'
Crass went on, 'Snatchum tried to get the stifficut orf 'er, but she'd been
thinkin' things over and she was a bit frightened 'cos she knowed she'd made
arrangements with me, and she thought she'd better see me first; so she told
'im she'd give it to 'im on Thursday; that's the day as 'e was goin' to 'ave
the funeral.'
'He'll find he's a day too late,' said Misery,
with a ghastly grin. 'We'll get the job done on Wednesday.'
'She didn't want to give it to me, at first,'
Crass concluded, 'but I told 'er we'd see 'er right if old Snatchum tried to
make 'er pay for the other coffin.'
'I don't think he's likely to make much fuss a=
bout
it,' said Hunter. 'He won't want everybody to know he was so anxious for the
job.'
Crass and Sawkins pushed the handcart over to =
the
other side of the road and then, lifting the coffin off, they carried it in=
to
the house, Nimrod going first.
The old woman was waiting for them with the ca=
ndle
at the end of the passage.
'I shall be very glad when it's all over,' she
said, as she led the way up the narrow stairs, closely followed by Hunter, =
who
carried the tressels, Crass and Sawkins, bringing up the rear with the
coffin. 'I shall be very glad when=
it's
all over, for I'm sick and tired of answerin' the door to undertakers. If there's been one 'ere since Friday t=
here's
been a dozen, all after the job, not to mention all the cards what's been p=
ut
under the door, besides the one's what I've had give to me by different
people. I had a pair of boots bein'
mended and the man took the trouble to bring 'em 'ome when they was finishe=
d--a
thing 'e's never done before--just for an excuse to give me an undertaker's
card.
'Then the milkman brought one, and so did the
baker, and the greengrocer give me another when I went in there on Saturday=
to
buy some vegetables for Sunday dinner.'
Arrived at the top landing the old woman opene=
d a
door and entered a small and wretchedly furnished room.
Across the lower sash of the window hung a
tattered piece of lace curtain. Th=
e low
ceiling was cracked and discoloured.
There was a rickety little wooden washstand, a=
nd
along one side of the room a narrow bed covered with a ragged grey quilt, on
which lay a bundle containing the clothes that the dead man was wearing at =
the
time of the accident.
There was a little table in front of the windo=
w,
with a small looking-glass upon it, and a cane-seated chair was placed by t=
he
bedside and the floor was covered with a faded piece of drab-coloured carpe=
t of
no perceptible pattern, worn into holes in several places.
In the middle of this dreary room, upon a pair=
of
tressels, was the coffin containing Philpot's body. Seen by the dim and flickering light of=
the
candle, the aspect of this coffin, covered over with a white sheet, was
terrible in its silent, pathetic solitude.
Hunter placed the pair of tressels he had been
carrying against the wall, and the other two put the empty coffin on the fl=
oor
by the side of the bed. The old wo=
man
stood the candlestick on the mantelpiece, and withdrew, remarking that they
would not need her assistance. The=
three
men then removed their overcoats and laid them on the end of the bed, and f=
rom
the pocket of his Crass took out two large screwdrivers, one of which he ha=
nded
to Hunter. Sawkins held the candle=
while
they unscrewed and took off the lid of the coffin they had brought with the=
m:
it was not quite empty, for they had brought a bag of tools inside it.
'I think we shall be able to work better if we
takes the other one orf the trussels and puts it on the floor,' remarked Cr=
ass.
'Yes, I think so, too,' replied Hunter.
Crass took off the sheet and threw it on the b=
ed,
revealing the other coffin, which was very similar in appearance to the one
they had brought with them, being of elms, with the usual imitation brass
furniture. Hunter took hold of the=
head
and Crass the foot and they lifted it off the tressels on to the floor.
''E's not very 'eavy; that's one good thing,' =
observed
Hunter.
''E always was a very thin chap,' replied Cras=
s.
The screws that held down the lid had been cov=
ered
over with large-headed brass nails which had to be wrenched off before they
could get at the screws, of which there were eight altogether. It was evident from the appearance of t=
he
beads of these screws that they were old ones that had been used for some
purpose before: they were rusty and of different sizes, some being rather
larger or smaller, than they should have been.
They were screwed in so firmly that by the time they had drawn half =
of
them out the two men were streaming with perspiration. After a while Hunter took the candle fr=
om
Sawkins and the latter had a try at the screws.
'Anyone would think the dam' things had been t=
here
for a 'undred years,' remarked Hunter, savagely, as he wiped the sweat from=
his
face and neck with his handkerchief.
Kneeling on the lid of the coffin and panting =
and
grunting with the exertion, the other two continued to struggle with their
task. Suddenly Crass uttered an obscene curse; he had broken off one side of
the head of the screw he was trying to turn and almost at the same instant a
similar misfortune happened to Sawkins.
After this, Hunter again took a screwdriver
himself, and when they got all the screws out with the exception of the two
broken ones, Crass took a hammer and chisel out of the bag and proceeded to=
cut
off what was left of the tops of the two that remained. But even after this was done the two sc=
rews
still held the lid on the coffin, and so they had to hammer the end of the
blade of the chisel underneath and lever the lid up so that they could get =
hold
of it with their fingers. It split=
up
one side as they tore it off, exposing the dead man to view.
Although the marks of the cuts and bruises were
still visible on Philpot's face, they were softened down by the pallor of
death, and a placid, peaceful expression pervaded his features. His hands were crossed upon his breast,=
and
as he lay there in the snow-white grave clothes, almost covered in by the w=
hite
lace frill that bordered the sides of the coffin, he looked like one in a
profound and tranquil sleep.
They laid the broken lid on the bed, and placed
the two coffins side by side on the floor as close together as possible.
Whilst Hunter--hovering ghoulishly over the
corpse--arranged the grave clothes and the frilling, Crass laid the broken
cover on the top of the other coffin and pushed it under the bed out of the
way. Then he selected the necessary
screws and nails from the bag, and Hunter having by this time finished, they
proceeded to screw down the lid. Then they lifted the coffin on to the
tressels, covering it over with the sheet, and the appearance it then prese=
nted
was so exactly similar to what they had seen when they first entered the ro=
om,
that it caused the same thought to occur to all of them: Suppose Snatchum t=
ook
it into his head to come there and take the body out again? If he were to do so and take it up to t=
he
cemetery they might be compelled to give up the certificate to him and then=
all
their trouble would be lost.
After a brief consultation, they resolved that=
it
would be safer to take the corpse on the handcart to the yard and keep it in
the carpenter's shop until the funeral, which could take place from there.
Crass and Sawkins accordingly lifted the coffin off the tressels, and--while
Hunter held the light--proceeded to carry it downstairs, a task of consider=
able
difficulty owing to the narrowness of the staircase and the landing. However, they got it down at last and, =
having
put it on the handcart, covered it over with the black wrapper. It was still
raining and the lamp in the cart was nearly out, so Sawkins trimmed the wick
and relit it before they started.
Hunter wished them 'Good-night' at the corner =
of
the street, because it was not necessary for him to accompany them to the
yard--they would be able to manage all that remained to be done by themselv=
es.
He said he would make the arrangements for the funeral as soon as he possib=
ly
could the next morning, and he would come to the job and let them know, as =
soon
as he knew himself, at what time they would have to be in attendance to act=
as
bearers. He had gone a little dist=
ance
on his way when he stopped and turned back to them.
'It's not necessary for either of you to make a
song about this business, you know,' he said.
The two men said that they quite understood th=
at:
he could depend on their keeping their mouths shut.
When Hunter had gone, Crass drew out his
watch. It was a quarter to eleven.=
A little way down the road the lights o=
f a
public house were gleaming through the mist.
'We shall be just in time to get a drink before
closing time if we buck up,' he said.
And with this object they hurried on as fast as they could.
When they reached the tavern they left the cart
standing by the kerb, and went inside, where Crass ordered two pints of
four-ale, which he permitted Sawkins to pay for.
'How are we going on about this job?' inquired=
the
latter after they had each taken a long drink, for they were thirsty after
their exertions. 'I reckon we ought to 'ave more than a bob for it, don't
you? It's not like a ordinary &quo=
t;lift
in".'
'Of course it ain't,' replied Crass. 'We ought to 'ave about,
say'--reflecting--'say arf a dollar each at the very least.'
'Little enough too,' said Sawkins. 'I was going to say arf a crown, myself=
.'
Crass agreed that even half a crown would not =
be
too much.
''Ow are we going' on about chargin' it on our
time sheets?' asked Sawkins, after a pause.
'If we just put a "lift in", they might only pay us a bob =
as
usual.'
As a rule when they had taken a coffin home, t=
hey
wrote on their time sheets, 'One lift in', for which they were usually paid=
one
shilling, unless it happened to be a very high-class funeral, when they
sometimes got one and sixpence. Th=
ey
were never paid by the hour for these jobs.
Crass smoked reflectively.
'I think the best way will be to put it like
this,' he said at length. '"Philpot's funeral. One lift out and one lift in. Also takin' corpse to carpenter's shop.=
" 'Ow would that do?'
Sawkins said that would be a very good way to =
put
it, and they finished their beer just as the landlord intimated that it was
closing time. The cart was standing where they left it, the black cloth
saturated with the rain, which dripped mournfully from its sable folds.
When they reached the plot of waste ground over
which they had to pass in order to reach the gates of the yard, they had to
proceed very cautiously, for it was very dark, and the lantern did not give
much light. A number of carts and
lorries were standing there, and the path wound through pools of water and
heaps of refuse. After much diffic=
ulty
and jolting, they reached the gate, which Crass unlocked with the key he had
obtained from the office earlier in the evening. They soon opened the door =
of
the carpenter's shop and, after lighting the gas, they arranged the tressels
and then brought in the coffin and placed it upon them. Then they locked the door and placed th=
e key
in its usual hiding-place, but the key of the outer gate they took with them
and dropped into the letter-box at the office, which they had to pass on th=
eir
way home.
As they turned away from the door, they were
suddenly confronted by a policeman who flashed his lantern in their faces a=
nd
demanded to know why they had tried the lock...
The next morning was a very busy one for Hunte=
r,
who had to see several new jobs commenced.
They were all small affairs. Most
of them would only take two or three days from start to finish.
Attending to this work occupied most of his
morning, but all the same he managed to do the necessary business connected
with the funeral, which he arranged to take place at two o'clock on Wednesd=
ay
afternoon from the mortuary, where the coffin had been removed during the d=
ay,
Hunter deciding that it would not look well to have the funeral start from =
the
workshop.
Although Hunter had kept it as quiet as possib=
le,
there was a small crowd, including several old workmates of Philpot's who
happened to be out of work, waiting outside the mortuary to see the funeral
start, and amongst them were Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk, who were both
sober. Barrington and Owen were also there, having left work for the day in
order to go to the funeral. They w=
ere
there too in a sense as the representatives of the other workmen, for Barri=
ngton
carried a large wreath which had been subscribed for voluntarily by Rushton=
's
men. They could not all afford to lose the time to attend the funeral, alth=
ough
most of them would have liked to pay that tribute of regard to their old ma=
te,
so they had done this as the next best thing.
Attached to the wreath was a strip of white satin ribbon, upon which
Owen had painted a suitable inscription.
Promptly at two o'clock the hearse and the
mourning coach drove up with Hunter and the four bearers--Crass, Slyme, Pay=
ne
and Sawkins, all dressed in black with frock coats and silk hats. Although they were nominally attired in=
the
same way, there was a remarkable dissimilarity in their appearance. Crass's coat was of smooth, intensely b=
lack
cloth, having been recently dyed, and his hat was rather low in the crown,
being of that shape that curved outwards towards the top. Hunter's coat was=
a
kind of serge with a rather rusty cast of colour and his hat was very tall =
and
straight, slightly narrower at the crown than at the brim. As for the others, each of them had a h=
at of
a different fashion and date, and their 'black' clothes ranged from rusty b=
rown
to dark blue.
These differences were due to the fact that mo=
st
of the garments had been purchased at different times from different
second-hand clothes shops, and never being used except on such occasions as=
the
present, they lasted for an indefinite time.
When the coffin was brought out and placed in =
the
hearse, Hunter laid upon it the wreath that Barrington gave him, together w=
ith
the another he had brought himself, which had a similar ribbon with the wor=
ds:
'From Rushton & Co. With deep sympathy.'
Seeing that Barrington and Owen were the only
occupants of the carriage, Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk came up to the door
and asked if there was any objection to their coming and as neither Owen nor
Barrington objected, they did not think it necessary to ask anyone else's
permission, so they got in.
Meanwhile, Hunter had taken his position a few
yards in front of the hearse and the bearers each his proper position, two =
on
each side. As the procession turne=
d into
the main road, they saw Snatchum standing at the corner looking very
gloomy. Hunter kept his eyes fixed
straight ahead and affected not to see him, but Crass could not resist the
temptation to indulge in a jeering smile, which so enraged Snatchum that he
shouted out:
'It don't matter!
I shan't lose much! I can u=
se it
for someone else!'
The distance to the cemetery was about three
miles, so as soon as they got out of the busy streets of the town, Hunter
called a halt, and got up on the hearse beside the driver, Crass sat on the
other side, and two of the other bearers stood in the space behind the driv=
er's
seat, the fourth getting up beside the driver of the coach; and then they
proceeded at a rapid pace.
As they drew near to the cemetery they slowed
down, and finally stopped when about fifty yards from the gate. Then Hunter and the bearers resumed the=
ir
former position, and they passed through the open gate and up to the door of
the church, where they were received by the clerk--a man in a rusty black
cassock, who stood by while they carried the coffin in and placed it on a k=
ind
of elevated table which revolved on a pivot.
They brought it in footfirst, and as soon as they had placed it upon=
the
table, the clerk swung it round so as to bring the foot of the coffin towar=
ds
the door ready to be carried out again.
There was a special pew set apart for the
undertakers, and in this Hunter and the bearers took their seats to await t=
he
arrival of the clergyman. Barringt=
on and
the three others sat on the opposite side. There was no altar or pulpit in =
this
church, but a kind of reading desk stood on a slightly raised platform at t=
he
other end of the aisle.
After a wait of about ten minutes, the clergym=
an entered
and, at once proceeding to the desk, began to recite in a rapid and wholly
unintelligible manner the usual office.
If it had not been for the fact that each of his hearers had a copy =
of
the words--for there was a little book in each pew--none of them would have
been able to gather the sense of what the man was gabbling. Under any other circumstances, the spec=
tacle
of a human being mouthing in this absurd way would have compelled laughter,=
and
so would the suggestion that this individual really believed that he was
addressing the Supreme Being. His
attitude and manner were contemptuously indifferent. While he recited, into=
ned,
or gabbled, the words of the office, he was reading the certificate and some
other paper the clerk had placed upon the desk, and when he had finished
reading these, his gaze wandered abstractedly round the chapel, resting for=
a
long time with an expression of curiosity upon Bill Bates and the Semi-drun=
k,
who were doing their best to follow in their books the words he was repeati=
ng.
He next turned his attention to his fingers, holding his hand away from him
nearly at arm's length and critically examining the nails.
From time to time as this miserable mockery
proceeded the clerk in the rusty black cassock mechanically droned out a
sonorous 'Ah-men', and after the conclusion of the lesson the clergyman went
out of the church, taking a short cut through the grave-stones and monument=
s,
while the bearers again shouldered the coffin and followed the clerk to the
grave. When they arrived within a =
few
yards of their destination, they were rejoined by the clergyman, who was
waiting for them at the corner of one of the paths. He put himself at the head of the proce=
ssion
with an open book in his hand, and as they walked slowly along, he resumed =
his
reading or repetition of the words of the service.
He had on an old black cassock and a much soil=
ed
and slightly torn surplice. The un=
seemly
appearance of this dirty garment was heightened by the circumstance that he=
had
not taken the trouble to adjust it properly.
