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

And then I woke up to find my old woman

shouting out and punchin’ me with ‘er fists. She said I was pullin’

‘er ‘air!’

 

While the room was in an uproar with the merriment induced by these

stories, Crass rose from his seat and crossed over to where his

overcoat was hanging on a nail in the wall, and took from the pocket a

piece of card about eight inches by about four inches. One side of it

was covered with printing, and as he returned to his seat Crass called

upon the others to listen while he read it aloud. He said it was one

of the best things he had ever seen: it had been given to him by a

bloke in the Cricketers the other night.

 

Crass was not a very good reader, but he was able to read this all

right because he had read it so often that he almost knew it by heart.

It was entitled `The Art of Flatulence’, and it consisted of a number

of rules and definitions. Shouts of laughter greeted the reading of

each paragraph, and when he had ended, the piece of dirty card was

handed round for the benefit of those who wished to read it for

themselves. Several of the men, however, when it was offered to them,

refused to take it, and with evident disgust suggested that it should

be put into the fire. This view did not commend itself to Crass, who,

after the others had finished with it, put it back in the pocket of

his coat.

 

Meanwhile, Bundy stood up to help himself to some more tea. The cup he

was drinking from had a large piece broken out of one side and did not

hold much, so he usually had to have three or four helpings.

 

`Anyone else want any’ he asked.

 

Several cups and jars were passed to him. These vessels had been

standing on the floor, and the floor was very dirty and covered with

dust, so before dipping them into the pail, Bundy - who had been

working at the drains all morning - wiped the bottoms of the jars upon

his trousers, on the same place where he was in the habit of wiping

his hands when he happened to get some dirt on them. He filled the

jars so full that as he held them by the rims and passed them to their

owners part of the contents slopped over and trickled through his

fingers. By the time he had finished the floor was covered with

little pools of tea.

 

`They say that Gord made everything for some useful purpose,’ remarked

Harlow, reverting to the original subject, `but I should like to know

what the hell’s the use of sich things as bugs and fleas and the

like.’

 

`To teach people to keep theirselves clean, of course,’ said Slyme.

 

`That’s a funny subject, ain’t it?’ continued Harlow, ignoring Slyme’s

answer. `They say as all diseases is caused by little insects. If

Gord ‘adn’t made no cancer germs or consumption microbes there

wouldn’t be no cancer or consumption.’

 

`That’s one of the proofs that there ISN’T an individual God,’ said

Owen. `If we were to believe that the universe and everything that

lives was deliberately designed and created by God, then we must also

believe that He made his disease germs you are speaking of for the

purpose of torturing His other creatures.’

 

`You can’t tell me a bloody yarn like that,’ interposed Crass,

roughly. `There’s a Ruler over us, mate, and so you’re likely to find

out.’

 

`If Gord didn’t create the world, ‘ow did it come ‘ere?’ demanded

Slyme.

 

`I know no more about that than you do,’ replied Owen. `That is - I

know nothing. The only difference between us is that you THINK you

know. You think you know that God made the universe; how long it took

Him to do it; why He made it; how long it’s been in existence and how

it will finally pass away. You also imagine you know that we shall

live after we’re dead; where we shall go, and the kind of existence we

shall have. In fact, in the excess of your “humility”, you think you

know all about it. But really you know no more of these things than

any other human being does; that is, you know NOTHING.’

 

`That’s only YOUR opinion,’ said Slyme.

 

`If we care to take the trouble to learn,’ Owen went on, `we can know

a little of how the universe has grown and changed; but of the

beginning we know nothing,’

 

`That’s just my opinion, matey,’ observed Philpot. `It’s just a

bloody mystery, and that’s all about it.’

 

`I don’t pretend to ‘ave no ‘ead knowledge,’ said Slyme, `but ‘ead

knowledge won’t save a man’s soul: it’s ‘EART knowledge as does that.

I knows in my ‘eart as my sins is all hunder the Blood, and it’s

knowin’ that, wot’s given ‘appiness and the peace which passes all

understanding to me ever since I’ve been a Christian.’

 

`Glory, glory, hallelujah!’ shouted Bundy, and nearly everyone

laughed.

 

`“Christian” is right,’ sneered Owen. `You’ve got some title to call

yourself a Christian, haven’t you? As for the happiness that passes

all understanding, it certainly passes MY understanding how you can be

happy when you believe that millions of people are being tortured in

Hell; and it also passes my understanding why you are not ashamed of

yourself for being happy under such circumstances.’

 

`Ah, well, you’ll find it all out when you come to die, mate,’ replied

Slyme in a threatening tone. `You’ll think and talk different then!’

 

`That’s just wot gets over ME,’ observed Harlow. `It don’t seem

right that after living in misery and poverty all our bloody lives,

workin’ and slavin’ all the hours that Gord A’mighty sends, that we’re

to be bloody well set fire and burned in ‘ell for all eternity! It

don’t seem feasible to me, you know.’

 

`It’s my belief,’ said Philpot, profoundly, `that when you’re dead,

you’re done for. That’s the end of you.’

