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

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, inflicting a severe scratch on Owen’s restraining

hands as it jumped to the floor.

 

It clambered up the tablecloth and began rushing all over the table,

darting madly from one plate to another, seeking something to eat.

 

The children screamed with delight. Their grandmother was filled with

a feeling 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, Owen caught hold of it

and, despite its struggles, lifted it off the table.

 

`I found it in the street as I was coming along,’ 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 admiringly.

 

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 doors 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 thinks I was gettin’ too much money. Work

is done so rough nowadays that chaps like Sawkins is good enough for

most of it. 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 Hunter

was there first. He passed me on his bike before I got half-way, so I

suppose he told his tale before I came. Anyway, when I started to

speak to Mr Rushton he wouldn’t listen. Said he couldn’t interfere

between Mr Hunter and the men.#

 

`Ah! They’re a bad lot, them two,’ said the old woman, shaking her

head sagely. `But it’ll all come ‘ome to ‘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 prospered 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 one 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. He careth for the widow and the

fatherless.’

 

Owen was very doubtful about this also. He had seen so many badly

cared-for children about the streets lately, and what he remembered of

his own sorrowful childhood 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:

 

`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 admiration of the two

children, who were sitting on the floor beside it. It was an

artful-looking kitten, all black, 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 little while if you give

us this kitten,’ said the boy, after a moment’s thought.

 

`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 Owen.

 

`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 outlive 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 that 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 kitten or his familiar or whatever it was, with

him. No good could come of his being there. Was it not written in the

Word: `If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema

Maran-atha.’ She did not know exactly 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 front 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 dome and pinnacles. It was a very beautiful

thing and must have cost many hours of patient labour.

 

`Yes,’ said the old woman, in a trembling, broken 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 up 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 only 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 suitable 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 ill: his face was very

thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

 

Possibly the Lord in His infinite loving kindness 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 John 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 asserted 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, as 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 beast hungry for its

prey.