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

The `Sixty-five’

The next 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 bolts 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 none 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

road; Sawkins was at the helm, holding the end of the ladder and

steering; the others walked a little further ahead, at the sides of

the cart.

It was such hard work that by the time they were 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?’ remarked 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 something to do

with it.

`A “living” is right,’ said Barrington bitterly. He also was

exhausted with 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

possessed Philpot deprived him of all his usual jocularity and filled

him with melancholy 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 life.

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

other church, the one in the graveyard, where all those who were dear

to him had been one by one laid to rest. He felt that he would not be

sorry when the time came to join them there. Possibly, in the next

world - if there were 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?’ remarked 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 the donkeys are

quite strong enough for such a job as that.’

The `donkeys’ struggled on up the hill for about 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 case 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 donkey passed by pushing

another cart - or rather, holding it back, for he was coming 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 empty bottles and putrid rags, heaped loosely in the cart and

packed into a large sack. Old coats and trousers, dresses,

petticoats, and underclothing, 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