 

`That’s what I say,’ remarked Easton. `As for all this religious

business, it’s just a money-making dodge. It’s the parson’s trade,

just the same as painting is ours, only there’s no work attached to it

and the pay’s a bloody sight better than ours is.’

 

`It’s their livin’, and a bloody good livin’ too, if you ask me,’ said

Bundy.

 

`Yes,’ said Harlow; `they lives on the fat o’ the land, and wears the

best of everything, and they does nothing for it but talk a lot of

twaddle two or three times a week. The rest of the time they spend

cadgin’ money orf silly old women who thinks it’s a sorter fire

insurance.’

 

`It’s an old sayin’ and a true one,’ chimed in the man on the upturned

pail. `Parsons and publicans is the worst enemies the workin’ man

ever ‘ad. There may be SOME good ‘uns, but they’re few and far

between.’

 

`If I could only get a job like the Harchbishop of Canterbury,’ said

Philpot, solemnly, `I’d leave this firm.’

 

`So would I,’ said Harlow, `if I was the Harchbishop of Canterbury,

I’d take my pot and brushes down the office and shy ‘em through the

bloody winder and tell ole Misery to go to ‘ell.’

 

`Religion is a thing that don’t trouble ME much,’ remarked Newman;

`and as for what happens to you after death, it’s a thing I believe in

leavin’ till you comes to it - there’s no sense in meetin’ trouble

‘arfway. All the things they tells us may be true or they may not,

but it takes me all my time to look after THIS world. I don’t believe

I’ve been to church more than arf a dozen times since I’ve been

married - that’s over fifteen years ago now - and then it’s been when

the kids ‘ave been christened. The old woman goes sometimes and of

course the young ‘uns goes; you’ve got to tell ‘em something or other,

and they might as well learn what they teaches at the Sunday School as

anything else.’

 

A general murmur of approval greeted this. It seemed to be the almost

unanimous opinion, that, whether it were true or not, `religion’ was a

nice thing to teach children.

 

`I’ve not been even once since I was married,’ said Harlow, `and I

sometimes wish to Christ I ‘adn’t gorn then.’

 

`I don’t see as it matters a dam wot a man believes,’ said Philpot,

`as long as you don’t do no ‘arm to nobody. If you see a poor b—r

wot’s down on ‘is luck, give ‘im a ‘elpin’ ‘and. Even if you ain’t

got no money you can say a kind word. If a man does ‘is work and

looks arter ‘is ‘ome and ‘is young ‘uns, and does a good turn to a

fellow creature when ‘e can, I reckon ‘e stands as much chance of

getting into ‘eaven - if there IS sich a place - as some of there ‘ere

Bible-busters, whether ‘e ever goes to church or chapel or not.’

 

These sentiments were echoed by everyone with the solitary exception

of Slyme, who said that Philpot would find out his mistake after he

was dead, when he would have to stand before the Great White Throne

for judgement!

 

`And at the Last Day, when yer sees the moon turned inter Blood,

you’ll be cryin’ hout for the mountings and the rocks to fall on yer

and ‘ide yer from the wrath of the Lamb!’

 

The others laughed derisively.

 

`I’m a Bush Baptist meself,’ remarked the man on the upturned pail.

This individual, Dick Wantley by name, was of what is usually termed a

`rugged’ cast of countenance. He reminded one strongly of an ancient

gargoyle, or a dragon.

 

Most of the hands had by now lit their pipes, but there were a few who

preferred chewing their tobacco. As they smoked or chewed they

expectorated upon the floor or into the fire. Wantley was one of

those who preferred chewing and he had been spitting upon the floor to

such an extent that he was by this time partly surrounded by a kind of

semicircular moat of dark brown spittle.

 

`I’m a Bush Baptist!’ he shouted across the moat, `and you all knows

wot that is.’

 

This confession of faith caused a fresh outburst of hilarity, because

of course everyone knew what a Bush Baptist was.

 

`If ‘evven’s goin’ to be full of sich b—r’s as Hunter,’ observed

Eaton, `I think I’d rather go to the other place.’

 

`If ever ole Misery DOES get into ‘eaven,’ said Philpot, `‘e won’t

stop there very long. I reckon ‘e’ll be chucked out of it before ‘e’s

been there a week, because ‘e’s sure to start pinchin’ the jewels out

of the other saints’ crowns.’

 

`Well, if they won’t ‘ave ‘im in ‘eaven, I’m sure I don’t know wot’s

to become of ‘im,’ said Harlow with pretended concern, `because I

don’t believe ‘e’d be allowed into ‘ell, now.’

 

`Why not?’ demanded Bundy. `I should think it’s just the bloody place

for sich b—r’s as ‘im.’

 

`So it used to be at one time o’ day, but they’ve changed all that

now. They’ve ‘ad a revolution down there: deposed the Devil, elected

a parson as President, and started puttin’ the fire out.’

 

`From what I hears of it,’ continued Harlow when the laughter had

ceased, `‘ell is a bloody fine place to live in just now. There’s

underground railways and ‘lectric trams, and at the corner of nearly

every street there’s a sort of pub