It hung all lop-sided, showing about six inches more of the black
cassock underneath one side than the other. However, perhaps it is not righ=
t to
criticize this person's appearance so severely, because the poor fellow was
paid only seven-and-six for each burial, and as this was only the fourth
funeral he had officiated at that day, probably he could not afford to wear
clean linen--at any rate, not for the funerals of the lower classes.
He continued his unintelligible jargon while t=
hey
were lowering the coffin into the grave, and those who happened to know the
words of the office by heart were, with some difficulty, able to understand
what he was saying:
'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of =
His
great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our Dear Brother here departed=
, we
therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, du=
st
to dust--'
The earth fell from the clerk's hand and rattl=
ed
on the lid of the coffin with a mournful sound, and when the clergyman had
finished repeating the remainder of the service, he turned and walked away =
in
the direction of the church. Hunte=
r and
the rest of the funeral party made their way back towards the gate of the
cemetery where the hearse and the carriage were waiting.
On their way they saw another funeral processi=
on
coming towards them. It was a very plain-looking closed hearse with only one
horse. There was no undertaker in =
front
and no bearers walked by the sides.
It was a pauper's funeral.
Three men, evidently dressed in their Sunday
clothes, followed behind the hearse. As
they reached the church door, four old men who were dressed in ordinary
everyday clothes, came forward and opening the hearse took out the coffin a=
nd
carried it into the church, followed by the other three, who were evidently
relatives of the deceased. The fou=
r old
men were paupers--inmates of the workhouse, who were paid sixpence each for
acting as bearers.
They were just taking out the coffin from the
hearse as Hunter's party was passing, and most of the latter paused for a
moment and watched them carry it into the church. The roughly made coffin was of white de=
al,
not painted or covered in any way, and devoid of any fittings or ornament w=
ith
the exception of a square piece of zinc on the lid. None of Rushton's party=
was
near enough to recognize any of the mourners or to read what was written on=
the
zinc, but if they had been they would have seen, roughly painted in black
letters
J.L.=
Aged 67
and some of them would have recognized the thr=
ee
mourners who were Jack Linden's sons.
As for the bearers, they were all retired work=
ing
men who had come into their 'titles'.
One of them was old Latham, the venetian blind maker.
At th=
e end
of the following week there was a terrible slaughter at Rushton's. Barrington and all the casual hands were
sacked, including Newman, Easton and Harlow, and there was so little work t=
hat
it looked as if everyone else would have to stand off also. The summer was practically over, so tho=
se who
were stood off had but a poor chance of getting a start anywhere else, beca=
use
most other firms were discharging hands as well.
There was only one other shop in the town that=
was
doing anything at all to speak of, and that was the firm of Dauber and
Botchit. This firm had come very m=
uch to
the front during the summer, and had captured several big jobs that Rushton
& Co. had expected to get, besides taking away several of the latter's =
old
customers.
This firm took work at almost half the price t=
hat
Rushton's could do it for, and they had a foreman whose little finger was
thicker than Nimrod's thigh. Some of the men who had worked for both firms
during the summer, said that after working for Dauber and Botchit, working =
for
Rushton seemed like having a holiday.
'There's one bloke there,' said Newman, in
conversation with Harlow and Easton.
'There's one bloke there wot puts up twenty-five rolls o' paper in a=
day
an' trims and pastes for 'imself; and as for the painters, nearly everyone =
of
'em gets over as much work as us three put together, and if you're working
there you've got to do the same or get the sack.'
However much truth or falsehood or exaggeration
there may have been in the stories of the sweating and driving that prevail=
ed
at Dauber and Botchit's, it was an indisputable fact that the other builders
found it very difficult to compete with them, and between the lot of them w=
hat
work there was to do was all finished or messed up in about a quarter of the
time that it would have taken to do it properly.
By the end of September there were great numbe=
rs
of men out of employment, and the practical persons who controlled the town
were already preparing to enact the usual farce of 'Dealing' with the distr=
ess
that was certain to ensue. The Rev=
. Mr
Bosher talked of reopening the Labour Yard; the secretary of the OBS appeal=
ed
for more money and cast-off clothing and boots--the funds of the Society had
been depleted by the payment of his quarter's salary. There were rumours that the Soup Kitchen
would be reopened at an early date for the sale of 'nourishment', and
charitable persons began to talk of Rummage Sales and soup tickets.
Now and then, whenever a 'job' 'came in', a fe=
w of
Rushton's men were able to put in a few hours' work, but Barrington never w=
ent
back. His manner of life was the s=
ubject
of much speculation on the part of his former workmates, who were not a lit=
tle
puzzled by the fact that he was much better dressed than they had ever known
him to be before, and that he was never without money. He generally had a tanner or a bob to l=
end,
and was always ready to stand a drink, to say nothing of what it must have =
cost
him for the quantities of Socialist pamphlets and leaflets that he gave away
broadcast. He lodged over at Windl=
ey,
but he used to take his meals at a little coffee tavern down town, where he
used often to invite one or two of his old mates to take dinner with him. It sometimes happened that one of them =
would
invite him home of an evening, to drink a cup of tea, or to see some curios=
ity
that the other thought would interest him, and on these occasions--if there
were any children in the house to which they were going--Barrington usually
made a point of going into a shop on their way, and buying a bag of cakes or
fruit for them.
All sorts of theories were put forward to acco=
unt
for his apparent affluence. Some s=
aid he
was a toff in disguise; others that he had rich relations who were ashamed =
of
him because he was a Socialist, and who allowed him so much a week so long =
as
he kept away from them and did not use his real name. Some of the Liberals said that he was i=
n the
pay of the Tories, who were seeking by underhand methods to split up the
Progressive Liberal Party. Just ab=
out
that time several burglaries took place in the town, the thieves getting cl=
ear
away with the plunder, and this circumstance led to a dark rumour that
Barrington was the culprit, and that it was these ill-gotten gains that he =
was
spending so freely.
About the middle of October an event happened = that drew the town into a state of wild excitement, and such comparatively unimportant subjects as unemployment and starvation were almost forgotten.<= o:p>
Sir Graball D'Encloseland had been promoted to=
yet
a higher post in the service of the country that he owned such a large part=
of;
he was not only to have a higher and more honourable position, but also--as=
was
nothing but right--a higher salary. His
pay was to be increased to seven thousand five hundred a year or one hundred
and fifty pounds per week, and in consequence of this promotion it was
necessary for him to resign his seat and seek re-election.
The ragged-trousered Tory workmen as they loit=
ered
about the streets, their stomachs empty, said to each other that it was a g=
reat
honour for Mugsborough that their Member should be promoted in this way. Th=
ey
boasted about it and assumed as much swagger in their gait as their broken
boots permitted.
They stuck election cards bearing Sir Graball's
photograph in their windows and tied bits of blue and yellow ribbon--Sir
Graball's colours--on their underfed children.
The Liberals were furious. They said that an election had been spr=
ung on
them--they had been taken a mean advantage of--they had no candidate ready.=
They had no complaint to make about the salary,
all they complained of was the short notice.
It wasn't fair because while they--the leading Liberals--had been
treating the electors with the contemptuous indifference that is customary,=
Sir
Graball D'Encloseland had been most active amongst his constituents for mon=
ths
past, cunningly preparing for the contest.
He had really been electioneering for the past six months! Last winter he had kicked off at quite a
number of football matches besides doing all sorts of things for the local
teams. He had joined the Buffalos =
and
the Druids, been elected President of the Skull and Crossbones Boys' Societ=
y,
and, although he was not himself an abstainer, he was so friendly to Temper=
ance
that he had on several occasions, taken the chair at teetotal meetings, to =
say
nothing of the teas to the poor school children and things of that sort.
A hurried meeting of the Liberal Three Hundred=
was
held, and a deputation sent to London to find a candidate but as there was =
only
a week before polling day they were unsuccessful in their mission. Another
meeting was held, presided over by Mr Adam Sweater--Rushton and Didlum also
being present.
Profound dejection was depicted on the
countenances of those assembled slave-drivers as they listened to the
delegates' report. The sombre sile=
nce
that followed was broken at length by Mr Rushton, who suddenly started up a=
nd
said that he began to think they had made a mistake in going outside the
constituency at all to look for a man.
It was strange but true that a prophet never received honour in his =
own
land. They had been wasting the precious time running about all over the
country, begging and praying for a candidate, and overlooking the fact that
they had in their midst a gentleman--a fellow townsman, who, he believed, w=
ould
have a better chance of success than any stranger. Surely they would all
agree--if they could only prevail upon him to stand--that Adam Sweater woul=
d be
an ideal Liberal Candidate!
While Mr Rushton was speaking the drooping spi=
rits
of the Three Hundred were reviving, and at the name of Sweater they all beg=
an
to clap their hands and stamp their feet.
Loud shouts of enthusiastic approval burst forth, and cries of 'Good=
old
Sweater' resounded through the room.
When Sweater rose to reply, the tumult died aw=
ay
as suddenly as it had commenced. He
thanked them for the honour they were conferring upon him. There was no time to waste in words or =
idle
compliments; rather than allow the Enemy to have a walk-over, he would acce=
de
to their request and contest the seat.
A roar of applause burst from the throats of t=
he
delighted Three Hundred.
Outside the hall in which the meeting was being
held a large crowd of poverty-stricken Liberal working men, many of them
wearing broken boots and other men's cast-off clothing, was waiting to hear=
the
report of the slave-drivers' deputation, and as soon as Sweater had consent=
ed
to be nominated, Didlum rushed and opened the window overlooking the street=
and
shouted the good news down to the crowd, which joined in the cheering. In response to their demands for a spee=
ch,
Sweater brought his obese carcass to the window and addressed a few words to
them, reminding them of the shortness of the time at their disposal, and
intreating them to work hard in order that the Grand old Flag might be carr=
ied
to victory.
At such times these people forgot all about
unemployment and starvation, and became enthusiastic about 'Grand old
Flags'. Their devotion to this fla=
g was
so great that so long as they were able to carry it to victory, they did not
mind being poverty stricken and hungry and ragged; all that mattered was to
score off their hated 'enemies' their fellow countrymen the Tories, and car=
ry
the grand old flag to victory. The=
fact
that they had carried the flag to victory so often in the past without obta=
ining
any of the spoils, did not seem to damp their ardour in the least. Being philanthropists, they were
content--after winning the victory--that their masters should always do the
looting.
At the conclusion of Sweater's remarks the
philanthropists gave three frantic cheers and then someone in the crowd sho=
uted
'What's the colour?' After a hasty
consultation with Rushton, who being a 'master' decorator, was thought to b=
e an
authority on colours--green--grass green--was decided upon, and the informa=
tion
was shouted down to the crowd, who cheered again. Then a rush was made to Sweater's Empor=
ium
and several yards of cheap green ribbon were bought, and divided up into li=
ttle
pieces, which they tied into their buttonholes, and thus appropriately
decorated, formed themselves into military order, four deep, and marched
through all the principal streets, up and down the Grand Parade, round and
round the Fountain, and finally over the hill to Windley, singing to the tu=
ne
of 'Tramp, tramp, tramp, the Boys are marching':
'Vote, Vote, Vote for Adam Sweater! Hang old Closeland on a tree!
The spectacle presented by these men--some of =
them
with grey heads and beards--as they marked time or tramped along singing th=
is
childish twaddle, would have been amusing if it had not been disgusting.
By way of variety they sang several other thin=
gs,
including:
'We'll hang ole Closeland
On a sour apple tree,'
and
'Rally, Rally, men of Windley =
For Sweater's sure to win.'
As they passed the big church in Quality Stree=
t,
the clock began to strike. It was =
one of
those that strike four chimes at each quarter of the hour. It was now ten o'clock so there were si=
xteen
musical chimes:
Ding, dong! Ding Dong!
Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding
dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!=
Ding
dong!
They all chanted A-dam Sweat-er' in time with =
the
striking clock. In the same way the
Tories would chant:
'Grab--all Close--land!
Grab--all Close--land!
Grab--all Close--land! Grab--all
Close--land!'
The town was soon deluged with mendacious
literature and smothered with huge posters:
'Vote for Adam
Sweater! The
Working-man's Friend!'
'Vote for Sweater and Temperance Reform.' 'Vote for Sweater--Free Trade=
and
Cheap Food.'
or
=
'Vote
for D'Encloseland: Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work!'
This beautiful idea--'Plenty of Work'--appealed
strongly to the Tory workmen. They
seemed to regard themselves and their children as a sort of machines or bea=
sts
of burden, created for the purpose of working for the benefit of other
people. They did not think it righ=
t that
they should Live, and enjoy the benefits of civilization. All they desired for themselves and the=
ir
children was 'Plenty of Work'.
They marched about the streets singing their
Marseillaise, 'Work, Boys, Work and be contented', to the tune of 'Tramp,
tramp, tramp the Boys are marching', and at intervals as they tramped along,
they gave three cheers for Sir Graball, Tariff Reform, and--Plenty of Work.=
Both sides imported gangs of hired orators who
held forth every night at the corners of the principal streets, and on the =
open
spaces from portable platforms, and from motor cars and lorries. The Tories said that the Liberal Party =
in the
House of Commons was composed principally of scoundrels and fools, the Libe=
rals
said that the Tory Party were fools and scoundrels. A host of richly dressed canvassers des=
cended
upon Windley in carriages and motor cars, and begged for votes from the pov=
erty-stricken
working men who lived there.
One evening a Liberal demonstration was held at
the Cross Roads on Windley Hill.
Notwithstanding the cold weather, there was a great crowd of shabbily
dressed people, many of whom had not had a really good meal for months. It was a clear night. The moon was at the full, and the scene=
was
further illuminated by the fitful glare of several torches, stuck on the en=
d of
twelve-foot poles. The platform wa=
s a
large lorry, and there were several speakers, including Adam Sweater himself
and a real live Liberal Peer--Lord Ammenegg.
This individual had made a considerable fortune in the grocery and
provision line, and had been elevated to the Peerage by the last Liberal
Government on account of his services to the Party, and in consideration of
other considerations.
Both Sweater and Ammenegg were to speak at two
other meetings that night and were not expected at Windley until about
eight-thirty, so to keep the ball rolling till they arrived, several other
gentlemen, including Rushton--who presided--and Didlum, and one of the five
pounds a week orators, addressed the meeting.
Mingled with the crowd were about twenty rough-looking men--stranger=
s to
the town--who wore huge green rosettes and loudly applauded the speakers. They also distributed Sweater literatur=
e and
cards with lists of the different meetings that were to be held during the
election. These men were bullies h=
ired
by Sweater's agent. They came from=
the
neighbourhood of Seven Dials in London and were paid ten shillings a day. One of their duties was to incite the c=
rowd
to bash anyone who disturbed the meetings or tried to put awkward questions=
to
the speakers.
The hired orator was a tall, slight man with d=
ark
hair, beard and moustache, he might have been called well-looking if it had=
not
been for a ugly scar upon his forehead, which gave him a rather sinister
appearance. He was an effective sp=
eaker;
the audience punctuated his speech with cheers, and when he wound up with an
earnest appeal to them--as working men--to vote for Adam Sweater, their
enthusiasm knew no bounds.
'I've seen him somewhere before,' remarked
Barrington, who was standing in the crowd with Harlow, Owen and Easton.
'So have I,' said Owen, with a puzzled
expression. 'But for the life of m=
e, I
can't remember where.'
Harlow and Easton also thought they had seen t=
he
man before, but their speculations were put an end to by the roar of cheeri=
ng
that heralded the arrival of the motor car, containing Adam Sweater and his
friend, Lord Ammenegg. Unfortunate=
ly,
those who had arranged the meeting had forgotten to provide a pair of steps=
, so
Sweater found it a matter of considerable difficulty to mount the
platform. However, while his frien=
ds
were hoisting and pushing him up, the meeting beguiled the time by singing:=
'Vote, vote, vote for Adam Sweater.'
