Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (read novel full TXT) 📖
- Author: Robert Tressell
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some pretext for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small
quantities at different shops until one had sufficient. Then he
remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the
colours he frequently had to use in his work, was one of the most
deadly poisons: and there was some other stuff that photographers
used, which was very easy to procure. Of course, one would have to be
very careful about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a
lot of pain. It would be necessary to find out exactly how the stuff
acted before using it. It would not be very difficult to do so. Then
he remembered that among his books was one that probably contained
some information about this subject. He went over to the book-shelf
and presently found the volume; it was called The Cyclopedia of
Practical Medicine, rather an old book, a little out of date, perhaps,
but still it might contain the information he wanted. Opening it, he
turned to the table of contents. Many different subjects were
mentioned there and presently he found the one he sought:
Poisons: chemically, physiologically and pathologically considered.
Corrosive Poisons.
Narcotic Poisons.
Slow Poisons.
Consecutive Poisons.
Accumulative Poisons.
He turned to the chapter indicated and, reading it, he was astonished
to find what a number of poisons there were within easy reach of
whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied upon
to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. Why, it was not
even necessary to buy them: one could gather them from the hedges by
the road side and in the fields.
The more he thought of it the stranger it seemed that such a clumsy
method as a razor should be so popular. Why almost any other way
would be better and easier than that. Strangulation or even hanging,
though the latter method could scarcely be adopted in that house,
because there were no beams or rafters or anything from which it would
be possible to suspend a cord. Still, he could drive some large nails
or hooks into one of the walls. For that matter, there were already
some clothes-hooks on some of the doors. He began to think that this
would be an even more excellent way than poison or charcoal; he could
easily pretend to Frankie that he was going to show him some new kind
of play.
He could arrange the cord on the hook on one of the doors and then
under pretence of play, it would be done. The boy would offer no
resistance, and in a few minutes it would all be over.
He threw down the book and pressed his hands over his ears: he fancied
he could hear the boy’s hands and feet beating against the panels of
the door as he struggled in his death agony.
Then, as his arms fell nervelessly by his side again, he thought that
he heard Frankie’s voice calling.
`Dad! Dad!’
Owen hastily opened the door.
`Are you calling, Frankie?’
`Yes. I’ve been calling you quite a long time.’
`What do you want?’
`I want you to come here. I want to tell you something.’
`Well, what is it dear? I thought you were asleep a long time ago,’
said Owen as he came into the room.
`That’s just what I want to speak to you about: the kitten’s gone to
sleep all right, but I can’t go. I’ve tried all different ways,
counting and all, but it’s no use, so I thought I’d ask you if you’d
mind coming and staying with me, and letting me hold you hand for a
little while and the p’raps I could go.’
The boy twined his arms round Owen’s neck and hugged him very tightly.
`Oh, Dad, I love you so much!’ he said. `I love you so much, I could
squeeze you to death.’
`I’m afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tightly as that.’
The boy laughed softly as he relaxed his hold. `That WOULD be a funny
way of showing you how much I love you, wouldn’t it, Dad? Squeezing
you to death!’
`Yes, I suppose it would,’ replied Owen huskily, as he tucked the
bedclothes round the child’s shoulders. `But don’t talk any more,
dear; just hold my hand and try to sleep.’
`All right,’ said Frankie.
Lying there very quietly, holding his father’s hand and occasionally
kissing it, the child presently fell asleep. Then Owen got up very
gently and, having taken the kitten out of the bed again and arranged
the bedclothes, he softly kissed the boy’s forehead and returned to
the other room.
Looking about for a suitable place for the kitten to sleep in, he
noticed Frankie’s toy box, and having emptied the toys on to the floor
in a corner of the room, he made a bed in the box with some rags and
placed it on its side on the hearthrug, facing the fire, and with some
difficulty persuaded the kitten to lie in it. Then, having placed the
chairs on which his clothes were drying at a safe distance from the
fire, he went into the bedroom. Nora was still awake.
`Are you feeling any better, dear?’ he said.
`Yes, I’m ever so much better since I’ve been in bed, but I can’t help
worrying about your clothes. I’m afraid they’ll never be dry enough
for you to put on the first thing in the morning. Couldn’t you stay
at home till after breakfast, just for once?’
`No; I mustn’t do that. If I did Hunter would probably tell me to
stay away altogether. I believe he would be glad of an excuse to get
rid of another full-price man just now.’
`But if it’s raining like this in the morning, you’ll be wet through
before you get there.’
