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

this hill was

liable to failure, so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of

making diagonal movements, crossing the road repeatedly from right to

left and left to right, after the fashion of a sailing ship tacking

against the wind, and halting about every twenty yards to rest and

take breath. The distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by

his powers of endurance as by the various objects by the wayside - the

lamp-posts, for instance. During each rest he used to look ahead and

select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next

stopping-place, and when he start again he used to make the most

strenuous and desperate efforts to reach it.

 

Generally the goal he selected was too distant, for he usually

overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to give in he

ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and

feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure.

 

On the present occasion, during one of these rests, it flashed upon

him that he was being a very long time: he would have to buck up or he

would get into a row: he was not even half-way up the road yet!

 

Selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to reach it before

resting again.

 

The cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece at the end, forming the

handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and, placing his

chest against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before him.

 

It seemed to get heavier and heavier every foot of the way. His whole

body, but especially the thighs and calves of his legs, pained

terribly, but still he strained and struggled and said to himself that

he would not give in until he reached the lamp-post.

 

Finding that the handle hurt his chest, he lowered it to his waist,

but that being even more painful he raised it again to his chest, and

struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart beating

wildly.

 

The cart became heavier and heavier. After a while it seemed to the

boy as if there were someone at the front of it trying to push him

back down the hill. This was such a funny idea that for a moment he

felt inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as soon as it

came and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold

out long enough to reach the lamp-post, after all. Clenching his

teeth, he made a tremendous effort and staggered forward two or three

more steps and then - the cart stopped. He struggled with it

despairingly for a few seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone

out of him: his legs felt so weak that he nearly collapsed on to the

ground, and the cart began to move backwards down the hill. He was

just able to stick to it and guide it so that it ran into and rested

against the kerb, and then he stood holding it in a half-dazed way,

very pale, saturated with perspiration, and trembling. His legs in

particular shook so much that he felt that unless he could sit down

for a little, he would FALL down.

 

He lowered the handle very carefully so as not to spill the whitewash

out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the cart, then,

sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wheel.

 

A little way down the road was a church with a clock in the tower. It

was five minutes to ten by this clock. Bert said to himself that when

it was ten he would make another start.

 

Whilst he was resting he thought of many things. Just behind that

church was a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with

other boys to catch effets. It if were not for the cart he would go

across now, to see whether there were any there still. He remembered

that he had been very eager to leave school and go to work, but they

used to be fine old times after all.

 

Then he thought of the day when his mother took him to Mr Rushton’s

office to `bind’ him. He remembered that day very vividly: it was

almost a year ago. How nervous he had been! His hand had trembled so

that he was scarcely able to hold the pen. And even when it was all

over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. His mother had been

very nervous in the office also, and when they got home she cried a

lot and called him her poor little fatherless boy, and said she hoped

he would be good and try to learn. And then he cried as well, and

promised her that he would do his best. He reflected with pride that

he was keeping his promise about being a good boy and trying to learn:

in fact, he knew a great deal about the trade already - he could paint

back doors as well as anybody! and railings as well. Owen had taught

him lots of things and had promised to do some patterns of graining

for him so that he might practise copying them at home in the

evenings. Owen was a fine chap. Bert resolved that he would tell him

what Crass had been saying to Easton. Just fancy, the cheek of a

rotter like Crass, trying to get Owen the sack! It would be more like

it if Crass was to be sacked himself, so that Owen could be the

foreman.

 

One minute to ten.

 

With a heavy heart Bert watched the clock. His legs were still aching

very badly. He could not see the hands of the clock moving, but they

were creeping on all the same. Now, the minute hand was over the edge

of the number, and he began to deliberate whether he might not rest

for another five minutes? But he had been such a long time already on

his errand that he dismissed the thought. The minute hand was now

upright and it was time to go on.

 

Just as he was about to get up a harsh voice behind him said:

 

`How much longer are you going to sit there?’

 

Bert started up guiltily, and found himself confronted by Mr Rushton,

who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst close by towered the

colossal figure of the obese Sweater, the expression on his greasy

countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such as

appalling example of juvenile depravity.

