Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (read novel full TXT) 📖
- Author: Robert Tressell
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strode out to the kitchen, where the men were preparing to go home.
Owen was taking off his blouse and apron as the other entered. Hunter
addressed him with a malevolent snarl:
`You can call at the office tonight as you go home.’
Owen’s heart seemed to stop beating. All the petty annoyances he had
endured from Hunter rushed into his memory, together with what Easton
had told him that morning. He stood, still and speechless, holding
his apron in his hand and staring at the manager.
`What for?’ he ejaculated at length. `What’s the matter?’
`You’ll find out what you’re wanted for when you get there,’ returned
Hunter as he went out of the room and away from the house.
When he was gone a dead silence prevailed. The hands ceased their
preparations for departure and looked at each other and at Owen in
astonishment. To stand a man off like that - when the job was not
half finished - and for no apparent reason: and of a Monday, too. It
was unheard of. There was a general chorus of indignation. Harlow
and Philpot especially were very wroth.
`If it comes to that,’ Harlow shouted, `they’ve got no bloody right to
do it! We’re entitled to an hour’s notice.’
`Of course we are!’ cried Philpot, his goggle eyes rolling wildly with
wrath. `And I should ‘ave it too, if it was me. You take my tip,
Frank: CHARGE UP TO SIX O’CLOCK on yer time sheet and get some of your
own back.’
Everyone joined in the outburst of indignant protest. Everyone, that
is, except Crass and Slyme. But then they were not exactly in the
kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, and
so it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged
significant looks.
Owen had by this time recovered his self-possession. He collected all
his tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag
with the purpose of taking them with him that night, but on reflection
he resolved not to do so. After all, it was not absolutely certain
that he was going to be `stood off’: possibly they were going to send
him on some other job.
They kept all together - some walking on the pavement and some in the
road - until they got down town, and then separated. Crass, Sawkins,
Bundy and Philpot adjourned to the `Cricketers’ for a drink, Newman
went on by himself, Slyme accompanied Easton who had arranged with him
to come that night to see the bedroom, and Owen went in the direction
of the office.
Hands and Brains
Rushton & Co.‘s premises were situated in one of the principal streets
of Mugsborough and consisted of a double-fronted shop with plate glass
windows. The shop extended right through to the narrow back street
which ran behind it. The front part of the shop was stocked with
wall-hangings, mouldings, stands showing patterns of embossed wall and
ceiling decorations, cases of brushes, tins of varnish and enamel, and
similar things.
The office was at the rear and was separated from the rest of the shop
by a partition, glazed with muranese obscured glass. This office had
two doors, one in the partition, giving access to the front shop, and
the other by the side of the window and opening on to the back street.
The glass of the lower sash of the back window consisted of one large
pane on which was painted `Rushton & Co.’ in black letters on a white
ground.
Owen stood outside this window for two or three seconds before
knocking. There was a bright light in the office. Then he knocked at
the door, which was at once opened from the inside by Hunter, and Owen
went in.
Rushton was seated in an armchair at his desk, smoking a cigar and
reading one of several letters that were lying before him. At the
back was a large unframed photograph of the size known as half-plate
of the interior of some building. At another desk, or rather table,
at the other side of the office, a young woman was sitting writing in
a large ledger. There was a typewriting machine on the table at her
side.
Rushton glanced up carelessly as Owen came in, but took no further
notice of him.
`Just wait a minute,’ Hunter said to Owen, and then, after conversing
in a low tone with Rushton for a few minutes, the foreman put on his
hat and went out of the office through the partition door which led
into the front shop.
Owen stood waiting for Rushton to speak. He wondered why Hunter had
sneaked off and felt inclined to open the door and call him back. One
thing he was determined about: he meant to have some explanation: he
would not submit tamely to be dismissed without any just reason.
When he had finished reading the letter, Rushton looked up, and,
leaning comfortably back in his chair, he blew a cloud of smoke from
his cigar, and said in an affable, indulgent tone, such as one might
use to a child:
`You’re a bit of a hartist, ain’t yer?’
Owen was so surprised at this reception that he was for the moment
unable to reply.
`You know what I mean,’ continued Rushton; `decorating work, something
like them samples of yours what’s hanging up there.’
He noticed the embarrassment of Owen’s manner, and was gratified. He
thought the man was confused at being spoken to by such a superior
person as himself.
