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

wouldn’t melt

in ‘is mouth.’

 

`Seemed quite pleased with ‘isself, didn’t ‘e?’ said Harlow.

 

`Yes,’ remarked Newman. `‘E said good morning to me!’

 

`So ‘e did to me!’ said Easton. `‘E come inter the drorin’-room an’

‘e ses, “Oh, you’re in ‘ere are yer, Easton,” ‘e ses - just like that,

quite affable like. So I ses, “Yes, sir.” “Well,” ‘e ses, “get it

slobbered over as quick as you can,” ‘e ses, “‘cos we ain’t got much

for this job: don’t spend a lot of time puttying up. Just smear it

over an’ let it go!”’

 

`‘E certinly seemed very pleased about something,’ said Harlow. `I

thought prap’s there was a undertaking job in: one o’ them generally

puts ‘im in a good humour.’

 

`I believe that nothing would please ‘im so much as to see a epidemic

break out,’ remarked Philpot. `Small-pox, Hinfluenza, Cholery morbus,

or anything like that.’

 

`Yes: don’t you remember ‘ow good-tempered ‘e was last summer when

there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?’ observed Harlow.

 

`Yes,’ said Crass with a chuckle. `I recollect we ‘ad six children’s

funerals to do in one week. Ole Misery was as pleased as Punch,

because of course as a rule there ain’t many boxin’-up jobs in the

summer. It’s in winter as hundertakers reaps their ‘arvest.’

 

`We ain’t ‘ad very many this winter, though, so far,’ said Harlow.

 

`Not so many as usual,’ admitted Crass, `but still, we can’t grumble:

we’ve ‘ad one nearly every week since the beginning of October.

That’s not so bad, you know.’

 

Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of Rushton

& Co.‘s business. He always had the job of polishing or varnishing

the coffin and assisting to take it home and to `lift in’ the corpse,

besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. This work was

more highly paid for than painting.

 

`But I don’t think there’s no funeral job in,’ added Crass after a

pause. `I think it’s because ‘e’s glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh

ask me.’

 

`Praps that ‘as got something to do with it,’ said Harlow. `But all

the same I don’t call that a proper way to treat anyone - givin’ a man

the push in that way just because ‘e ‘appened to ‘ave a spite against

‘im.’

 

`It’s wot I call a bl—dy shame!’ cried Philpot. `Owen’s a chap wots

always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and ‘e knows ‘is work,

although ‘e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when ‘e

gets on about Socialism.’

 

`I suppose Misery didn’t say nothin’ about ‘im this mornin’?’ inquired

Easton.

 

`No,’ replied Crass, and added: `I only ‘ope Owen don’t think as I

never said anything against ‘im. ‘E looked at me very funny that

night after Nimrod went away. Owen needn’t think nothing like that

about ME, because I’m a chap like this - if I couldn’t do nobody no

good, I wouldn’t never do ‘em no ‘arm!’

 

At this some of the others furtively exchanged significant glances,

and Harlow began to smile, but no one said anything.

 

Philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not helped himself to any tea,

called Bert’s attention to the fact and the boy filled Owen’s cup and

passed it over to the new hand.

 

Their conjectures regarding the cause of Hunter’s good humour were all

wrong. As the reader knows, Owen had not been discharged at all, and

there was nobody dead. The real reason was that, having decided to

take on another man, Hunter had experienced no difficulty in getting

one at the same reduced rate as that which Newman was working for,

there being such numbers of men out of employment. Hitherto the usual

rate of pay in Mugsborough had been sevenpence an hour for skilled

painters. The reader will remember that Newman consented to accept a

job at sixpence halfpenny. So far none of the other workmen knew that

Newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure

whether he was the only one or not. The man whom Hunter had taken on

that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep his own

counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out what

the others were getting.

 

Just before half past eight Owen arrived and was immediately assailed

with questions as to what had transpired at the office. Crass

listened with ill-concealed chagrin to Owen’s account, but most of the

others were genuinely pleased.

 

`But what a way to speak to anybody!’ observed Harlow, referring to

Hunter’s manner on the previous Monday night.

 

`You know, I reckon if ole Misery ‘ad four legs, ‘e’d make a very good

pig,’ said Philpot, solemnly, `and you can’t expect nothin’ from a pig

but a grunt.’

 

During the morning, as Easton and Owen were working together in the

drawing-room, the former remarked:

 

`Did I tell you I had a room I wanted to let, Frank?’

 

`Yes, I think you did.’

 

`Well, I’ve let it to Slyme. I think he seems a very decent sort of

chap, don’t you?’

 

`Yes, I suppose he is,’ replied Owen, hesitatingly. `I know nothing

against him.’

 

`Of course, we’d rather ‘ave the ‘ouse to ourselves if we could afford

it, but work is so scarce lately. I’ve been figuring out exactly what

my money has averaged for the last twelve months and how much a week

do you think it comes to?’