 

`What do you mean by sich conduct?’ demanded Rushton, indignantly.

`The idear of sitting there like that when most likely the men are

waiting for them things?’

 

Crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made no reply.

 

`You’ve been there a long time,’ continued Rushton, `I’ve been

watchin’ you all the time I’ve been comin’ down the road.’

 

Bert tried to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth

and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable

to articulate a single word.

 

`You know, that’s not the way to get on in life, my boy,’ observed

Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully.

 

`Get along with you at once!’ Rushton said, roughly. `I’m surprised

at yer! The idear! Sitting down in my time!’

 

This was quite true. Rushton was not merely angry, but astonished at

the audacity of the boy. That anyone in his employment should dare to

have the impertinence to sit down in his time was incredible.

 

The boy lifted the handle of the cart and once more began to push it

up the hill. It seemed heavier now that ever, but he managed to get

on somehow. He kept glancing back after Rushton and Sweater, who

presently turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran the cart

to the kerb again to have a breathe. He couldn’t have kept up much

further without a spell even if they had still been watching him, but

he didn’t rest for more than about half a minute this time, because he

was afraid they might be peeping round the corner at him.

 

After this he gave up the lamp-post system and halted for a minute or

so at regular short intervals. In this way, he at length reached the

top of the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that

the journey was practically over.

 

Just before he arrived at the gate of the house, he saw Hunter sneak

out and mount his bicycle and ride away. Bert wheeled his cart up to

the front door and began carrying in the things. Whilst thus engaged

he noticed Philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the

staircase, and called out to him:

 

`Give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash, will yer, Joe?’

 

`Certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagony,’ replied Philpot as

he hurried down the stairs.

 

As they were carrying it in Philpot winked at Bert and whispered:

 

`Did yer see Pontius Pilate anywheres outside?’

 

`‘E went away on ‘is bike just as I come in at the gate.’

 

`Did ‘e? Thank Gord for that! I don’t wish ‘im no ‘arm,’ said

Philpot, fervently, `but I ‘opes ‘e gets runned over with a motor.’

 

In this wish Bert entirely concurred, and similar charitable

sentiments were expressed by all the others as soon as they heard that

Misery was gone.

 

Just before four o’clock that afternoon Bert began to load up the

truck with the venetian blinds, which had been taken down some days

previously.

 

`I wonder who’ll have the job of paintin’ ‘em?’ remarked Philpot to

Newman.

 

`P’raps’s they’ll take a couple of us away from ere.’

 

`I shouldn’t think so. We’re short-‘anded ‘ere already. Most likely

they’ll put on a couple of fresh ‘ands. There’s a ‘ell of a lot of

work in all them blinds, you know: I reckon they’ll ‘ave to ‘ave there

or four coats, the state they’re in.’

 

`Yes. No doubt that’s what will be done,’ replied Newman, and added

with a mirthless laugh:

 

`I don’t suppose they’ll have much difficulty in getting a couple of

chaps.’

 

`No, you’re right, mate. There’s plenty of ‘em walkin’ about as a

week’s work would be a Gordsend to.’

 

`Come to think of it,’ continued Newman after a pause, `I believe the

firm used to give all their blind work to old Latham, the venetian

blind maker. Prap’s they’ll give ‘im this lot to do.’

 

`Very likely,’ replied Philpot, `I should think ‘e can do ‘em cheaper

even than us chaps, and that’s all the firm cares about,’

 

How far their conjectures were fulfilled will appear later.

 

Shortly after Bert was gone it became so dark that it was necessary to

light the candles, and Philpot remarked that although he hated working

under such conditions, yet he was always glad when lighting up time

came, because then knocking off time was not very far behind.

 

About five minutes to five, just as they were all putting their things

away for the night, Nimrod suddenly appeared in the house. He had

come hoping to find some of them ready dressed to go home before the

proper time. Having failed in this laudable enterprise, he stood

silently by himself for some seconds in the drawing-room. This was a

spacious and lofty apartment with a large semicircular bay window.

Round the ceiling was a deep cornice. In the semi-darkness the room

appeared to be of even greater proportions than it really was. After

standing thinking in this room