After a terrible struggle they succeeded in
getting him on to the cart, and while he was recovering his wind, Rushton m=
ade
a few remarks to the crowd. Sweate=
r then
advanced to the front, but in consequence of the cheering and singing, he w=
as
unable to make himself heard for several minutes.
When at length he was able to proceed, ho made=
a
very clever speech--it had been specially written for him and had cost ten
guineas. A large part of it consis=
ted of
warnings against the dangers of Socialism. Sweater had carefully rehearsed =
this
speech and he delivered it very effectively.
Some of those Socialists, he said, were well-meaning but mistaken
people, who did not realize the harm that would result if their extraordina=
ry
ideas were ever put into practice. He
lowered his voice to a blood-curdling stage whisper as he asked:
'What is this Socialism that we hear so much
about, but which so few understand? What is it, and what does it mean?'
Then, raising his voice till it rang through t=
he
air and fell upon the ears of the assembled multitude like the clanging of a
funeral bell, he continued:
'It is madness!
Chaos! Anarchy! It means Ruin! Black Ruin for the rich, and consequent=
ly, of
course, Blacker Ruin still for the poor!'
As Sweater paused, a thrill of horror ran thro=
ugh
the meeting. Men wearing broken bo=
ots
and with patches upon the seats and knees, and ragged fringes round the bot=
toms
of the legs of their trousers, grew pale, and glanced apprehensively at each
other. If ever Socialism did come =
to
pass, they evidently thought it very probable that they would have to walk
about in a sort of prehistoric highland costume, without any trousers or bo=
ots
at all.
Toil-worn women, most of them dressed in other
women's shabby cast-off clothing--weary, tired-looking mothers who fed their
children for the most part on adulterated tea, tinned skimmed milk and bread
and margarine, grew furious as they thought of the wicked Socialists who we=
re
trying to bring Ruin upon them.
It never occurred to any of these poor people =
that
they were in a condition of Ruin, Black Ruin, already. But if Sweater had suddenly found himse=
lf
reduced to the same social condition as the majority of those he addressed,=
there
is not much doubt that he would have thought that he was in a condition of
Black Ruin.
The awful silence that had fallen on the
panic-stricken crowd, was presently broken by a ragged-trousered
Philanthropist, who shouted out:
'We knows wot they are, sir. Most of 'em is chaps wot's got tired of
workin' for their livin', so they wants us to keep 'em.'
Encouraged by numerous expressions of approval
from the other Philanthropists, the man continued:
'But we ain't such fools as they thinks, and so
they'll find out next Monday. Most=
of
'em wants 'angin', and I wouldn't mind lendin' a 'and with the rope myself.=
'
Applause and laughter greeted these noble
sentiments, and Sweater resumed his address, when another man--evidently a
Socialist--for he was accompanied by three or four others who like himself =
wore
red ties--interrupted and said that he would like to ask him a question. No
notice was taken of this request either by Mr Sweater or the chairman, but a
few angry cries of 'Order!' came from the crowd. Sweater continued, but the=
man
again interrupted and the cries of the crowd became more threatening. Rushton started up and said that he cou=
ld not
allow the speaker to be interrupted, but if the gentleman would wait till t=
he
end of the meeting, he would have an opportunity of asking his question the=
n.
The man said he would wait as desired; Sweater
resumed his oration, and presently the interrupter and his friends found
themselves surrounded by the gang of hired bullies who wore the big rosettes
and who glared menacingly at them.
Sweater concluded his speech with an appeal to=
the
crowd to deal a 'Slashing Bow at the Enemy' next Monday, and then amid a st=
orm
of applause, Lord Ammenegg stepped to the front. He said that he did not intend to infli=
ct a
long speech upon them that evening, and as it was nomination day tomorrow he
would not be able to have the honour of addressing them again during the
election; but even if he had wished to make a long speech, it would be very
difficult after the brilliant and eloquent address they had just listened to
from Mr Sweater, for it seemed to him (Ammenegg) that Adam Sweater had left
nothing for anyone else to say. Bu=
t he
would like to tell them of a Thought that had occurred to him that evening.=
They read in the Bible that the Wise Me=
n came
from the East. Windley, as they all
knew, was the East end of the town. They
were the men of the East, and he was sure that next Monday they would prove
that they were the Wise Men of the East, by voting for Adam Sweater and put=
ting
him at the top of the poll with a 'Thumping Majority'.
The Wise Men of the East greeted Ammenegg's
remarks with prolonged, imbecile cheers, and amid the tumult his Lordship a=
nd
Sweater got into the motor car and cleared off without giving the man with =
the
red tie or anyone else who desired to ask questions any opportunity of doing
so. Rushton and the other leaders =
got
into another motor car, and followed the first to take part in another meet=
ing
down-town, which was to be addressed by the great Sir Featherstone Blood.
The crowd now resolved itself into military or=
der,
headed by the men with torches and a large white banner on which was writte=
n in
huge black letters, 'Our man is Adam Sweater'.
They marched down the hill singing, and when t=
hey
reached the Fountain on the Grand Parade they saw another crowd holding a
meeting there. These were Tories and they became so infuriated at the sound=
of
the Liberal songs and by the sight of the banner, that they abandoned their
meeting and charged the processionists.
A free fight ensued. Both sides fought like savages, but as the Libe=
rals
were outnumbered by about three to one, they were driven off the field with
great slaughter; most of the torch poles were taken from them, and the bann=
er
was torn to ribbons. Then the Tori=
es
went back to the Fountain carrying the captured torches, and singing to the
tune of 'Has anyone seen a German Band?'
'Has
anyone seen a Lib'ral Flag,
Lib'ral Flag, Lib'ral Flag?'
While the Tories resumed their meeting at the
Fountain, the Liberals rallied in one of the back streets. Messengers were sent in various directi=
ons
for reinforcements, and about half an hour afterwards they emerged from the=
ir
retreat and swooped down upon the Tory meeting. They overturned the platfor=
m,
recaptured their torches, tore the enemy's banner to tatters and drove them
from their position. Then the Libe=
rals
in their turn paraded the streets singing 'Has anyone seen a Tory Flag?' and
proceeded to the hall where Sir Featherstone was speaking, arriving as the
audience left.
The crowd that came pouring out of the hall was
worked up to a frenzy of enthusiasm, for the speech they had just listened =
to
had been a sort of manifesto to the country.
In response to the cheering of the
processionists--who, of course, had not heard the speech, but were cheering
from force of habit--Sir Featherstone Blood stood up in the carriage and
addressed the crowd, briefly outlining the great measures of Social Reform =
that
his party proposed to enact to improve the condition of the working classes;
and as they listened, the Wise Men grew delirious with enthusiasm. He referred to Land Taxes and Death Dut=
ies
which would provide money to build battleships to protect the property of t=
he
rich, and provide Work for the poor.
Another tax was to provide a nice, smooth road for the rich to ride =
upon
in motor cars--and to provide Work for the poor. Another tax would be used =
for
Development, which would also make Work for the poor. And so on.
A great point was made of the fact that the rich were actually to be=
made
to pay something towards the cost of their road themselves! But nothing was said about how they wou=
ld get
the money to do it. No reference w=
as
made to how the workers would be sweated and driven and starved to earn
Dividends and Rent and Interest and Profits to put into the pockets of the =
rich
before the latter would be able to pay for anything at all.
These are the things, Gentlemen, that we propo=
se
to do for you, and, at the rate of progress which we propose to adopt, I say
without fear or contradiction, that within the next Five Hundred years we s=
hall
so reform social conditions in this country, that the working classes will =
be
able to enjoy some of the benefits of civilization.
'The only question before you is: Are you will=
ing
to wait for Five Hundred Years?'
'Yes, sir,' shouted the Wise Men with enthusia=
sm
at the glorious prospect.
'Yes, Sir: we'll wait a thousand years if you
like, Sir!'
'I've been waiting all my life,' said one poor=
old
veteran, who had assisted to 'carry the "Old Flag" to victory' ti=
mes
out of number in the past and who for his share of the spoils of those
victories was now in a condition of abject, miserable poverty, with the por=
tals
of the workhouse yawning open to receive him; 'I've waited all my life, hop=
ing
and trusting for better conditions so a few more years won't make much
difference to me.'
'Don't you trouble to 'urry yourself, Sir,'
shouted another Solomon in the crowd.
'We don't mind waiting. Tak=
e your
own time, Sir. You know better tha=
n the
likes of us 'ow long it ought to take.'
In conclusion, the great man warned them again=
st
being led away by the Socialists, those foolish, unreasonable, impractical
people who wanted to see an immediate improvement in their condition; and he
reminded them that Rome was not built in a day.
The Wise Men applauded lustily. It did not appear to occur to any of th=
em
that the rate at which the ancient Roman conducted their building operations
had nothing whatever to do with the case.
Sir Featherstone Blood sat down amid a wild st=
orm
of cheering, and then the procession reformed, and, reinforced by the audie=
nce
from the hall, they proceeded to march about the dreary streets, singing, to
the tune of the 'Men of Harlech':
'Vote for Sweater, Vote for Sweater! Vote for Sweater, VOTE FOR
SWEATER! 'He's the Man, who=
has a
plan, To liberate and reins=
tate
the workers! 'Men of Mugs'b=
ro',
show your mettle, Let them =
see
that you're in fettle! Once=
for
all this question settle Sw=
eater
shall Prevail!'
The carriage containing Sir Featherstone, Adam
Sweater, and Rushton and Didlum was in the middle of the procession. The banner and the torches were at the =
head,
and the grandeur of the scene was heightened by four men who walked--two on
each side of the carriage, burning green fire in frying pans. As they passed by the Slave Market, a p=
oor,
shabbily dressed wretch whose boots were so worn and rotten that they were
almost falling off his feet, climbed up a lamp-post, and taking off his cap
waved it in the air and shrieked out: 'Three Cheers for Sir Featherstone Bl=
ood,
our future Prime Minister!'
The Philanthropists cheered themselves hoarse =
and
finally took the horses out of the traces and harnessed themselves to the
carriage instead.
''Ow much wages will Sir Featherstone get if '=
e is
made Prime Minister?' asked Harlow of another Philanthropist who was also
pushing up behind the carriage.
'Five thousand a year,' replied the other, who=
by
some strange chance happened to know.
'That comes to a 'underd pounds a week.'
'Little enough, too, for a man like 'im,' said
Harlow.
'You're right, mate,' said the other, with deep
sympathy in his voice. 'Last time 'e 'eld office 'e was only in for five ye=
ars,
so 'e only made twenty-five thousand pounds out of it. Of course 'e got a pension as well--two
thousand a year for life, I think it is; but after all, what's that--for a =
man
like 'im?'
'Nothing,' replied Harlow, in a tone of
commiseration, and Newman, who was also there, helping to drag the carriage,
said that it ought to be at least double that amount.
However, they found some consolation in knowing
that Sir Featherstone would not have to wait till he was seventy before he
obtained his pension; he would get it directly he came out of office.
The following evening Barrington, Owen and a f=
ew
others of the same way of thinking, who had subscribed enough money between
them to purchase a lot of Socialist leaflets, employed themselves distribut=
ing
them to the crowds at the Liberal and Tory meetings, and whilst they were d=
oing
this they frequently became involved in arguments with the supporters of the
capitalist system. In their attemp=
ts to
persuade others to refrain from voting for either of the candidates, they w=
ere
opposed even by some who professed to believe in Socialism, who said that as
there was no better Socialist candidate the thing to do was to vote for the
better of the two. This was the vi=
ew of
Harlow and Easton, whom they met. =
Harlow
had a green ribbon in his buttonhole, but Easton wore D'Encloseland's colou=
rs.
One man said that if he had his way, all those=
who
had votes should be compelled to record them--whether they liked it or not-=
-or
be disenfranchised! Barrington ask=
ed him
if he believed in Tarrif Reform. The man said no.
'Why not?' demanded Barrington.
The other replied that he opposed Tariff Reform
because he believed it would ruin the country.
Barrington inquired if he were a supporter of Socialism. The man said he was not, and when furth=
er
questioned he said that he believed if it were ever adopted it would bring
black ruin upon the country--he believed this because Mr Sweater had said s=
o.
When Barrington asked him--supposing there were only two candidates, one a
Socialist and the other a Tariff Reformer--how would he like to be compelle=
d to
vote for one of them, he was at a loss for an answer.
During the next few days the contest
continued. The hired orators conti=
nued
to pour forth their streams of eloquence; and tons of literature flooded the
town. The walls were covered with =
huge
posters: 'Another Liberal Lie.' 'Another Tory Fraud.'
Unconsciously each of these two parties put in
some splendid work for Socialism, in so much that each of them thoroughly
exposed the hypocrisy of the other. If
the people had only had the sense, they might have seen that the quarrel
between the Liberal and Tory leaders was merely a quarrel between thieves o=
ver
the spoil; but unfortunately most of the people had not the sense to percei=
ve
this. They were blinded by bigoted
devotion to their parties, and--inflamed with maniacal enthusiasm--thought =
of
nothing but 'carrying their flags to victory'.
At considerable danger to themselves, Barringt=
on,
Owen and the other Socialists continued to distribute their leaflets and to
heckle the Liberal and Tory speakers.
They asked the Tories to explain the prevalence of unemployment and
poverty in protected countries, like Germany and America, and at Sweater's
meetings they requested to be informed what was the Liberal remedy for
unemployment. From both parties the
Socialists obtained the same kinds of answer--threats of violence and reque=
sts
'not to disturb the meeting'.
These Socialists held quite a lot of informal
meetings on their own. Every now and then when they were giving their leafl=
ets
away, some unwary supporter of the capitalist system would start an argumen=
t,
and soon a crowd would gather round and listen.
Sometimes the Socialists succeeded in arguing
their opponents to an absolute standstill, for the Liberals and Tones found=
it
impossible to deny that machinery is the cause of the overcrowded state of =
the
labour market; that the overcrowded labour market is the cause of unemploym=
ent;
that the fact of there being always an army of unemployed waiting to take o=
ther
men's jobs away from them destroys the independence of those who are in
employment and keeps them in subjection to their masters. They found it impossible to deny that t=
his
machinery is being used, not for the benefit of all, but to make fortunes f=
or a
few. In short, they were unable to
disprove that the monopoly of the land and machinery by a comparatively few
persons, is the cause of the poverty of the majority. But when these arguments that they were
unable to answer were put before them and when it was pointed out that the =
only
possible remedy was the Public Ownership and Management of the Means of
production, they remained angrily silent, having no alternative plan to
suggest.
At other times the meeting resolved itself int=
o a
number of quarrelsome disputes between the Liberals and Tories that formed =
the
crowd, which split itself up into a lot of little groups and whatever the
original subject might have been they soon drifted to a hundred other thing=
s,
for most of the supporters of the present system seemed incapable of pursui=
ng
any one subject to its logical conclusion.
A discussion would be started about something or other; presently an
unimportant side issue would crop up, then the original subject would be le=
ft
unfinished, and they would argue and shout about the side issue. In a little while another side issue wo=
uld
arise, and then the first side issue would be abandoned also unfinished, an=
d an
angry wrangle about the second issue would ensue, the original subject being
altogether forgotten.
They did not seem to really desire to discover=
the
truth or to find out the best way to bring about an improvement in their
condition, their only object seemed to be to score off their opponents.
