Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (read novel full TXT) 📖
- Author: Robert Tressell
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- you help to perpetuate it!’
`‘Ow do I help to perpetuate it?’ demanded Easton.
`By not trying to find out how to end it - by not helping those who
are trying to bring a better state of things into existence. Even if
you are indifferent to your own fate - as you seem to be - you have no
right to be indifferent to that of the child for whose existence in
this world you are responsible. Every man who is not helping to bring
about a better state of affairs for the future is helping to perpetuate
the present misery, and is therefore the enemy of his own children.
There is no such thing as being natural: we must either help or
hinder.’
As Owen opened the door to paint its edge, Bert came along the
passage.
`Look out!’ he cried, `Misery’s comin’ up the road. ‘E’ll be ‘ere in
a minit.’
It was not often that Easton was glad to hear of the approach of
Nimrod, but on this occasion he heard Bert’s message with a sigh of
relief.
`I say,’ added the boy in a whisper to Owen, `if it comes orf - I mean
if you gets the job to do this room - will you ask to ‘ave me along of
you?’
`Yes, all right, sonny,’ replied Owen, and Bert went off to warn the
others.
`Unaware that he had been observed, Nimrod sneaked stealthily into the
house and began softly crawling about from room to room, peeping
around corners and squinting through the cracks of doors, and looking
through keyholes. He was almost pleased to see that everybody was
very hard at work, but on going into Newman’s room Misery was not
satisfied with the progress made since his last visit. The fact was
that Newman had been forgetting himself again this morning. He had
been taking a little pains with the work, doing it something like
properly, instead of scamping and rushing it in the usual way. The
result was that he had not done enough.
`You know, Newman, this kind of thing won’t do!’ Nimrod howled. `You
must get over a bit more than this or you won’t suit me! If you can’t
move yourself a bit quicker I shall ‘ave to get someone else. You’ve
been in this room since seven o’clock this morning and it’s dam near
time you was out of it!’
Newman muttered something about being nearly finished now, and Hunter
ascended to the next landing - the attics, where the cheap man -
Sawkins, the labourer - was at work. Harlow had been taken away from
the attics to go on with some of the better work, so Sawkins was now
working alone. He had been slogging into it like a Trojan and had
done quite a lot. He had painted not only the sashes of the window,
but also a large part of the glass, and when doing the skirting he had
included part of the floor, sometimes an inch, sometimes half an inch.
The paint was of a dark drab colour and the surface of the newly
painted doors bore a strong resemblance to corduroy cloth, and from
the bottom corners of nearly every panel there was trickling down a
large tear, as if the doors were weeping for the degenerate condition
of the decorative arts. But these tears caused to throb of pity in
the bosom of Misery: neither did the corduroy-like surface of the work
grate upon his feelings. He perceived them not. He saw only that
there was a Lot of Work done and his soul was filled with rapture as
he reflected that the man who had accomplished all this was paid only
fivepence an hour. At the same time it would never do to let Sawkins
know that he was satisfied with the progress made, so he said:
`I don’t want you to stand too much over this up ‘ere, you know,
Sawkins. Just mop it over anyhow, and get away from it as quick as
you can.’
`All right, sir,’ replied Sawkins, wiping the sweat from his brow as
Misery began crawling downstairs again.
`Where’s Harlow go to, then?’ he demanded of Philpot. `‘E wasn’t ‘ere
just now, when I came up.’
`‘E’s gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,’ replied Joe, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. `‘E’ll be back in ‘arf
a mo.’ And indeed at that moment Harlow was just coming upstairs
again.
`‘Ere, we can’t allow this kind of thing in workin’ hours, you know.’
Hunter bellowed. `There’s plenty of time for that in the dinner
hour!’
Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which Easton and Owen had
been painting. He stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally
comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with
that done by Sawkins in the attics. Misery was not a painter himself:
he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the
quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain
painting.
`I believe it would pay us a great deal better,’ he thought to
himself, `if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like
Sawkins.’ And with his mind filled with this reflection he shortly
afterwards sneaked stealthily from the house.
Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence
Owen spent the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the
drawing-room making pencil sketches in his pocketbook and taking
measurements. In the evening after leaving off, instead of going
straight home as usual he went round to the Free Library to see if he
could find anything concerning Moorish decorative work in any of the
books there. Although it was only a small and ill-equipped
institution he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations of
several examples of which he made sketches. After about an hour spent
this way, as he was proceeding homewards he observed two children - a
boy and a girl - whose appearance seemed familiar. They were standing
at the window of a sweetstuff shop examining the wares exposed
therein. As Owen came up the children turned round and the recognized
each other simultaneously. They were Charley and Elsie Linden. Owen
spoke to them as he drew near and the boy appealed to him for his
opinion concerning a dispute they had been having.