 

`God only knows,’ said Owen. `How much?’

 

`About eighteen bob.’

 

`So you see we had to do something,’ continued Easton; `and I reckon

we’re lucky to get a respectable sort of chap like Slyme, religious

and teetotal and all that, you know. Don’t you think so?’

 

`Yes, I suppose you are,’ said Owen, who, although he intensely

disliked Slyme, knew nothing definite against him.

 

They worked in silence for some time, and then Owen said:

 

`At the present time there are thousands of people so badly off that,

compared with them, WE are RICH. Their sufferings are so great that

compared with them, we may be said to be living in luxury. You know

that, don’t you?’

 

`Yes, that’s true enough, mate. We really ought to be very thankful:

we ought to consider ourselves lucky to ‘ave a inside job like this

when there’s such a lot of chaps walkin’ about doin’ nothing.’

 

`Yes,’ said Owen: `we’re lucky! Although we’re in a condition of

abject, miserable poverty we must consider ourselves lucky that we’re

not actually starving.’

 

Owen was painting the door; Easton was doing the skirting. This work

caused no noise, so they were able to converse without difficulty.

 

`Do you think it’s right for us to tamely make up our minds to live

for the rest of our lives under such conditions as that?’

 

`No; certainly not,’ replied Easton; `but things are sure to get

better presently. Trade hasn’t always been as bad as it is now. Why,

you can remember as well as I can a few years ago there was so much

work that we was putting in fourteen and sixteen hours a day. I used

to be so done up by the end of the week that I used to stay in bed

nearly all day on Sunday.’

 

`But don’t you think it’s worth while trying to find out whether it’s

possible to so arrange things that we may be able to live like

civilized human beings without being alternately worked to death or

starved?’

 

`I don’t see how we’re goin’ to alter things,’ answered Easton. `At

the present time, from what I hear, work is scarce everywhere. WE

can’t MAKE work, can we?’

 

`Do you think, then, that the affairs of the world are something like

the wind or the weather - altogether beyond our control? And that if

they’re bad we can do nothing but just sit down and wait for them to

get better?’

 

`Well, I don’t see ‘ow we can odds it. If the people wot’s got the

money won’t spend it, the likes of me and you can’t make ‘em, can we?’

 

Owen looked curiously at Easton.

 

`I suppose you’re about twenty-six now,’ he said. `That means that

you have about another thirty years to live. Of course, if you had

proper food and clothes and hadn’t to work more than a reasonable

number of hours every day, there is no natural reason why you should

not live for another fifty or sixty years: but we’ll say thirty. Do

you mean to say that you are able to contemplate with indifference the

prospect of living for another thirty years under such conditions as

those we endure at present?’

 

Easton made no reply.

 

`If you were to commit some serious breach of the law, and were

sentenced next week to ten years’ penal servitude, you’d probably

think your fate a very pitiable one: yet you appear to submit quite

cheerfully to this other sentence, which is - that you shall die a

premature death after you have done another thirty years’ hard

labour.’

 

Easton continued painting the skirting.

 

`When there’s no work,’ Owen went on, taking another dip of paint as

he spoke and starting on one of the lower panels of the door, `when

there’s no work, you will either starve or get into debt. When - as

at present - there is a little work, you will live in a state of

semi-starvation. When times are what you call “good”, you will work

for twelve or fourteen hours a day and - if you’re VERY lucky -

occasionally all night. The extra money you then earn will go to pay

your debts so that you may be able to get credit again when there’s no

work.’

 

Easton put some putty in a crack in the skirting.

 

`In consequence of living in this manner, you will die at least twenty

years sooner than is natural, or, should you have an unusually strong

constitution and live after you cease to be able to work, you will be

put into a kind of jail and treated like a criminal for the remainder

of your life.’

 

Having faced up the cracks, Easton resumed the painting of the

skirting.

 

`If it were proposed to make a law that all working men and women were

to be put to death - smothered, or hung, or poisoned, or put into a

lethal chamber - as soon as they reached the age of fifty years, there

is not the slightest doubt that you would join in the uproar of

protest that would ensue. Yet you submit tamely to have your life

shortened by slow starvation, overwork, lack of proper boots and

clothing, and though having often to turn out and go to work when you

are so ill that you ought to be in bed receiving medical care.’

 

Easton made no reply: he knew that all this was true, but he was not

without a large share of the false pride which prompts us to hide our

poverty and to pretend that we are much better off than we really are.

He was at that moment wearing the pair of second-hand boots that Ruth

had bought for him, but he had told Harlow - who had passed some

remark about them - that he had had them for years, wearing them only

for best. He felt very resentful as he listened to the other’s talk,

and Owen perceived it, but nevertheless he continued:

 

`Unless the present system is altered, that is all we have to look

forward to; and yet you’re