Usually after one of these arguments, Owen wou=
ld
wander off by himself, with his head throbbing and a feeling of unutterable
depression and misery at his heart; weighed down by a growing conviction of=
the
hopelessness of everything, of the folly of expecting that his fellow workm=
en
would ever be willing to try to understand for themselves the causes that
produced their sufferings. It was not that those causes were so obscure tha=
t it
required exceptional intelligence to perceive them; the causes of all the
misery were so apparent that a little child could easily be made to underst=
and
both the disease and the remedy; but it seemed to him that the majority of =
his
fellow workmen had become so convinced of their own intellectual inferiority
that they did not dare to rely on their own intelligence to guide them,
preferring to resign the management of their affairs unreservedly into the
hands of those who battened upon and robbed them. They did not know the causes of the pov=
erty
that perpetually held them and their children in its cruel grip, and--they =
did not
want to know! And if one explained=
those
causes to them in such language and in such a manner that they were almost
compelled to understand, and afterwards pointed out to them the obvious rem=
edy,
they were neither glad nor responsive, but remained silent and were angry
because they found themselves unable to answer and disprove.
They remained silent; afraid to trust their own
intelligence, and the reason of this attitude was that they had to choose
between the evidence and their own intelligence, and the stories told them =
by
their masters and exploiters. And =
when
it came to making this choice they deemed it safer to follow their old guid=
es,
than to rely on their own judgement, because from their very infancy they h=
ad
had drilled into them the doctrine of their own mental and social inferiori=
ty,
and their conviction of the truth of this doctrine was voiced in the degrad=
ed
expression that fell so frequently from their lips, when speaking of themse=
lves
and each other--'The Likes of Us!'
They did not know the causes of their poverty,
they did not want to know, they did not want to hear.
All they desired was to be left alone so that = they might continue to worship and follow those who took advantage of their simplicity, and robbed them of the fruits of their toil; their old leaders,= the fools or scoundrels who fed them with words, who had led them into the desolation where they now seemed to be content to grind out treasure for th= eir masters, and to starve when those masters did not find it profitable to emp= loy them. It was as if a flock of fool= ish sheep placed themselves under the protection of a pack of ravening wolves.<= o:p>
Several times the small band of Socialists
narrowly escaped being mobbed, but they succeeded in disposing of most of t=
heir
leaflets without any serious trouble.
Towards the latter part of one evening Barrington and Owen became
separated from the others, and shortly afterwards these two lost each other=
in
the crush.
About nine o'clock, Barrington was in a large
Liberal crowd, listening to the same hired orator who had spoken a few even=
ings
before on the hill--the man with the scar on his forehead. The crowd was applauding him loudly and
Barrington again fell to wondering where he had seen this man before. As on the previous occasion, this speak=
er
made no reference to Socialism, confining himself to other matters. Barring=
ton
examined him closely, trying to recall under what circumstances they had met
previously, and presently he remembered that this was one of the Socialists=
who
had come with the band of cyclists into the town that Sunday morning, away =
back
at the beginning of the summer, the man who had come afterwards with the va=
n,
and who had been struck down by a stone while attempting to speak from the
platform of the van, the man who had been nearly killed by the upholders of=
the
capitalist system. It was the same man!
The Socialist had been clean-shaven--this man wore beard and
moustache--but Barrington was certain he was the same.
When the man had concluded his speech he got d=
own
and stood in the shade behind the platform, while someone else addressed the
meeting, and Barrington went round to where he was standing, intending to s=
peak
to him.
All around them, pandemonium reigned supreme.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They were in the vicinity of the Slave
Market, near the Fountain, on the Grand Parade, where several roads met; th=
ere
was a meeting going on at every corner, and a number of others in different
parts of the roadway and on the pavement of the Parade. Some of these meeti=
ngs
were being carried on by two or three men, who spoke in turn from small,
portable platforms they carried with them, and placed wherever they thought
there was a chance of getting an audience.
Every now and then some of these poor
wretches--they were all paid speakers--were surrounded and savagely mauled =
and
beaten by a hostile crowd. If they=
were
Tariff Reformers the Liberals mobbed them, and vice versa. Lines of rowdies swaggered to and fro, =
arm in
arm, singing, 'Vote, Vote, Vote, for good ole Closeland' or 'good ole Sweat=
er',
according as they were green or blue and yellow. Gangs of hooligans paraded up and down,=
armed
with sticks, singing, howling, cursing and looking for someone to hit. Others stood in groups on the pavement =
with
their hands thrust in their pockets, or leaned against walls or the shutter=
s of
the shops with expressions of ecstatic imbecility on their faces, chanting =
the
mournful dirge to the tune of the church chimes,
'Good--ole--Sweat--er
Good--ole--Sweat--er
Good--ole--Sweat--er
Good--ole--Sweat--er.'
Other groups--to the same tune--sang
'Good--ole--Close--land'; and every now and again they used to leave off
singing and begin to beat each other.
Fights used to take place, often between workmen, about the respecti=
ve
merits of Adam Sweater and Sir Graball D'Encloseland.
The walls were covered with huge Liberal and T=
ory
posters, which showed in every line the contempt of those who published them
for the intelligence of the working men to whom they were addressed. There was one Tory poster that represen=
ted
the interior of a public house; in front of the bar, with a quart pot in his
hand, a clay pipe in his mouth, and a load of tools on his back, stood a
degraded-looking brute who represented the Tory ideal of what an Englishman
should be; the letterpress on the poster said it was a man! This is the ideal of manhood that they =
hold
up to the majority of their fellow countrymen, but privately--amongst
themselves--the Tory aristocrats regard such 'men' with far less respect th=
an
they do the lower animals. Horses =
or
dogs, for instance.
The Liberal posters were not quite so
offensive. They were more cunning,=
more
specious, more hypocritical and consequently more calculated to mislead and
deceive the more intelligent of the voters.
When Barrington got round to the back of the
platform, he found the man with the scarred face standing alone and gloomily
silent in the shadow. Barrington gave him one of the Socialist leaflets, wh=
ich
he took, and after glancing at it, put it in his coat pocket without making=
any
remark.
'I hope you'll excuse me for asking, but were =
you
not formerly a Socialist?' said Barrington.
Even in the semi-darkness Barrington saw the o=
ther
man flush deeply and then become very pale, and the unsightly scar upon his
forehead showed with ghastly distinctiveness.
'I am still a Socialist: no man who has once b=
een
a Socialist can ever cease to be one.'
'You seem to have accomplished that impossibil=
ity,
to judge by the work you are at present engaged in. You must have changed your opinions sin=
ce you
were here last.'
'No one who has been a Socialist can ever ceas=
e to
be one. It is impossible for a man=
who
has once acquired knowledge ever to relinquish it. A Socialist is one who understands the =
causes
of the misery and degradation we see all around us; who knows the only reme=
dy,
and knows that that remedy--the state of society that will be called
Socialism--must eventually be adopted; is the only alternative to the
extermination of the majority of the working people; but it does not follow
that everyone who has sense enough to acquire that amount of knowledge, mus=
t,
in addition, be willing to sacrifice himself in order to help to bring that
state of society into being. When I first acquired that knowledge,' he
continued, bitterly, 'I was eager to tell the good news to others. I sacrificed my time, my money, and my =
health
in order that I might teach others what I had learned myself. I did it willingly and happily, because=
I
thought they would be glad to hear, and that they were worth the sacrifices=
I
made for their sakes. But I know b=
etter
now.'
'Even if you no longer believe in working for
Socialism, there's no need to work AGAINST it.
If you are not disposed to sacrifice yourself in order to do good to
others, you might at least refrain from doing evil. If you don't want to help to bring abou=
t a
better state of affairs, there's no reason why you should help to perpetuate
the present system.'
The other man laughed bitterly. 'Oh yes, there is, and a very good reas=
on
too.'
'I don't think you could show me a reason,' sa=
id
Barrington.
The man with the scar laughed again, the same
unpleasant, mirthless laugh, and thrusting his hand into his trouser pocket
drew it out again full of silver coins, amongst which one or two gold pieces
glittered.
'That is my reason. When I devoted my life and what abiliti=
es I
possess to the service of my fellow workmen; when I sought to teach them ho=
w to
break their chains; when I tried to show them how they might save their
children from poverty and shameful servitude, I did not want them to give me
money. I did it for love. And they paid me with hatred and injury=
. But since I have been helping their mas=
ters
to rob them, they have treated me with respect.'
Barrington made no reply and the other man, ha=
ving
returned the money to his pocket, indicated the crowd with a sweep of his h=
and.
'Look at them!' he continued with a contemptuo=
us
laugh. 'Look at them! the people y=
ou are
trying to make idealists of! Look =
at
them! Some of them howling and roaring like wild beasts, or laughing like
idiots, others standing with dull and stupid faces devoid of any trace of
intelligence or expression, listening to the speakers whose words convey no
meaning to their stultified minds, and others with their eyes gleaming with
savage hatred of their fellow men, watching eagerly for an opportunity to
provoke a quarrel that they may gratify their brutal natures by striking
someone--their eyes are hungry for the sight of blood! Can't you see that these people, whom y=
ou are
trying to make understand your plan for the regeneration of the world, your
doctrine of universal brotherhood and love are for the most
part--intellectually--on level with Hottentots?
The only things they feel any real interest in are beer, football,
betting and--of course--one other subject.
Their highest ambition is to be allowed to Work. And they desire nothing better for their
children!
'They have never had an independent thought in
their lives. These are the people =
whom
you hope to inspire with lofty ideals!
You might just as well try to make a gold brooch out of a lump of
dung! Try to reason with them, to =
uplift
them, to teach them the way to higher things. Devote your whole life and
intelligence to the work of trying to get better conditions for them, and y=
ou
will find that they themselves are the enemy you will have to fight
against. They'll hate you, and, if=
they
get the chance, they'll tear you to pieces.
But if you're a sensible man you'll use whatever talents and
intelligence you possess for your own benefit.
Don't think about Socialism or any other "ism". Concentrate
your mind on getting money--it doesn't matter how you get it, but--get it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If you can't get it honestly, get it
dishonestly, but get it! it is the only thing that counts. Do as I do--rob them! exploit them! and=
then
they'll have some respect for you.'
'There's something in what you say,' replied
Barrington, after a long pause, 'but it's not all. Circumstances make us what we are; and
anyhow, the children are worth fighting for.'
'You may think so now,' said the other, 'but
you'll come to see it my way some day.
As for the children--if their parents are satisfied to let them grow=
up
to be half-starved drudges for other people, I don't see why you or I need
trouble about it. If you like to l=
isten
to reason,' he continued after a pause, 'I can put you on to something that
will be worth more to you than all your Socialism.'
'What do you mean?'
'Look here: you're a Socialist; well, I'm a
Socialist too: that is, I have sense enough to believe that Socialism is
practical and inevitable and right; it will come when the majority of the
people are sufficiently enlightened to demand it, but that enlightenment wi=
ll
never be brought about by reasoning or arguing with them, for these people =
are
simply not intellectually capable of abstract reasoning--they can't grasp
theories. You know what the late L=
ord
Salisbury said about them when somebody proposed to give them some free
libraries: He said: "They don't want libraries: give them a circus.&qu=
ot;
You see these Liberals and Tories understand the sort of people they have to
deal with; they know that although their bodies are the bodies of grown men,
their minds are the minds of little children.
That is why it has been possible to deceive and bluff and rob them f=
or
so long. But your party persists in regarding them as rational beings, and
that's where you make a mistake--you're simply wasting your time.
'The only way in which it is possible to teach
these people is by means of object lessons, and those are being placed befo=
re
them in increasing numbers every day.
The trustification of industry--the object lesson which demonstrates=
the
possibility of collective ownership--will in time compel even these to
understand, and by the time they have learnt that, they will also have lear=
ned
by bitter experience and not from theoretical teaching, that they must eith=
er
own the trusts or perish, and then, and not, till then, they will achieve
Socialism. But meanwhile we have t=
his
election. Do you think it will mak=
e any
real difference--for good or evil--which of these two men is elected?'
'No.'
'Well, you can't keep them both out--you have =
no
candidate of your own--why should you object to earning a few pounds by hel=
ping
one of them to get in? There are p=
lenty
of voters who are doubtful what to do; as you and I know there is every exc=
use
for them being unable to make up their minds which of these two candidates =
is
the worse, a word from your party would decide them. Since you have no candidate of your own=
you
will be doing no harm to Socialism and you will be doing yourself a bit of
good. If you like to come along wi=
th me
now, I'll introduce you to Sweater's agent--no one need know anything about
it.'
He slipped his arm through Barrington's, but t=
he
latter released himself.
'Please yourself,' said the other with an
affectation of indifference. 'You know your own business best. You may choose to be a Jesus Christ if =
you
like, but for my part I'm finished. For
the future I intend to look after myself.
As for these people--they vote for what they want; they get--what th=
ey
vote for; and by God, they deserve nothing better! They are being beaten wi=
th
whips of their own choosing and if I had my way they should be chastised wi=
th
scorpions! For them, the present s=
ystem
means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature death. They vote for it all and uphold it. Well, let them have what they vote for-=
-let
them drudge--let them starve!'
The man with the scarred face ceased speaking,=
and
for some moments Barrington did not reply.
'I suppose there is some excuse for your feeli=
ng
as you do,' he said slowly at last, 'but it seems to me that you do not make
enough allowance for the circumstances.
From their infancy most of them have been taught by priests and pare=
nts
to regard themselves and their own class with contempt--a sort of lower
animals--and to regard those who possess wealth with veneration, as superior
beings. The idea that they are rea=
lly
human creatures, naturally absolutely the same as their so-called betters, =
naturally
equal in every way, naturally different from them only in those ways in whi=
ch
their so-called superiors differ from each other, and inferior to them only
because they have been deprived of education, culture and opportunity--you =
know
as well as I do that they have all been taught to regard that idea as
preposterous.
'The self-styled "Christian" priests=
who
say--with their tongues in their cheeks--that God is our Father and that all
men are brethren, have succeeded in convincing the majority of the "br=
ethren"
that it is their duty to be content in their degradation, and to order
themselves lowly and reverently towards their masters. Your resentment should be directed agai=
nst
the deceivers, not against the dupes.'
The other man laughed bitterly.
'Well, go and try to undeceive them,' he said,=
as
he returned to the platform in response to a call from his associates. 'Go and try to teach them that the Supr=
eme
Being made the earth and all its fullness for the use and benefit of all His
children. Go and try to explain to=
them
that they are poor in body and mind and social condition, not because of any
natural inferiority, but because they have been robbed of their
inheritance. Go and try to show th=
em how
to secure that inheritance for themselves and their children--and see how
grateful they'll be to you.'
For the next hour Barrington walked about the
crowded streets in a dispirited fashion.
His conversation with the renegade seemed to have taken all the heart
out of him. He still had a number =
of the
leaflets, but the task of distributing them had suddenly grown distasteful =
and
after a while he discontinued it. =
All
his enthusiasm was gone. Like one
awakened from a dream he saw the people who surrounded him in a different
light. For the first time he prope=
rly
appreciated the offensiveness of most of those to whom he offered the
handbills; some, without even troubling to ascertain what they were about,
rudely refused to accept them; some took them and after glancing at the
printing, crushed them in their hands and ostentatiously threw them away. Others, who recognized him as a Sociali=
st,
angrily or contemptuously declined them, often with curses or injurious wor=
ds.
His attention was presently attracted to a cro=
wd
of about thirty or forty people, congregated near a gas lamp at the
roadside. The sound of many angry =
voices
rose from the centre of this group, and as he stood on the outskirts of the
crowd, Barrington, being tall, was able to look into the centre, where he s=
aw
Owen. The light of the street lamp=
fell
full upon the latter's pale face, as he stood silent in the midst of a ring=
of
infuriated men, who were all howling at him at once, and whose malignant fa=
ces
bore expressions of savage hatred, as they shouted out the foolish accusati=
ons
and slanders they had read in the Liberal and Tory papers.
Socialists wished to do away with religion and
morality! to establish free love and atheism!
All the money that the working classes had saved up in the Post Offi=
ce
and the Friendly Societies, was to be Robbed from them and divided up among=
st a
lot of drunken loafers who were too lazy to work. The King and all the Royal Family were =
to be
Done Away with! and so on.