Mr Rushton was about thirty-five years of age, with light grey eyes,
fair hair and moustache, and his complexion was a whitey drab. He was
tall - about five feet ten inches - and rather clumsily built; not
corpulent, but fat - in good condition. He appeared to be very well
fed and well cared for generally. His clothes were well made, of good
quality and fitted him perfectly. He was dressed in a grey Norfolk
suit, dark brown boots and knitted woollen stockings reaching to the
knee.
He was a man who took himself very seriously. There was an air of
pomposity and arrogant importance about him which - considering who
and what he was - would have been entertaining to any observer gifted
with a sense of humour.
`Yes,’ replied Owen at last. `I can do a little of that sort of work,
although of course I don’t profess to be able to do it as well or as
quickly as a man who does nothing else.’
`Oh, no, of course not, but I think you could manage this all right.
It’s that drawing-room at the `Cave’. Mr Sweater’s been speaking to
me about it. It seems that when he was over in Paris some time since
he saw a room that took his fancy. The walls and ceiling was not
papered, but painted: you know what I mean; sort of panelled out, and
decorated with stencils and hand painting. This ‘ere’s a photer of
it: it’s done in a sort of JAPANESE fashion.’
He handed the photograph to Owen as he spoke. It represented a room,
the walls and ceiling of which were decorated in a Moorish style.
`At first Mr Sweater thought of getting a firm from London to do it,
but ‘e gave up the idear on account of the expense; but if you can do
it so that it doesn’t cost too much, I think I can persuade ‘im to go
in for it. But if it’s goin’ to cost a lot it won’t come off at all.
‘E’ll just ‘ave a frieze put up and ‘ave the room papered in the
ordinary way.’
This was not true: Rushton said it in case Owen might want to be paid
extra wages while doing the work. The truth was that Sweater was
going to have the room decorated in any case, and intended to get a
London firm to do it. He had consented rather unwillingly to let
Rushton & Co. submit him an estimate, because he thought they would
not be able to do the work satisfactorily.
Owen examined the photograph closely.
`Could you do anything like that in that room?’
`Yes, I think so,’ replied Owen.
`Well, you know, I don’t want you to start on the job and not be able
to finish it. Can you do it or not?’
Rushton felt sure that Owen could do it, and was very desirous that he
should undertake it, but he did not want him to know that. He wished
to convey the impression that he was almost indifferent whether Owen
did the work or not. In fact, he wished to seem to be conferring a
favour upon him by procuring him such a nice job as this.
`I’ll tell you what I CAN do,’ Owen replied. `I can make you a
watercolour sketch - a design - and if you think it good enough, of
course, I can reproduce it on the ceiling and the walls, and I can let
you know, within a little, how long it will take.’
Rushton appeared to reflect. Owen stood examining the photograph and
began to feel an intense desire to do the work.
Rushton shook his head dubiously.
`If I let you spend a lot of time over the sketches and then Mr
Sweater does not approve of your design, where do I come in?’
`Well, suppose we put it like this: I’ll draw the design at home in
the evenings - in my own time. If it’s accepted, I’ll charge you for
the time I’ve spent upon it. If it’s not suitable, I won’t charge the
time at all.’
Rushton brightened up considerably. `All right. You can do so,’ he
said with an affectation of good nature, `but you mustn’t pile it on
too thick, in any case, you know, because, as I said before, ‘e don’t
want to spend too much money on it. In fact, if it’s going to cost a
great deal ‘e simply won’t ‘ave it done at all.’
Rushton knew Owen well enough to be sure that no consideration of time
or pains would prevent him from putting the very best that was in him
into this work. He knew that if the man did the room at all there was
no likelihood of his scamping it for the sake of getting it done
quickly; and for that matter Rushton did not wish him to hurry over
it. All that he wanted to do was to impress upon Owen from the very
first that he must not charge too much time. Any profit that it was
possible to make out of the work, Rushton meant to secure for himself.
He was a smart man, this Rushton, he possessed the ideal character:
the kind of character that is necessary for any man who wishes to
succeed in business - to get on in life. In other words, his
disposition was very similar to that of a pig - he was intensely
selfish.
No one had any right to condemn him for this, because all who live
under the present system practise selfishness, more or less. We must
be selfish: the System demands it. We must be selfish or we shall be
hungry and ragged and finally die in the gutter. The more selfish we
are the better off we shall be. In the `Battle of Life’ only the
selfish and cunning are able to survive: all others are beaten down
and trampled under foot. No one can justly be blamed for acting
selfishly - it is a matter of
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