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

Chapter 8

The Cap on the Stairs

 

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 you, Frank,’ he said, `but

I thought I ought to let you know: you can take it from 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 work 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 offered 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 true enough,’ said Owen.

`Every time he comes here he tries to goad me into doing or saying

something that would give him an excuse to tell me to clear out. I

might have done it before now if I had not guessed what he was after,

and been on my guard.’

 

Meantime, Crass, in the kitchen, had resumed his seat by the fire with

the purpose of finishing his pipe of tobacco. Presently he took out

his pocketbook and began to write in it with a piece of blacklead

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 torn 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 day,

yer know.’

 

`I ain’t got much more to do now,’ said the boy. `Just this bit under

the bottom shelf and then I’m done.’

 

`Yes, and a bloody fine mess you’ve made, what I can see of it!’

growled Crass. `Look at all this water on the floor!’

 

Bert looked guiltily at the floor and turned very red.

 

`I’ll clean it all up’, he stammered. `As soon as I’ve got this bit

of wall done, 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 paint 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?’

continued 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

pocketbook, `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.

Just look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. I

don’t want you to make no mistakes.’

 

Bert took the paper and with some difficulty read as follows:

 

I pare steppes 8 foot

1/2 gallon Plastor off perish

1 pale off witewosh

12 lbs wite led

1/2 gallon Linsede Hoil

Do. Do. turps

 

`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 take 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

proceeded with his work.

 

Crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rather above middle height

and rather stout. He had a considerable quantity of curly black hair

and wore a short beard of the same colour. His head was rather large,

but low, and flat on top. When among his cronies he was in the habit

of referring to his obesity as the result of good nature and a

contented mind. Behind his back other people attributed it to beer,

some even going to far as to nickname him the `tank’.

 

There was no work of a noisy kind being done this morning. Both the

carpenters and the 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 they

spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. Now

and then Harlow’s voice rang through the house as he sang snatches of

music-hall songs or a verse of a Moody and Sankey hymn, and

occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupted

the singer with squeals and catcalls. Once or twice Crass was on the

point of telling them to make less row: 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 and the back door to get

rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. Then he shifted the pair of

steps noisily, 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 see whom it was, but at

the same time, if it were Nimrod, Crass wished to be discovered at

work. He therefore waited a little longer and presently he heard the

sound of voices upstairs but was unable to recognize them. He was

just 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 the 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 looked 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-looking 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 sealskin, 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 seemed 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

in he stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glittering silk hat on

his head. One gloved hand was thrust into the pocket of the overcoat

and in the other he carried a small Gladstone bag.

 

When Crass beheld this being, he touched his cap 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.’

 

`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 mouth.

 

`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 sure 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 round 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 only by

monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his

conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen.

 

Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman’s room and was

discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the

price of a little light refreshment.

 

`I think,’ he remarked, `that we oughter see-ise this ‘ere

tuneropperty to touch ‘im for an allowance.’

 

`We won’t git nothin’ out of ‘IM, mate,’ returned Newman. `‘E’s a

red-‘ot teetotaller.’

 

`That don’t matter. ‘Ow’s ‘e to know that we buys beer with it? We

might ‘ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all ‘e

knows!’

 

Mr Sweater now bgan 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