Owen made no attempt to reply, and the manner =
of
the crowd became every moment more threatening.
It was evident that several of them found it difficult to refrain fr=
om
attacking him. It was a splendid
opportunity of doing a little fighting without running any risks. This fell=
ow
was all by himself, and did not appear to be much of a man even at that. Th=
ose
in the middle were encouraged by shouts from others in the crowd, who urged
them to 'Go for him' and at last--almost at the instant of Barrington's
arrival--one of the heroes, unable to contain himself any longer, lifted a
heavy stick and struck Owen savagely across the face. The sight of the blood
maddened the others, and in an instant everyone who could get within striki=
ng
distance joined furiously in the onslaught, reaching eagerly over each othe=
r's
shoulders, showering blows upon him with sticks and fists, and before
Barrington could reach his side, they had Owen down on the ground, and had
begun to use their boots upon him.
Barrington felt like a wild beast himself, as =
he
fiercely fought his way through the crowd, spurning them to right and left =
with
fists and elbows. He reached the c=
entre
in time to seize the uplifted arm of the man who had led the attack and
wrenching the stick from his hand, he felled him to the ground with a single
blow. The remainder shrank back, a=
nd
meantime the crowd was augmented by others who came running up.
Some of these newcomers were Liberals and some
Tories, and as these did not know what the row was about they attacked each
other. The Liberals went for those=
who
wore Tory colours and vice versa, and in a few seconds there was a general =
free
fight, though most of the original crowd ran away, and in the confusion that
ended, Barrington and Owen got out of the crowd without further molestation=
.
Monday was the last day of the election--polli=
ng
day--and in consequence of the number of motor cars that were flying about,=
the
streets were hardly safe for ordinary traffic.
The wealthy persons who owned these carriages...
The result of the poll was to be shown on an illuminated sign at the Town Hall, at eleven o'clock that night, and long before that hour a vast crowd gathered in the adjacent streets. About ten o'clock it began to rain, but= the crowd stood its ground and increased in numbers as the time went by. At a quarter to eleven the rain increas= ed to a terrible downpour, but the people remained waiting to know which hero had conquered. Eleven o'clock came and= an intense silence fell upon the crowd, whose eyes were fixed eagerly upon the window where the sign was to be exhibited. To judge by the extraordinary interest displayed by these people, one might have thought that they expected to reap some great benefit or to sust= ain some great loss from the result, but of course that was not the case, for m= ost of them knew perfectly well that the result of this election would make no = more real difference to them than all the other elections that had gone before.<= o:p>
They wondered what the figures would be. There were ten thousand voters on the
register. At a quarter past eleven=
the
sign was illuminated, but the figures were not yet shown. Next, the names of the two candidates w=
ere
slid into sight, the figures were still missing, but D'Encloseland's name w=
as
on top, and a hoarse roar of triumph came from the throats of his admirers.=
Then the two slides with the names were
withdrawn, and the sign was again left blank. After a time the people began=
to
murmur at all this delay and messing about, and presently some of them bega=
n to
groan and hoot.
After a few minutes the names were again slid =
into
view, this time with Sweater's name on top, and the figures appeared
immediately afterwards:
Sweater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,221 D'Encloseland . . . . . . . . . =
. . .
. . . . . 4,200
It was several seconds before the Liberals cou=
ld
believe their eyes; it was too good to be true.
It is impossible to say what was the reason of the wild outburst of
delighted enthusiasm that followed, but whatever the reason, whatever the
benefit was that they expected to reap--there was the fact. They were all cheering and dancing and
shaking hands with each other, and some of them were so overcome with
inexplicable joy that they were scarcely able to speak. It was altogether extraordinary and
unaccountable.
A few minutes after the declaration, Sweater
appeared at the window and made a sort of a speech, but only fragments of it
were audible to the cheering crowd who at intervals caught such phrases as
'Slashing Blow', 'Sweep the Country', 'Grand Old Liberal Flag', and so on.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Next D'Encloseland appeared and he was =
seen
to shake hands with Mr Sweater, whom he referred to as 'My friend'.
When the two 'friends' disappeared from the
window, the part of the Liberal crowd that was not engaged in hand-to-hand
fights with their enemies--the Tories--made a rush to the front entrance of=
the
Town Hall, where Sweater's carriage was waiting, and as soon as he had plac=
ed
his plump rotundity inside, they took the horses out and amid frantic cheers
harnessed themselves to it instead and dragged it through the mud and the
pouring rain all the way to 'The Cave'--most of them were accustomed to act=
ing
as beasts of burden--where he again addressed a few words to them from the
porch.
Afterwards as they walked home saturated with =
rain
and covered from head to foot with mud, they said it was a great victory for
the cause of progress!
Truly the wolves have an easy prey.
That
evening about seven o'clock, whilst Easton was down-town seeing the last of=
the
election, Ruth's child was born.
After the doctor was gone, Mary Linden stayed =
with
her during the hours that elapsed before Easton came home, and downstairs E=
lsie
and Charley--who were allowed to stay up late to help their mother because =
Mrs
Easton was ill--crept about very quietly, and conversed in hushed tones as =
they
washed up the tea things and swept the floor and tidied the kitchen.
Easton did not return until after midnight, and
all through the intervening hours, Ruth, weak and tired, but unable to slee=
p,
was lying in bed with the child by her side.
Her wide-open eyes appeared unnaturally large and brilliant, in cont=
rast
with the almost death-like paleness of her face, and there was a look of fe=
ar
in them, as she waited and listened for the sound of Easton's footsteps.
Outside, the silence of the night was disturbe=
d by
many unusual noises: a far-off roar, as of the breaking of waves on a seash=
ore,
arose from the direction of the town, where the last scenes of the election
were being enacted. Every few minu=
tes motor
cars rushed past the house at a furious rate, and the air was full of the
sounds of distant shouts and singing.
Ruth listened and started nervously at every
passing footstep. Those who can im=
agine
the kind of expression there would be upon the face of a hunted thief, who,
finding himself encompassed and brought to bay by his pursuers, looks wildly
around in a vain search for some way of escape, may be able to form some
conception of the terror-stricken way in which she listened to every sound =
that
penetrated into the stillness of the dimly lighted room. And ever and again, when her wandering =
glance
reverted to the frail atom of humanity nestling by her side, her brows
contracted and her eyes filled with bitter tears, as she weakly reached out=
her
trembling hand to adjust its coverings, faintly murmuring, with quivering l=
ips
and a bursting heart, some words of endearment and pity. And then--alarmed by the footsteps of s=
ome
chance passerby, or by the closing of the door of a neighbouring house, and
fearing that it was the sound she had been waiting for and dreading through=
all
those weary hours, she would turn in terror to Mary Linden, sitting in the
chair at the bedside, sewing by the light of the shaded lamp, and take hold=
of
her arm as if seeking protection from some impending danger.
It was after twelve o'clock when Easton came
home. Ruth recognized his footsteps
before he reached the house, and her heart seemed to stop beating when she
heard the clang of the gate, as it closed after he had passed through.
It had been Mary's intention to withdraw befor=
e he
came into the room, but the sick woman clung to her in such evident fear, a=
nd
entreated her so earnestly not to go away, that she remained.
It was with a feeling of keen disappointment t=
hat
Easton noticed how Ruth shrank away from him, for he had expected and hoped,
that after this, they would be good friends once more; but he tried to think
that it was because she was ill, and when she would not let him touch the c=
hild
lest he should awaken it, he agreed without question.
The next day, and for the greater part of the =
time
during the next fortnight, Ruth was in a raging fever. There were intervals when although weak=
and
exhausted, she was in her right mind, but most of the time she was quite un=
conscious
of her surroundings and often delirious. Mrs Owen came every day to help to
look after her, because Mary just then had a lot of needlework to do, and
consequently could only give part of her time to Ruth, who, in her delirium,
lived and told over and over again all the sorrow and suffering of the last=
few
months. And so the two friends, wa=
tching
by her bedside, learned her dreadful secret.
Sometimes--in her delirium--she seemed possess=
ed
of an intense and terrible loathing for the poor little creature she had
brought into the world, and was with difficulty prevented from doing it
violence. Once she seized it cruelly and threw it fiercely from her to the =
foot
of the bed, as if it had been some poisonous or loathsome thing. And so it often became necessary to tak=
e the
child away out of the room, so that she could not see or hear it, but when =
her
senses came back to her, her first thought was for the child, and there must
have been in her mind some faint recollection of what she had said and done=
in
her madness, for when she saw that the baby was not in its accustomed place=
her
distress and alarm were painful to see, as she entreated them with tears to
give it back to her. And then she =
would
kiss and fondle it with all manner of endearing words, and cry bitterly.
Easton did not see or hear most of this; he on=
ly
knew that she was very ill; for he went out every day on the almost hopeless
quest for work. Rushton's had next to nothing to do, and most of the other
shops were in a similar plight. Da=
uber and
Botchit had one or two jobs going on, and Easton tried several times to get=
a
start for them, but was always told they were full up. The sweating methods of this firm conti=
nued
to form a favourite topic of conversation with the unemployed workmen, who =
railed
at and cursed them horribly. It had
leaked out that they were paying only sixpence an hour to most of the skill=
ed
workmen in their employment, and even then the conditions under which they
worked were, if possible, worse than those obtaining at most other firms. The men were treated like so many convi=
cts,
and every job was a hell where driving and bullying reigned supreme, and
obscene curses and blasphemy polluted the air from morning till night. The
resentment of those who were out of work was directed, not only against the
heads of the firm, but also against the miserable, half-starved drudges in
their employment. These poor wretc=
hes
were denounced as 'scabs' and 'wastrels' by the unemployed workmen but all =
the
same, whenever Dauber and Botchit wanted some extra hands they never had any
difficulty in obtaining them, and it often happened that those who had been
loudest and bitterest in their denunciations were amongst the first to rush=
off
eagerly to apply there for a job whenever there was a chance of getting one=
.
Frequently the light was seen burning late at
night in Rushton's office, where Nimrod and his master were figuring out pr=
ices
and writing out estimates, cutting down the amounts to the lowest possible
point in the hope of underbidding their rivals.
Now and then they were successful but whether they secured the work =
or
not, Nimrod always appeared equally miserable.
If they got the 'job' it often showed such a small margin of profit =
that
Rushton used to grumble at him and suggest mismanagement. If their estimates were too high and th=
ey
lost the work, he used to demand of Nimrod why it was possible for Dauber a=
nd
Botchit to do work so much more cheaply.
As the unemployed workmen stood in groups at t=
he
corners or walked aimlessly about the streets, they often saw Hunter pass b=
y on
his bicycle, looking worried and harassed.
He was such a picture of misery, that it began to be rumoured amongst
the men, that he had never been the same since the time he had that fall off
the bike; and some of them declared, that they wouldn't mind betting that o=
le
Misery would finish up by going off his bloody rocker.
At intervals--whenever a job came in--Owen, Cr=
ass,
Slyme, Sawkins and one or two others, continued to be employed at Rushton's,
but they seldom managed to make more than two or three days a week, even wh=
en
there was anything to do.
Durin=
g the
next few weeks Ruth continued very ill.
Although the delirium had left her and did not return, her manner was
still very strange, and it was remarkable that she slept but little and at =
long
intervals. Mrs Owen came to look a=
fter
her every day, not going back to her own home till the evening. Frankie used to call for her as he came=
out
of school and then they used to go home together, taking little Freddie Eas=
ton
with them also, for his own mother was not able to look after him and Mary
Linden had so much other work to do.
On Wednesday evening, when the child was about
five weeks old, as Mrs Owen was wishing her good night, Ruth took hold of h=
er
hand and after saying how grateful she was for all that she had done, she a=
sked
whether--supposing anything happened to herself--Nora would promise to take
charge of Freddie for Easton. Owen=
's
wife gave the required promise, at the same time affecting to regard the
supposition as altogether unlikely, and assuring her that she would soon be
better, but she secretly wondered why Ruth had not mentioned the other chil=
d as
well.
Nora went away about five o'clock, leaving Rut=
h's
bedroom door open so that Mrs Linden could hear her call if she needed
anything. About a quarter of an ho=
ur
after Nora and the two children had gone, Mary Linden went upstairs to see
Ruth, who appeared to have fallen fast asleep; so she returned to her
needlework downstairs. The weather=
had
been very cloudy all day, there had been rain at intervals and it was a dark
evening, so dark that she had to light the lamp to see her work. Charley sa=
t on
the hearthrug in front of the fire repairing one of the wheels of a wooden =
cart
that he had made with the assistance of another boy, and Elsie busied herse=
lf
preparing the tea.
Easton was not yet home; Rushton & Co. had=
a
few jobs to do and he had been at work since the previous Thursday. The place where he was working was some
considerable distance away, so it was nearly half past six when he came
home. They heard him at the gate a=
nd at
her mother's direction Elsie went quickly to the front door, which was ajar=
, to
ask him to walk as quietly as possible so as not to wake Ruth.
Mary had prepared the table for his tea in the
kitchen, where there was a bright fire with the kettle singing on the hob.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He lit the lamp and after removing his =
hat
and overcoat, put the kettle on the fire and while he was waiting for it to
boil he went softly upstairs. There was no lamp burning in the bedroom and =
the
place would have been in utter darkness but for the red glow of the fire, w=
hich
did not dispel the prevailing obscurity sufficiently to enable him to disce=
rn
the different objects in the room distinctly.
The intense silence that reigned struck him with a sudden terror.
Mrs Linden now remembered what Owen's wife had
told her of the strange request that Ruth had made, and as she recounted it=
to
Easton, his fears became intensified a thousandfold. He was unable to form any opinion of the
reason of her going or of where she had gone, as he rushed out to seek for
her. Almost unconsciously he direc=
ted
his steps to Owen's house, and afterwards the two men went to every place w=
here
they thought it possible she might have gone, but without finding any trace=
of
her.
Her father lived a short distance outside the
town, and this was one of the first places they went to, although Easton did
not think it likely she would go there, for she had not been on friendly te=
rms
with her stepmother, and as he had anticipated, it was a fruitless journey.=
They sought for her in every conceivable place,
returning often to Easton's house to see if she had come home, but they fou=
nd
no trace of her, nor met anyone who had seen her, which was, perhaps, becau=
se
the dreary, rain-washed streets were deserted by all except those whose
business compelled them to be out.
About eleven o'clock Nora was standing at the
front door waiting for Owen and Easton, when she thought she could discern a
woman's figure in the shadow of the piers of the gate opposite. It was an unoccupied house with a garde=
n in
front, and the outlines of the bushes it contained were so vague in the
darkness that it was impossible to be certain; but the longer she looked the
more convinced she became that there was someone there. At last she summoned sufficient courage=
to
cross over the road, and as she nervously drew near the gate it became evid=
ent
that she had not been mistaken. Th=
ere
was a woman standing there--a woman with a child in her arms, leaning again=
st
one of the pillars and holding the iron bars of the gate with her left
hand. It was Ruth. Nora recognized her even in the
semi-darkness. Her attitude was on=
e of
extreme exhaustion, and as Nora touched her, she perceived that she was wet
through and trembling; but although she was almost fainting with fatigue she
would not consent to go indoors until repeatedly assured that Easton was not
there, and that Nora would not let him see her if he came. And when at length she yielded and went=
into
the house she would not sit down or take off her hat or jacket until--crouc=
hing
on the floor beside Nora's chair with her face hidden in the latter's lap--=
she
had sobbed out her pitiful confession, the same things that she had unwitti=
ngly
told to the same hearer so often before during the illness, the only fact t=
hat
was new was the account of her wanderings that night.
She cried so bitterly and looked so forlorn and
heartbroken and ashamed as she faltered out her woeful story; so consumed w=
ith
self-condemnation, making no excuse for herself except to repeat over and o=
ver
again that she had never meant to do wrong, that Nora could not refrain from
weeping also as she listened.