`It’s no good worrying about that dear: besides, I can wear this old
coat that I have no now, over the other.’
`And if you wrap your old shoes in some paper, and take them with you,
you can take off your wet boots as soon as you get to the place.’
`Yes, all right,’ responded Owen. `Besides,’ he added, reassuringly,
`even if I do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you
know.’
`Well, I hope the weather will be a little better than this in the
morning,’ said Nora. `Isn’t it a dreadful night! I keep feeling
afraid that the house is going to be blown down.’
Long after Nora was asleep, Owen lay listening to the howling of the
wind and the noise of the rain as it poured heavily on the roof …
The Exterminating Machines
`Come on, Saturday!’ shouted Philpot, just after seven o’clock one
Monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work.
It was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by
the flickering light of two candles which Crass had lighted and stuck
on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve
out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men.
`Yes, it do seem a ‘ell of a long week, don’t it?’ remarked Harlow as
he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and
blouse. `I’ve ‘ad bloody near enough of it already.’
`Wish to Christ it was breakfast-time,’ growled the more easily
satisfied Easton.
Extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their
work: they did not `love’ it. They had no conception of that lofty
ideal of `work for work’s sake’, which is so popular with the people
who do nothing. On the contrary, when the workers arrived in the
morning they wished it was breakfast-time. When they resumed work
after breakfast they wished it was dinner-time. After dinner they
wished it was one o’clock on Saturday.
So they went on, day after day, year after year, wishing their time
was over and, without realizing it, really wishing that they were
dead.
How extraordinary this must appear to those idealists who believe in
`work for work’s sake’, but who themselves do nothing but devour or
use and enjoy or waste the things that are produced by the labour of
those others who are not themselves permitted to enjoy a fair share of
the good things they help to create?
Crass poured several lots of colour into several pots.
`Harlow,’ he said, `you and Sawkins, when he comes, can go up and do
the top bedrooms out with this colour. You’ll find a couple of
candles up there. It’s only goin’ to ‘ave one coat, so see that you
make it cover all right, and just look after Sawkins a bit so as ‘e
doesn’t make a bloody mess of it. You do the doors and windows, and
let ‘im do the cupboards and skirtings.’
`That’s a bit of all right, I must say,’ Harlow said, addressing the
company generally. `We’ve got to teach a b—r like ‘im so as ‘e can
do us out of a job presently by working under price.’
`Well, I can’t ‘elp it,’ growled Crass. `You know ‘ow it is: `Unter
sends ‘im ‘ere to do paintin’, and I’ve got to put ‘im on it. There
ain’t nothing else for ‘im to do.’
Further discussion on this subject was prevented by Sawkins’ arrival,
nearly a quarter of an hour late.
`Oh, you ‘ave come, then,’ sneered Crass. `Thought p’raps you’d gorn
for a ‘oliday.’
Sawkins muttered something about oversleeping himself, and having
hastily put on his apron, he went upstairs with Harlow.
`Now, let’s see,’ Crass said, addressing Philpot. `You and Newman ‘ad
better go and make a start on the second floor: this is the colour,
and ‘ere’s a couple of candles. You’d better not both go in one room
or ‘Unter will growl about it. You take one of the front and let
Newman take one of the back rooms. Take a bit of stoppin’ with you:
they’re goin’ to ‘ave two coats, but you’d better putty up the ‘oles as
well as you can, this time.’
`Only two coats!’ said Philpot. `Them rooms will never look nothing
with two coats - a light colour like this.’
`It’s only goin’ to get two, anyway,’ returned Crass, testily.
`‘Unter said so, so you’ll ‘ave to do the best you can with ‘em, and
get ‘em smeared over middlin’ sudden, too.’
Crass did not think it necessary to mention that according to the copy
of the specification of the work which he had in his pocket the rooms
in question were supposed to have four coats.
Crass now turned to Owen.
`There’s that drorin’-room,’ he said. `I don’t know what’s goin’ to
be done with that yet. I don’t think they’ve decided about it.
Whatever’s to be done to it will be an extra, because all that’s said
about it in the contract is to face it up with putty and give it one
coat of white. So you and Easton ‘ad better get on with it.’
Slyme was busy softening some putty by rubbing and squeezing it
between his hands.
`I suppose I’d better finish the room I started on on Saturday?’ he
asked.
`All right,’ replied Crass. `Have you got enough colour?’
`Yes,’ said Slyme.
As he passed through the kitchen on the way to his work, Slyme
accosted Bert, the boy, who was engaged in lighting, with some pieces
of wood, a fire to boil the water to make the
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