Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (read novel full TXT) 📖

>breakfast. Whilst he was waiting for the foreman to shout `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.

 

The tune of `He’s a jolly good fellow’ was still 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 ‘ooray 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 with the foreman

for the lack of discipline on the job, he instructed him that Smith

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 him 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 know!

 

Easton - who was working at another job with Crass 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 the prospect of being out of work so soon he was far

happier than he had been for 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 found 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 blamed

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 that 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 called `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 inside 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 more 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 firm 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, referring 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 hour, 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 the 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 minutes before twelve,’

remarked Wantley.

 

Everyone agreed that it was a mystery.

 

At this moment the two truants returned, looking 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 unexpected 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 silent and reserved than before, as if he felt some regret

that he had spoken as he had on that occasion. Crass and his

disciples 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 bloody 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 down 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 before?’ inquired the man on

the pail, addressing Bundy.

 

`Only once, at the Beano,’ replied that 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 doors was

opened, so as to be sure to get a seat.’

 

`Yes, it’s a very good subject,’ said Crass, with a sneer. `I believe

most of the Labour Members in Parliament is well up in it.’

 

`And wot about the other members?’ demanded Philpot. `Seems to me as

if most of 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 it 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 benefit 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 work we’re paid to do, we

should bloody soon get the sack.’

 

Imperial Bankquet Hall

`The Refuge’

on Thursday at 12.30 prompt

 

Professor Barrington

WILL DELIVER A

 

ORATION

 

ENTITLED

 

THE GREAT SECRET, OR

HOW TO LIVE WITHOUT WORK

 

The Rev. Joe Philpot PLO

(Late absconding secretary 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

ARRANGED

And carried out according to the

Marquis of Queensbury’s Rules.

 

A Collection will be took up

in aid of the cost of printing

 

`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 should

be without ‘em! Talk about us keepin’ them! It seems to me more like

it that they keeps us! The likes of us lives 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 the money to

spend to ‘ave it done up, most of us would ‘ave bin out of work this

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 would 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 cause of poverty, because poverty consists in being short of the

necessaries of life: the necessaries of life