It appeared that, unable to bear the reproach =
that
Easton's presence seemed to imply, or to endure the burden of her secret any
longer, and always haunted by the thought of the lake in the park, Ruth had
formed the dreadful resolution of taking her own life and the child's. When she arrived at the park gates they=
were
closed and locked for the night but she remembered that there was another m=
eans
of entering--the place at the far end of the valley where the park was not
fenced in, so she had gone there--nearly three miles--only to find that
railings had recently been erected and therefore it was no longer possible =
to
get into the park by that way. And=
then,
when she found it impossible to put her resolve into practice, she had real=
ized
for the first time the folly and wickedness of the act she had meant to com=
mit. But although she had abandoned her first
intention, she said she could never go home again; she would take a room
somewhere and get some work to do, or perhaps she might be able to get a
situation where they would allow her to have the child with her, or failing
that she would work and pay someone to look after it; but she could never go
home any more. If she only had som=
ewhere
to stay for a few days until she could get something to do, she was sure she
would be able to earn her living, but she could not go back home; she felt =
that
she would rather walk about the streets all night than go there again.
It was arranged that Ruth should have the small
apartment which had been Frankie's playroom, the necessary furniture being
obtained from a second-hand shop close by.
Easton did not learn the real reason of her flight until three days
afterwards. At first he attributed=
it to
a recurrence of the mental disorder that she had suffered from after the bi=
rth
of the child, and he had been glad to leave her at Owen's place in Nora's c=
are,
but on the evening of the third day when he returned home from work, he fou=
nd a
letter in Ruth's handwriting which told him all there was to tell.
When he recovered from the stupefaction into w=
hich
he was thrown by the perusal of this letter, his first thought was to seek =
out
Slyme, but he found upon inquiring that the latter had left the town the
previous morning. Slyme's landlady=
said
he had told her that he had been offered several months' work in London, wh=
ich
he had accepted. The truth was that Slyme had heard of Ruth's flight--nearly
everyone knew about it as a result of the inquiries that had been made for
her--and, guessing the cause, he had prudently cleared out.
Easton made no attempt to see Ruth, but he wen=
t to
Owen's and took Freddie away, saying he would pay Mrs Linden to look after =
the
child whilst he was at work. His m=
anner
was that of a deeply injured man--the possibility that he was in any way to
blame for what had happened did not seem to occur to his mind at all.
As for Ruth she made no resistance to his taki=
ng
the child away from her, although she cried about it in secret. She got some work a few days
afterwards--helping the servants at one of the large boarding-houses on the
Grand Parade.
Nora looked after the baby for her while she w=
as
at work, an arrangement that pleased Frankie vastly; he said it was almost =
as
good as having a baby of their very own.
For the first few weeks after Ruth went away
Easton tried to persuade himself that he did not very much regret what had
happened. Mrs Linden looked after =
Freddie,
and Easton tried to believe that he would really be better off now that he =
had
only himself and the child to provide for.
At first, whenever he happened to meet Owen, t=
hey
used to speak of Ruth, or to be more correct, Easton used to speak of her; =
but
one day when the two men were working together Owen had expressed himself
rather offensively. He seemed to t=
hink
that Easton was more to blame than she was; and afterwards they avoided the
subject, although Easton found it difficult to avoid the thoughts the other
man's words suggested.
Now and then he heard of Ruth and learnt that =
she
was still working at the same place; and once he met her suddenly and
unexpectedly in the street. They p=
assed
each other hurriedly and he did not see the scarlet flush that for an insta=
nt
dyed her face, nor the deathly pallor that succeeded it.
He never went to Owen's place or sent any
communication to Ruth, nor did she ever send him any; but although Easton d=
id
not know it she frequently saw Freddie, for when Elsie Linden took the child
out she often called to see Mrs Owen.
As time went on and the resentment he had felt
towards her lost its first bitterness, Easton began to think there was perh=
aps
some little justification for what Owen had said, and gradually there grew
within him an immense desire for reconciliation--to start afresh and to for=
get
all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more hopeless and
impossible of realization it seemed.
Although perhaps he was not conscious of it, t=
his
desire arose solely from selfish motives.
The money he earned seemed to melt away almost as soon as he received
it; to his surprise he found that he was not nearly so well off in regard to
personal comfort as he had been formerly, and the house seemed to grow more
dreary and desolate as the wintry days dragged slowly by. Sometimes--when he had the money--he so=
ught
forgetfulness in the society of Crass and the other frequenters of the
Cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same pleasure in the=
conversation
of these people as formerly, when he had found it--as he now sometimes wond=
ered
to remember--so entertaining as to almost make him forget Ruth's existence.=
One evening about three weeks before Christmas=
, as
he and Owen were walking homewards together from work, Easton reverted for =
the
first time to their former conversation.
He spoke with a superior air: his manner and tone indicating that he
thought he was behaving with great generosity.
He would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he said, if she
would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the child. Of course it might be sent to an orphan=
age or
some similar institution, but he was afraid Ruth would never consent to tha=
t,
and he knew that her stepmother would not take it.
'If you can persuade her to return to you, we'=
ll
take the child,' said Owen.
'Do you think your wife would be willing?'
'She has already suggested doing so.'
'To Ruth?'
'No: to me.
We thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would like to have=
the
child.'
'But would you be able to afford it?' said Eas=
ton.
'We should manage all right.'
'Of course,' said Easton, 'if Slyme comes back=
he
might agree to pay something for its keep.'
Owen flushed.
'I wouldn't take his money.'
After a long pause Easton continued: 'Would you
mind asking Mrs Owen to suggest it to Ruth?'
'If you like I'll get her to suggest it--as a
message from you.'
'What I meant,' said Easton hesitatingly, 'was
that your wife might just suggest it--casual like--and advise her that it w=
ould
be the best way, and then you could let me know what Ruth said.'
'No,' replied Owen, unable any longer to contr=
ol
his resentment of the other's manner, 'as things stand now, if it were not =
for
the other child, I should advise her to have nothing further to do with you.
You seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being
"willing" to have her back, but she's better off now than she was
with you. I see no reason--except =
for
the other child--why she should go back to you.
As far as I understand it, you had a good wife and you ill-treated h=
er.'
'I never ill-treated her! I never raised my hand to her--at least=
only
once, and then I didn't hurt her. =
Does
she say I ill-treated her.'
'Oh no: from what my wife tells me she only bl=
ames
herself, but I'm drawing my own conclusions.
You may not have struck her, but you did worse--you treated her with
indifference and exposed her to temptation. What has happened is the natural
result of your neglect and want of care for her. The responsibility for what has happene=
d is
mainly yours, but apparently you wish to pose now as being very generous an=
d to
"forgive her"--you're "willing" to take her back; but it
seems to me that it would be more fitting that you should ask her to forgive
you.'
Easton made no answer and after a long silence=
the
other continued:
'I would not advise her to go back to you on s=
uch
terms as you seem to think right, because if you became reconciled on such
terms I don't think either of you could be happy. Your only chance of happiness is to rea=
lize
that you have both done wrong; that each of you has something to forgive; to
forgive and never speak of it again.'
Easton made no reply and a few minutes afterwa=
rds,
their ways diverging, they wished each other 'Good night'.
They were working for Rushton--painting the
outside of a new conservatory at Mr Sweater's house, 'The Cave'. This job was finished the next day and =
at
four o'clock the boy brought the handcart, which they loaded with their lad=
ders
and other materials. They took the=
se
back to the yard and then, as it was Friday night, they went up to the front
shop and handed in their time sheets.
Afterwards, as they were about to separate, Easton again referred to=
the
subject of their conversation of the previous evening. He had been very reserved and silent al=
l day,
scarcely uttering a word except when the work they had been engaged in made=
it
necessary to do so, and there was now a sort of catch in his voice as he sp=
oke.
'I've been thinking over what you said last ni=
ght;
it's quite true. I've been a great deal to blame. I wrote to Ruth last night and admitted=
it to
her. I'll take it as a favour if y=
ou and
your wife will say what you can to help me get her back.'
Owen stretched out his hand and as the other t=
ook
it, said: 'You may rely on us both to do our best.'
The n=
ext
morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o'clock Hunter told t=
hem
that there was nothing to do, but that they had better come on Monday in ca=
se
some work came in. They accordingl=
y went
on the Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday, but as nothing 'came in' of course
they did not do any work. On Thurs=
day
morning the weather was dark and bitterly cold.
The sky presented an unbroken expanse of dull grey and a keen north =
wind
swept through the cheerless streets.
Owen--who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of the
conservatory at Sweater's house the previous week--did not get to the yard
until ten o'clock. He felt so ill =
that
he would not have gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be =
able
to earn if there was anything to do.
Strange though it may appear to the advocates of thrift, although he=
had
been so fortunate as to be in employment when so many others were idle, they
had not saved any money. On the
contrary, during all the summer they had not been able to afford to have pr=
oper
food or clothing. Every week most =
of the
money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even whilst =
he
was at work they had often to go without some of the necessaries of life. They had broken boots, shabby, insuffic=
ient
clothing, and barely enough to eat.
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-thirt=
y 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 stan=
d idle
three days out of six. The wages of
those who got sixpence halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence--when t=
hey
worked every day--and as for those who--like Sawkins--received only fivepen=
ce,
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 h=
alf
a sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less. Then most of them said that it was bett=
er
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 N=
avy,
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 imag= ined 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.<= o:p>
When Owen arrived at the yard he found Bert Wh=
ite
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 p=
aint
shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a tomb. The boy w=
as
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 w=
as
wearing his jacket with the ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them cl=
ean,
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 ta=
sk,
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 ya=
rd.'
'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 b=
een
taken out of places where Rushton & Co. had made alterations, he gather=
ed
an armful of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins accosted hi=
m.
'You mustn't go burnin' any of that, you
know! That's all got to be saved a=
nd
took up to the bloke's house. Mise=
ry
spoke about it only this mornin'.'
Owen did not answer him. He carried the wood into the shop and a=
fter
throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and, apply=
ing
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 accomplis=
hed
fact he warmed his hands and shifted his work to the other side of the benc=
h 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 a=
s if
he's gorn orf 'is bloody crumpet,' he added as he watched Owen walking rapi=
dly
down the street. 'I can't understa=
nd 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 gr=
oups
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 flake=
s 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 st=
rode
up to the office door, and without troubling to knock, flung it violently o=
pen
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 t=
he
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 gi=
ve
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 w=
as
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 redu=
ce
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 matt=
ers.'
'You--yourself--forbade him--to make a fire la=
st
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 t=
his
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 em=
ploy
him--when they had the work. He ha=
d 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 O=
wen,
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 sampl=
es 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 din=
ner
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 ma=
de
rest or sleep impossible. He got u=
p very
early the next morning--long before it was light--and after lighting the fi=
re,
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 wea=
ther
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 f=
lat,
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 wi=
th
the name of the party what's dead,' continued Bert, 'and here's a little bo=
ttle
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 the=
re'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--anythi=
ng?'
'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 goi=
ng to
send you some coke," 'e ses. =
And
then they 'ad a look round and 'e told Sawkins to put some new panes of gla=
ss
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 t=
wo
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 v=
ery
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 l=
ad 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...
Altho=
ugh
Owen, Easton and Crass and a few others were so lucky as to have had a litt=
le
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 pract=
ical
business-men, and the pretended disciples of Christ--the liars and hypocrit=
es
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 mise=
ry
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 t=
hem.
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 invent=
ed
by Brother Rushton, a much larger number of the Brethren would have succeed=
ed
in registering themselves as unemployed on the books of the Committee. In previous years it had been the pract=
ice 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 Ru=
shton
proposed--amid laughter and applause, it was such a good joke--a new and be=
tter
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 a=
fter
the manner of a French Juge d'Instruction interrogating a criminal, the cle=
rk
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 wha=
t?'
'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 wo=
rked
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 th=
an
those you have mentioned? Do you t=
hink
you would be fit for any other kind? 'Have you any references?' and so on a=
nd
so forth.
When the criminal had answered all the questio=
ns,
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, wo=
uld
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 consolatio=
n,
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 anythin=
g 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 munici=
pal
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 remain=
ed 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 no=
tice
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 the=
re
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 ans=
wer,
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 adverti=
se
their presence by lighting the gas.
He made a note of the incident in his pocket-b=
ook
and was about to resume his beat when he was joined by his inspector. The latter agreed that the conclusion a=
rrived
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 in=
to 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 t=
he
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 rol=
e 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 conf=
ided
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 l=
ook
over a house where some work was to be done for which an estimate had to be
given. It was this estimate that H=
unter
had been trying to make out the previous evening in the office, for they fo=
und
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 w=
ith
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 premeditat=
ed
the act, but this was accounted for at the inquest by the evidence of the l=
ast
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-ha=
nd
pair of black trousers at a cast-off clothing shop in honour of the occasio=
n,
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 witho=
ut
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, wh=
ere
there was a small patch of inflammation about the size of a threepenny piec=
e.
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 th=
e 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 la=
dy
who died of cancer. However, Crass=
did
not worry much about this little sore place; he just put a little zinc oint=
ment
on it occasionally and had no doubt that it would get well in time.
The
revulsion of feeling that Barrington experienced during the progress of the
election was intensified by the final result.
The blind, stupid, enthusiastic admiration displayed by the
philanthropists for those who exploited and robbed them; their extraordinary
apathy with regard to their own interests; the patient, broken-spirited way=
in
which they endured their sufferings, tamely submitting to live in poverty in
the midst of the wealth they had helped to create; their callous indifferen=
ce
to the fate of their children, and the savage hatred they exhibited towards
anyone who dared to suggest the possibility of better things, forced upon h=
im
the thought that the hopes he cherished were impossible of realization. The
words of the renegade Socialist recurred constantly to his mind:
'You can be a Jesus Christ if you like, but fo=
r my
part I'm finished. For the future I intend to look after myself. As for these people, they vote for what=
they
want, they get what they vote for, and, by God! they deserve nothing
better! They are being beaten with=
whips
of their own choosing, and if I had my way they should be chastised with
scorpions. For them, the present s=
ystem
means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature death; and they
vote for it and uphold it. Let the=
m have
what they vote for! Let them drudg=
e and
let them starve!'
These words kept ringing in his ears as he wal=
ked
through the crowded streets early one fine evening a few days before
Christmas. The shops were all
brilliantly lighted for the display of their Christmas stores, and the
pavements and even the carriageways were thronged with sightseers.
Barrington was specially interested in the gro=
ups
of shabbily dressed men and women and children who gathered in the roadway =
in
front of the poulterers' and butchers' shops, gazing at the meat and the
serried rows of turkeys and geese decorated with coloured ribbons and roset=
tes.
He knew that to come here and look at these things was the only share many =
of
these poor people would have of them, and he marvelled greatly at their
wonderful patience and abject resignation.
But what struck him most of all was the appear=
ance
of many of the women, evidently working men's wives. Their faded, ill-fitting garments and t=
he
tired, sad expressions on their pale and careworn faces. Some of them were alone; others were
accompanied by little children who trotted along trustfully clinging to the=
ir
mothers' hands. The sight of these poor little ones, their utter helplessne=
ss
and dependence, their patched unsightly clothing and broken boots, and the
wistful looks on their pitiful faces as they gazed into the windows of the
toy-shops, sent a pang of actual physical pain to his heart and filled his =
eyes
with tears. He knew that these
children--naked of joy and all that makes life dear--were being tortured by=
the
sight of the things that were placed so cruelly before their eyes, but which
they were not permitted to touch or to share; and, like Joseph of old, his
heart yearned over his younger brethren.