`I say, mister. Which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of
everlasting stickjaw torfee, or a prize packet?’
`I’d rather have a prize packet,’ replied Owen, unhesitatingly.
`There! I told you so!’ cried Elsie, triumphantly.
`Well, I don’t care. I’d sooner ‘ave the torfee,’ said Charley,
doggedly.
`Why, can’t you agree which of the two to buy?’
`Oh no, it’s not that,’ replied Elsie. `We was only just SUPPOSING
what we’d buy if we ‘ad a fardin; but we’re not really goin’ to buy
nothing, because we ain’t got no money.’
`Oh, I see,’ said Owen. `But I think I have some money,’ and
putting his hand into his pocket he produced two halfpennies and gave
one to each of the children, who immediately went in to buy the toffee
and the prize packet, and when they came out he walked along with
them, as they were going in the same direction as he was: indeed, they
would have to pass by his house.
`Has your grandfather got anything to do yet?’ he inquired as they
went along.
`No. ‘E’s still walkin’ about, mister,’ replied Charley.
When they reached Owen’s door he invited them to come up to see the
kitten, which they had been inquiring about on the way. Frankie was
delighted with these two visitors, and whilst they were eating some
home-made cakes that Nora gave them, he entertained them by displaying
the contents of his toy box, and the antics of the kitten, which was
the best toy of all, for it invented new games all the time: acrobatic
performances on the rails of chairs; curtain climbing; running slides
up and down the oilcloth; hiding and peeping round corners and under
the sofa. The kitten cut so many comical capers, and in a little
while the children began to create such an uproar, that Nora had to
interfere lest the people in the flat underneath should be annoyed.
However, Elsie and Charley were not able to stay very long, because
their mother would be anxious about them, but they promised to come
again some other day to play with Frankie.
`I’m going to ‘ave a prize next Sunday at our Sunday School,’ said
Elsie as they were leaving.
`What are you going to get it for?’ asked Nora.
`‘Cause I learned my text properly. I had to learn the whole of the
first chapter of Matthew by heart and I never made one single mistake!
So teacher said she’d give me a nice book next Sunday.’
`I ‘ad one too, the other week, about six months ago, didn’t I,
Elsie?’ said Charley.
`Yes,’ replied Elsie and added: `Do they give prizes at your Sunday
School, Frankie?’
`I don’t go to Sunday School.’
`Ain’t you never been?’ said Charley in a tone of surprise.
`No,’ replied Frankie. `Dad says I have quite enough of school all
the week.’
`You ought to come to ours, man!’ urged Charley. `It’s not like being
in school at all! And we ‘as a treat in the summer, and prizes and
sometimes a magic lantern ‘tainment. It ain’t ‘arf all right, I can
tell you.’
Frankie looked inquiringly at his mother.
`Might I go, Mum?’
`Yes, if you like, dear.’
`But I don’t know the way.’
`Oh, it’s not far from ‘ere,’ cried Charley. `We ‘as to pass by your
‘ouse when we’re goin’, so I’ll call for you on Sunday if you like.’
`It’s only just round in Duke Street; you know, the “Shining Light
Chapel”,’ said Elsie. `It commences at three o’clock.’
`All right,’ said Nora. `I’ll have Frankie ready at a quarter to
three. But now you must run home as fast as you can. Did you like
those cakes?’
`Yes, thank you very much,’ answered Elsie.
`Not ‘arf!’ said Charley.
`Does your mother make cakes for you sometimes?’
`She used to, but she’s too busy now, making blouses and one thing and
another,’ Elsie answered.
`I suppose she hasn’t much time for cooking,’ said Nora, `so I’ve
wrapped up some more of those cakes in this parcel for you to take
home for tomorrow. I think you can manage to carry it all right,
can’t you, Charley?’
`I think I’d better carry it myself,’ said Elsie. `Charley’s SO
careless, he’s sure to lose some of them.’
`I ain’t no more careless than you are,’ cried Charley, indignantly.
`What about the time you dropped the quarter of butter you was sent
for in the mud?’
`That wasn’t carelessness: that was an accident, and it wasn’t butter
at all: it was margarine, so there!’
Eventually it was arranged that they were to carry the parcel in
turns, Elsie to have first innings. Frankie went downstairs to the
front door with them to see them off, and as they went down the street
he shouted after them:
`Mind you remember, next Sunday!’
`All right,’ Charley shouted back. `We shan’t forget.’
On Thursday Owen stayed at home until after breakfast to finish the
designs which he had promised to have ready that morning.
When he took them to the office at nine
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