He felt like a criminal because he was warmly =
clad
and well fed in the midst of all this want and unhappiness, and he flushed =
with
shame because he had momentarily faltered in his devotion to the noblest ca=
use
that any man could be privileged to fight for--the uplifting of the
disconsolate and the oppressed.
He presently came to a large toy shop outside
which several children were standing admiring the contents of the window. He recognized some of these children and
paused to watch them and to listen to their talk. They did not notice him
standing behind them as they ranged to and fro before the window, and as he=
looked
at them, he was reminded of the way in which captive animals walk up and do=
wn
behind the bars of their cages. Th=
ese
children wandered repeatedly, backwards and forwards from one end of the wi=
ndow
to the other, with their little hands pressed against the impenetrable plate
glass, choosing and pointing out to each other the particular toys that took
their fancies.
'That's mine!' cried Charley Linden,
enthusiastically indicating a large strongly built waggon. 'If I had that I'd give Freddie rides i=
n it
and bring home lots of firewood, and we could play at fire engines as well.=
'
'I'd rather have this railway,' said Frankie
Owen. 'There's a real tunnel and r=
eal
coal in the tenders; then there's the station and the signals and a place to
turn the engine round, and a red lantern to light when there's danger on the
line.'
'Mine's this doll--not the biggest one, the on=
e in
pink with clothes that you can take off,' said Elsie; 'and this tea set; and
this needlecase for Mother.'
Little Freddie had let go his hold of Elsie, to
whom he usually clung tightly and was clapping his hands and chuckling with
delight and desire. 'Gee-gee?' he =
cried
eagerly. 'Gee-gee. Pwetty Gee-gee! Fweddy want gee-gee!'
'But it's no use lookin' at them any longer,'
continued Elsie, with a sigh, as she took hold of Freddie's hand to lead him
away. 'It's no use lookin' at 'em =
any
longer; the likes of us can't expect to have such good things as them.'
This remark served to recall Frankie and Charl=
ey
to the stern realities of life, and turning reluctantly away from the window
they prepared to follow Elsie, but Freddie had not yet learnt the lesson--he
had not lived long enough to understand that the good things of the world w=
ere
not for the likes of him; so when Elsie attempted to draw him away he purse=
d up
his underlip and began to cry, repeating that he wanted a gee-gee. The other children clustered round tryi=
ng to
coax and comfort him by telling him that no one was allowed to have anythin=
g out
of the windows yet--until Christmas--and that Santa Claus would be sure to
bring him a gee-gee then; but these arguments failed to make any impression=
on
Freddie, who tearfully insisted upon being supplied at once.
Whilst they were thus occupied they caught sig=
ht
of Barrington, whom they hailed with evident pleasure born of the recollect=
ion
of certain gifts of pennies and cakes they had at different times received =
from
him.
'Hello, Mr Barrington,' said the two boys in a
breath.
'Hello,' replied Barrington, as he patted the baby's cheek. 'What's the matter here? What's Freddie crying for?'<= o:p>
'He wants that there 'orse, mister, the one wi=
th
the real 'air on,' said Charley, smiling indulgently like a grown-up person=
who
realized the absurdity of the demand.
'Fweddie want gee-gee,' repeated the child, ta=
king
hold of Barrington's hand and returning to the window. 'Nice gee-gee.'
'Tell him that Santa Claus'll bring it to him =
on
Christmas,' whispered Elsie. 'P'ra=
ps
he'll believe you and that'll satisfy him, and he's sure to forget all abou=
t it
in a little while.'
'Are you still out of work, Mr Barrington?'
inquired Frankie.
'No,' replied Barrington slowly. 'I've got something to do at last.'
'Well, that's a good job, ain't it?' remarked
Charley.
'Yes,' said Barrington. 'And whom do you think I'm working for?=
'
'Who?'
'Santa Claus.'
'Santa Claus!' echoed the children, opening th=
eir
eyes to the fullest extent.
'Yes,' continued Barrington, solemnly. 'You know, he is a very old man now, so=
old
that he can't do all his work himself.
Last year he was so tired that he wasn't able to get round to all the
children he wanted to give things to, and consequently a great many of them
never got anything at all. So this=
year
he's given me a job to help him. He's given me some money and a list of chi=
ldren's
names, and against their names are written the toys they are to have. My work is to buy the things and give t=
hem to
the boys and girls whose names are on the list.'
The children listened to this narrative with b=
ated
breath. Incredible as the story se=
emed,
Barrington's manner was so earnest as to almost compel belief.
'Really and truly, or are you only having a ga=
me?'
said Frankie at length, speaking almost in a whisper. Elsie and Charley maintained an awestru=
ck
silence, while Freddie beat upon the glass with the palms of his hands.
'Really and truly,' replied Barrington
unblushingly as he took out his pocket-book and turned over the leaves. 'I've got the list here; perhaps your n=
ames
are down for something.'
The three children turned pale and their hearts
beat violently as they listened wide-eyed for what was to follow.
'Let me see,' continued Barrington, scanning t=
he
pages of the book, 'Why, yes, here they are!
Elsie Linden, one doll with clothes that can be taken off, one tea-s=
et,
one needlecase. Freddie Easton, one
horse with real hair. Charley Lind=
en,
one four-wheeled waggon full of groceries.
Frankie Owen, one railway with tunnel, station, train with real coal=
for
engine, signals, red lamp and place to turn the engines round.'
Barrington closed the book: 'So you may as well
have your things now,' he continued, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. 'We'll buy them here; it will save me a=
lot
of work. I shall not have the trou=
ble of
taking them round to where you live.
It's lucky I happened to meet you, isn't it?'
The children were breathless with emotion, but
they just managed to gasp out that it was--very lucky.
As they followed him into the shop, Freddie was
the only one of the four whose condition was anything like normal. All the others were in a half-dazed
state. Frankie was afraid that he =
was
not really awake at all. It couldn=
't be
true; it must be a dream.
In addition to the hair, the horse was furnish=
ed
with four wheels. They did not have it made into a parcel, but tied some st=
ring
to it and handed it over to its new owner.
The elder children were scarcely conscious of what took place inside=
the
shop; they knew that Barrington was talking to the shopman, but they did not
hear what was said--the sound seemed far away and unreal.
The shopman made the doll, the tea-set and the
needlecase into one parcel and gave it to Elsie. The railway, in a stout cardboard box, =
was
also wrapped up in brown paper, and Frankie's heart nearly burst when the m=
an
put the package into his arms.
When they came out of the toy shop they said '=
Good
night' to Frankie, who went off carrying his parcel very carefully and feel=
ing
as if he were walking on air. The =
others
went into a provision merchant's near by, where the groceries were purchased
and packed into the waggon.
Then Barrington, upon referring to the list to
make quite certain that he had not forgotten anything, found that Santa Cla=
us
had put down a pair of boots each for Elsie and Charley, and when they went=
to
buy these, it was seen that their stockings were all ragged and full of hol=
es,
so they went to a draper's and bought some stocking also. Barrington said t=
hat
although they were not on the list, he was sure Santa Claus would not
object--he had probably meant them to have them, but had forgotten to put t=
hem
down.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>Chapter 54 - The End<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
The
following evening Barrington called at Owen's place. He said he was going home for the holid=
ays
and had come to say goodbye for a time.
Owen had not been doing very well during these
last few months, although he was one of the few lucky ones who had had some
small share of work. Most of the m=
oney
he earned went for rent, to pay which they often had to go short of food. Lately his chest had become so bad that=
the
slightest exertion brought on fits of coughing and breathlessness, which ma=
de
it almost impossible to work even when he had the opportunity; often it was
only by an almost superhuman effort of will that he was able to continue
working at all. He contrived to ke=
ep up
appearances to a certain extent before Rushton, who, although he knew that =
Owen
was not so strong as the other men, was inclined to overlook it so long as =
he
was able to do his share of work, for Owen was a very useful hand when thin=
gs
were busy. But lately some of the =
men
with whom he worked began to manifest dissatisfaction at having him for a
mate. When two men are working tog=
ether,
the master expects to see two men's work done, and if one of the two is not
able to do his share it makes it all the harder for the other.
He never had the money to go to a doctor to get
advice, but earlier in the winter he had obtained from Rushton a ticket for=
the
local hospital. Every Saturday
throughout the year when the men were paid they were expected to put a penn=
y or
twopence in the hospital box. Contributions were obtained in this way from
every firm and workshop in the town. The
masters periodically handed these boxes over to the hospital authorities and
received in return some tickets which they gave to anyone who needed and as=
ked
for them. The employer had to fill=
in
the ticket or application form with the name and address of the applicant, =
and
to certify that in his opinion the individual was a deserving case, 'suitab=
le
to receive this charity'. In commo=
n with
the majority of workmen, Owen had a sort of horror of going for advice to t=
his
hospital, but he was so ill that he stifled his pride and went. It happened
that it turned out to be more expensive than going to a private doctor, for=
he
had to be at the hospital at a certain hour on a particular morning. To do this he had to stay away from
work. The medicine they prescribed=
and
which he had to buy did him no good, for the truth was that it was not medi=
cine
that he--like thousands of others--needed, but proper conditions of life and
proper food; things that had been for years past as much out of his reach a=
s if
he had been dying alone in the middle of a desert.
Occasionally Nora contrived--by going without =
some
other necessary--to buy him a bottle of one of the many much-advertised
medicines; but although some of these things were good she was not able to =
buy
enough for him to derive any benefit from them.
Although he was often seized with a kind of te=
rror
of the future--of being unable to work--he fought against these feelings and
tried to believe that when the weather became warmer he would be all right =
once
more.
When Barrington came in Owen was sitting in a
deck-chair by the fire in the sitting-room. He had been to work that day wi=
th
Harlow, washing off the ceilings and stripping the old paper from the walls=
of
two rooms in Rushton's home, and he looked very haggard and exhausted.
'I have never told you before,' said Barringto=
n,
after they had been talking for a while, 'but I suppose you have guessed th=
at I
did not work for Rushton because I needed to do so in order to live. I just wanted to see things for myself;=
to
see life as it is lived by the majority.
My father is a wealthy man. He
doesn't approve of my opinions, but at same time he does not interfere with=
me
for holding them, and I have a fairly liberal allowance which I spent in my=
own
way. I'm going to pass Christmas w=
ith my
own people, but in the spring I intend to fit out a Socialist Van, and then=
I
shall come back here. We'll have some of the best speakers in the movement;
we'll hold meetings every night; we'll drench the town with literature, and
we'll start a branch of the party.'
Owen's eye kindled and his pale face flushed.<= o:p>
'I shall be able to do something to advertise =
the
meetings,' he said. For instance, I could paint some posters and placards.'=
'And I can help to give away handbills,' chime=
d in
Frankie, looking up from the floor, where he was seated working the
railway. 'I know a lot of boys who=
'll
come along with me to put 'em under the doors as well.'
They were in the sitting-room and the door was
shut. Mrs Owen was in the next roo=
m with
Ruth. While the two men were talking the front-door bell was heard to ring =
and
Frankie ran out to see who it was, closing the door after him. Barrington and Owen continued their
conversation, and from time to time they could hear a low murmur of voices =
from
the adjoining room. After a little=
while
they heard some one go out by the front door, and almost immediately afterw=
ard
Frankie--wild with excitement, burst into the room, crying out:
'Dad and Mr Barrington! Three cheers!' And he began capering gleefully about t=
he
room, evidently transported with joy.
'What are the cheers to be for?' inquired
Barrington, rather mystified by this extraordinary conduct.
'Mr Easton came with Freddie to see Mrs Easton,
and she's gone home again with them,' replied Freddie, 'and--she's given the
baby to us for a Christmas box!'
Barrington was already familiar with the fact =
of
Easton's separation from his wife, and Owen now told him the Story of their
reconciliation.
Barrington took his leave shortly afterwards.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His train left at eight; it was already
nearly half past seven, and he said he had a letter to write. Nora brought the baby in to show him be=
fore
he went, and then she helped Frankie to put on his overcoat, for Barrington=
had
requested that the boy might be permitted to go a little way with him.
There was a stationer's shop at the end of the
street. He went in here and bought=
a
sheet of notepaper and an envelope, and, having borrowed the pen and ink, w=
rote
a letter which he enclosed in the envelope with the two other pieces that he
took out of his pocketbook. Having addressed the letter he came out of the
shop; Frankie was waiting for him outside. He gave the letter to the boy.
'I want you to take this straight home and giv=
e it
to your dad. I don't want you to s=
top to
play or even to speak to anyone till you get home.'
'All right,' replied Frankie. 'I won't stop running all the way.'
Barrington hesitated and looked at his watch.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'I think I have time to go back with yo=
u as
far as your front door,' he said, 'then I shall be quite sure you haven't l=
ost
it.'
They accordingly retraced their steps and in a=
few
minutes reached the entrance to the house.
Barrington opened the door and stood for a moment in the hall watchi=
ng
Frankie ascend the stairs.
'Will your train cross over the bridge?' inqui=
red
the boy, pausing and looking over the banisters.
'Yes. Why?'
'Because we can see the bridge from our front-=
room
window, and if you were to wave your handkerchief as your train goes over t=
he
bridge, we could wave back.'
'All right.
I'll do so. Goodbye.'
'Goodbye.'
Barrington waited till he heard Frankie open a=
nd
close the door of Owen's flat, and then he hurried away. When he gained the main road he heard t=
he
sound of singing and saw a crowd at the corner of one of the side-streets.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As he drew near he perceived that it wa=
s a
religious meeting.
There was a lighted lamp on a standard in the
centre of the crowd and on the glass of this lamp was painted: 'Be not
deceived: God is not mocked.'
Mr Rushton was preaching in the centre of the
ring. He said that they had come h=
out
there that evening to tell the Glad Tidings of Great Joy to hall those dear
people that he saw standing around. The
members of the Shining Light Chapel--to which he himself belonged--was the
organizers of that meeting but it was not a sectarian meeting, for he was '=
appy
to say that several members of other denominations was there co-operating w=
ith
them in the good work. As he conti=
nued
his address, Rushton repeatedly referred to the individuals who composed the
crowd as his 'Brothers and Sisters' and, strange to say, nobody laughed.
Barrington looked round upon the 'Brothers': Mr
Sweater, resplendent in a new silk hat of the latest fashion, and a fur-tri=
mmed
overcoat. The Rev. Mr Bosher, Vicar of the Church of the Whited Sepulchre, =
Mr
Grinder--one of the churchwardens at the same place of alleged worship--both
dressed in broadcloth and fine linen and glossy silk hats, while their gene=
ral
appearance testified to the fact that they had fared sumptuously for many
days. Mr Didlum, Mrs Starvem, Mr D=
auber,
Mr Botchit, Mr Smeeriton, and Mr Leavit.
And in the midst was the Rev. John Starr, doing
the work for which he was paid.
As he stood there in the forefront of this
company, there was nothing in his refined and comely exterior to indicate t=
hat
his real function was to pander to and flatter them; to invest with an air =
of
respectability and rectitude the abominably selfish lives of the gang of
swindlers, slave-drivers and petty tyrants who formed the majority of the
congregation of the Shining Light Chapel.
He was doing the work for which he was paid. By the mere fact of his presence there,
condoning and justifying the crimes of these typical representatives of that
despicable class whose greed and inhumanity have made the earth into a hell=
.
There was also a number of 'respectable',
well-dressed people who looked as if they could do with a good meal, and a =
couple
of shabbily dressed, poverty-stricken-looking individuals who seemed rather=
out
of place in the glittering throng.
The remainder of the Brothers consisted of
half-starved, pale-faced working men and women, most of them dressed in oth=
er
people's cast-off clothing, and with broken, patched-up, leaky boots on the=
ir
feet.
Rushton having concluded his address, Didlum
stepped forward to give out the words of the hymn the former had quoted at =
the
conclusion of his remarks:
'Oh, come and jine this 'oly band, And hon to glory go.'
Strange and incredible as it may appear to the
reader, although none of them ever did any of the things Jesus said, the pe=
ople
who were conducting this meeting had the effrontery to claim to be follower=
s of
Christ--Christians!
Jesus said: 'Lay not up for yourselves treasure
upon earth', 'Love not the world nor the things of the world', 'Woe unto you
that are rich--it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle t=
han
for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.'
Yet all these self-styled 'Followers' of Christ made the accumulatio=
n of
money the principal business of their lives.
Jesus said: 'Be ye not called masters; for they
bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulder=
s,
but they themselves will not touch them with one of their fingers. For one is your master, even Christ, an=
d ye
are all brethren.' But nearly all =
these
alleged followers of the humble Workman of Nazareth claimed to be other
people's masters or mistresses. An=
d as
for being all brethren, whilst most of these were arrayed in broadcloth and
fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, they knew that all around them
thousands of those they hypocritically called their 'brethren', men, women =
and
little children, were slowly perishing of hunger and cold; and we have alre=
ady
seen how much brotherhood existed between Sweater and Rushton and the
miserable, half-starved wretches in their employment.
Whenever they were asked why they did not prac=
tise
the things Jesus preached, they replied that it is impossible to do so! They did not seem to realize that when =
they
said this they were saying, in effect, that Jesus taught an impracticable
religion; and they appeared to forget that Jesus said, 'Wherefore call ye me
Lord, Lord, when ye do not the things I say?...' 'Whosoever heareth these
sayings of mine and doeth them not, shall be likened to a foolish man who b=
uilt
his house upon the sand.'
But although none of these self-styled 'Follow=
ers'
of Christ, ever did the things that Jesus said, they talked a great deal ab=
out
them, and sang hymns, and for a pretence made long prayers, and came out he=
re
to exhort those who were still in darkness to forsake their evil ways. And =
they
procured this lantern and wrote a text upon it: 'Be not deceived, God is not
mocked.'
They stigmatized as 'infidels' all those who
differed from them, forgetting that the only real infidels are those who are
systematically false and unfaithful to the Master they pretend to love and
serve.
Grinder, having a slight cold, had not spoken =
this
evening, but several other infidels, including Sweater, Didlum, Bosher, and
Starr, had addressed the meeting, making a special appeal to the working
people, of whom the majority of the crowd was composed, to give up all the =
vain
pleasures of the world in which they at present indulged, and, as Rushton h=
ad
eloquently put it at the close of his remarks:
'Come and jine this 'Oly band and hon to glory go!'
As Didlum finished reading out the words, the =
lady
at the harmonium struck up the tune of the hymns, and the disciples all joi=
ned
in the singing:
'Oh,
come and join this 'oly band and hon to glory go.'
During the singing certain of the disciples we=
nt
about amongst the crowd distributing tracts.
Presently one of them offered one to Barrington and as the latter lo=
oked
at the man he saw that it was Slyme, who also recognized him at the same
instant and greeted him by name.
Barrington made no reply except to decline the tract:
'I don't want that--from you,' he said
contemptuously.
Slyme turned red.
'Oh, I know what you're thinking of,' he said after a pause and spea=
king
in an injured tone; 'but you shouldn't judge anyone too hard. It wasn't only my fault, and you don't =
know
'ow much I've suffered for it. If =
it
'adn't been for the Lord, I believe I should 'ave drownded myself.'
Barrington made no answer and Slyme slunk off,=
and
when the hymn was finished Brother Sweater stood forth and gave all those
present a hearty invitation to attend the services to be held during the
ensuing week at the Chapel of the Shining Light. He invited them there specially, of cou=
rse,
because it was the place with which he was himself connected, but he entrea=
ted
and begged of them even if they would not come there to go Somewhere; there
were plenty of other places of worship in the town; in fact, there was one =
at
the corner of nearly every street. Those
who did not fancy the services at the Shining Light could go to the Church =
of
the Whited Sepulchre, but he really did hope that all those dear people who=
m he
saw standing round would go Somewhere.
A short prayer from Bosher closed the meeting,=
and
now the reason for the presence of the two poverty-stricken-looking shabbily
dressed disciples was made manifest, for while the better dressed and there=
fore
more respectable Brothers were shaking hands with and grinning at each othe=
r or
hovering round the two clergymen and Mr Sweater, these two poor wretches
carried away the harmonium and the lantern, together with the hymn books an=
d what
remained of the tracts. As Barrington hurried off to catch the train one of=
the
'Followers' gave him a card which he read by the light of a street lamp--
=
Come and join the Brotherhood at the Shining Light
Chapel PSA Every Sunday at 3
o'clock. Let Bro=
therly
Love Continue. 'Oh=
come
and join this Holy Band =
and on to Glory go.'
Barrington thought he would, rather go to hell=
--if
there were such a place--with some decent people, than share 'glory' with a
crew like this.
Nora sat sewing by the fireside in the front r=
oom,
with the baby asleep in her lap. O=
wen
was reclining in the deck-chair opposite. They had both been rather silent =
and
thoughtful since Barrington's departure. It was mainly by their efforts that
the reconciliation between Easton and Ruth had been effected and they had b=
een
so desirous of accomplishing that result that they had not given much thoug=
ht
to their own position.
'I feel that I could not bear to part with her=
for
anything now,' said Nora at last breaking the long silence, 'and Frankie is=
so
fond of her too. But all the same I
can't feel happy about it when I think how ill you are.'
'Oh, I shall be all right when the weather get=
s a
little warmer,' said Owen, affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel. 'We have always pulled through somehow =
or
other; the poor little thing is not going to make much difference, and she'=
ll
be as well off with us as she would have been if Ruth had not gone back.'
As he spoke he leaned over and touched the han=
d of
the sleeping child and the little fingers closed round one of his with a cl=
utch
that sent a thrill all through him. As
he looked at this little helpless, dependent creature, he realized with a k=
ind
of thankfulness that he would never have the heart to carry out the dreadful
project he had sometimes entertained in hours of despondency.
'We've always got through somehow or other,' he
repeated, 'and we'll do so still.'
Presently they heard Frankie's footsteps ascen=
ding
the stairs and a moment afterwards the boy entered the room.
'We have to look out of the window and wave to=
Mr
Barrington when his train goes over the bridge,' he cried breathlessly. 'And he's sent this letter. Open the window, quick, Dad, or it may =
be too
late.'
'There's plenty of time yet,' replied Owen,
smiling at the boy's impetuosity.
'Nearly twenty minutes. We =
don't
want the window open all that time. It's
only a quarter to eight by our clock now, and that's five minutes fast.'
However, so as to make quite certain that the
train should not run past unnoticed, Frankie pulled up the blind and, rubbi=
ng
the steam off the glass, took up his station at the window to watch for its
coming, while Owen opened the letter:
'Dear Owen,
'Enclosed you will find two bank-notes, one for
ten pounds and the other for five. The
first I beg you will accept from me for yourself in the same spirit that I
offer it, and as I would accept it from you if our positions were
reversed. If I were in need, I kno=
w that
you would willingly share with me whatever you had and I could not hurt you=
by
refusing. The other note I want yo=
u to
change tomorrow morning. Give three pounds of it to Mrs Linden and the
remainder to Bert White's mother.
'Wishing you all a happy Xmas and hoping to fi=
nd
you well and eager for the fray when I come back in the spring,
'Yours for t=
he
cause,
'George Barrington.'
Owen read it over two or three times before he
could properly understand it and then, without a word of comment--for he co=
uld
not have spoken at that moment to save his life--he passed it to Nora, who
felt, as she read it in her turn, as if a great burden had been lifted from=
her
heart. All the undefined terror of the future faded away as she thought of =
all
this small piece of paper made possible.
Meanwhile, Frankie, at the window, was straini=
ng
his eyes in the direction of the station.
'Don't you think we'd better have the window o=
pen
now, Dad?' he said at last as the clock struck eight. 'The steam keeps coming on the glass as=
fast
as I wipe it off and I can't see out properly.
I'm sure it's nearly time now; p'raps our clock isn't as fast as you
think it is.'
'All right, we'll have it open now, so as to b=
e on
the safe side,' said Owen as he stood up and raised the sash, and Nora, hav=
ing
wrapped the child up in a shawl, joined them at the window.
'It can't be much longer now, you know,' said
Frankie. 'The line's clear. They turned the red light off the signa=
l just
before you opened the window.'
In a very few minutes they heard the whistle of
the locomotive as it drew out of the station, then, an instant before the
engine itself came into sight round the bend, the brightly polished rails w=
ere
illuminated, shining like burnished gold in the glare of its headlight; a f=
ew
seconds afterwards the train emerged into view, gathering speed as it came
along the short stretch of straight way, and a moment later it thundered ac=
ross
the bridge. It was too far away to
recognize his face, but they saw someone looking out of a carriage window
waving a handkerchief, and they knew it was Barrington as they waved theirs=
in
return. Soon there remained nothing
visible of the train except the lights at the rear of the guard's van, and
presently even those vanished into the surrounding darkness.
The lofty window at which they were standing
overlooked several of the adjacent streets and a great part of the town. On=
the
other side of the road were several empty houses, bristling with different
house agents' advertisement boards and bills.
About twenty yards away, the shop formerly tenanted by Mr Smallman, =
the
grocer, who had become bankrupt two or three months previously, was also
plastered with similar decorations. A
little further on, at the opposite corner, were the premises of the Monopole
Provision Stores, where brilliant lights were just being extinguished, for
they, like most of the other shops, were closing their premises for the nig=
ht,
and the streets took on a more cheerless air as one after another their lig=
hts
disappeared.
It had been a fine day, and during the earlier
part of the evening the moon, nearly at the full, had been shining in a cle=
ar
and starry sky; but a strong north-east wind had sprung up within the last
hour; the weather had become bitterly cold and the stars were rapidly being
concealed from view by the dense banks of clouds that were slowly accumulat=
ing
overhead.
As they remained at the window looking out over
this scene for a few minutes after the train had passed out of sight, it se=
emed
to Owen that the gathering darkness was as a curtain that concealed from vi=
ew
the Infamy existing beyond. In eve=
ry
country, myriads of armed men waiting for their masters to give them the si=
gnal
to fall upon and rend each other like wild beasts. All around was a state of dreadful anar=
chy;
abundant riches, luxury, vice, hypocrisy, poverty, starvation, and crime. Men literally fighting with each other =
for
the privilege of working for their bread, and little children crying with
hunger and cold and slowly perishing of want.
The gloomy shadows enshrouding the streets,
concealing for the time their grey and mournful air of poverty and hidden s=
uffering,
and the black masses of cloud gathering so menacingly in the tempestuous sk=
y,
seemed typical of the Nemesis which was overtaking the Capitalist System. That atrocious system which, having att=
ained
to the fullest measure of detestable injustice and cruelty, was now fast
crumbling into ruin, inevitably doomed to be overwhelmed because it was all=
so
wicked and abominable, inevitably doomed to sink under the blight and curse=
of
senseless and unprofitable selfishness out of existence for ever, its memory
universally execrated and abhorred.
But from these ruins was surely growing the
glorious fabric of the Co-operative Commonwealth. Mankind, awaking from the long night of
bondage and mourning and arising from the dust wherein they had lain prone =
so
long, were at last looking upward to the light that was riving asunder and
dissolving the dark clouds which had so long concealed from them the face of
heaven. The light that will shine =
upon
the world wide Fatherland and illumine the gilded domes and glittering
pinnacles of the beautiful cities of the future, where men shall dwell toge=
ther
in true brotherhood and goodwill and joy.
The Golden Light that will be diffused throughout all the happy world
from the rays of the risen sun of Socialism.
Mugsborough
Mugsb=
orough
was a town of about eighty thousand inhabitants, about two hundred miles fr=
om
London. It was built in a verdant
valley. Looking west, north or eas=
t from
the vicinity of the fountain on the Grand Parade in the centre of the town,=
one
saw a succession of pine-clad hills. To
the south, as far as the eye could see, stretched a vast, cultivated plain =
that
extended to the south coast, one hundred miles away. The climate was supposed to be cool in =
summer
and mild in winter.
The town proper nestled in the valley: to the
west, the most beautiful and sheltered part was the suburb of Irene: here w=
ere
the homes of the wealthy residents and prosperous tradespeople, and numerous
boarding-houses for the accommodation of well-to-do visitors. East, the town extended up the slope to=
the
top of the hill and down the other side to the suburb of Windley, where the
majority of the working classes lived.
Years ago, when the facilities for foreign tra=
vel
were fewer and more costly, Mugsborough was a favourite resort of the upper
classes, but of late years most of these patriots have adopted the practice=
of
going on the Continent to spend the money they obtain from the working peop=
le
of England. However, Mugsborough s=
till
retained some semblance of prosperity.
Summer or winter the place was usually fairly full of what were call=
ed
good-class visitors, either holidaymakers or invalids. The Grand Parade was generally crowded =
with well-dressed
people and carriages. The shops ap=
peared
to be well-patronized and at the time of our story an air of prosperity
pervaded the town. But this fair o=
utward
appearance was deceitful. The town=
was
really a vast whited sepulchre; for notwithstanding the natural advantages =
of
the place the majority of the inhabitants existed in a state of perpetual
poverty which in many cases bordered on destitution. One of the reasons for this was that a =
great
part of the incomes of the tradespeople and boarding-house-keepers and abou=
t a
third of the wages of the working classes were paid away as rent and rates.=
For years the Corporation had been borrowing m=
oney
for necessary public works and improvements, and as the indebtedness of the
town increased the rates rose in proportion, because the only works and
services undertaken by the Council were such as did not yield revenue. Every
public service capable of returning direct profit was in the hands of priva=
te
companies, and the shares of the private companies were in the hands of the
members of the Corporation, and the members of the Corporation were in the
hands of the four most able and intellectual of their number, Councillors
Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, each of whom was a director of one or
more of the numerous companies which battened on the town.
The Tramway Company, the Water Works Company, =
the
Public Baths Company, the Winter Gardens Company, the Grand Hotel Company a=
nd
numerous others. There was, howeve=
r, one
Company in which Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder had no shares, and th=
at
was the Gas Company, the oldest and most flourishing of them all. This institution had grown with the pla=
ce;
most of the original promoters were dead, and the greater number of the pre=
sent
shareholders were non-residents; although they lived on the town, they did =
not
live in it.
The profits made by this Company were so great
that, being prevented by law from paying a larger dividend than ten percent,
they frequently found it a difficult matter to decide what to do with the
money. They paid the Directors and
principal officials--themselves shareholders, of course--enormous
salaries. They built and furnished
costly and luxurious offices and gave the rest to the shareholders in the f=
orm
of Bonuses.
There was one way in which the Company might h=
ave
used some of the profits: it might have granted shorter hours and higher wa=
ges
to the workmen whose health was destroyed and whose lives were shortened by=
the
terrible labour of the retort-houses and the limesheds; but of course none =
of
the directors or shareholders ever thought of doing that. It was not the business of the Company =
to
concern itself about them.
Years ago, when it might have been done for a
comparatively small amount, some hare-brained Socialists suggested that the
town should buy the Gas Works, but the project was wrecked by the inhabitan=
ts,
upon whom the mere mention of the word Socialist had the same effect that t=
he
sight of a red rag is popularly supposed to have on a bull.
Of course, even now it was still possible to b=
uy
out the Company, but it was supposed that it would cost so much that it was
generally considered to be impracticable.
Although they declined to buy the Gas works, t=
he
people of Mugsborough had to buy the gas.
The amount paid by the municipality to the Company for the public
lighting of the town loomed large in the accounts of the Council. They managed to get some of their own b=
ack by
imposing a duty of two shillings a ton upon coals imported into the Borough,
but although it cost the Gas Works a lot of money for coal dues the Company=
in
its turn got its own back by increasing the price of gas they sold to the
inhabitants of the town...