Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (read novel full TXT) 📖
- Author: Robert Tressell
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Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others,
peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then
he opened the door and went out into the street. Crass and the others
- through the window - watched him assist the Semidrunk to his feet
and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some
argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm.
Crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished
drinks.
`Why, old Joe ain’t drunk ‘ardly ‘arf of ‘is!’ cried Easton, seeing
Philpot’s porter on the counter. ‘Fancy going away like that!’
`More fool ‘im,’ growled Crass. `There was no need for it: the man’s
all right.’
The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with
his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot’s glass. He had just finished his
own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter
when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared.
`Hullo! What ‘ave you done with ‘im?’ inquired Crass.
`I think ‘e’ll be all right,’ replied Philpot. `He wouldn’t let me go
no further with ‘im: said if I didn’t go away, ‘e’d go for me! But I
believe ‘e’ll be all right. I think the fall sobered ‘im a bit.’
`Oh, ‘e’s all right,’ said Crass offhandedly. `There’s nothing the
matter with ‘im.’
Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding `good night’ to the Old
Dear, the landlady and the Besotted Wretch, they all set out for home.
As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the
hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the
wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field.
Just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly
observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in
front of them. It seemed to be a large animal of some kind and was
coming slowly and stealthily towards them.
They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness.
The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground,
groping about in search of a stone, and - with the exception of Crass,
who was too frightened to move - the others followed his example.
They found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature -
whatever it was - to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at
it. They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its
side and moaned as if in pain. Observing this, the four men advanced
cautiously towards it. Bundy struck a match and held it over the
prostrate figure. It was the Semidrunk.
After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all
right for some distance. As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to
some extent sobered him; but he had not gone very far before the drink
he had taken began to affect him again and he had fallen down.
Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands
and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong
direction. Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he
would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They
raised him up, and Philpot, exhorting him to `pull himself together’
inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be able to
tell them his address, which was fortunately at Windley, where they
all resided.
Bundy and Philpot took him home, separating from Crass and Easton at
the corner of the street where both the latter lived.
Crass felt very full and satisfied with himself. He had had six and a
half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections on the
polyphone at a total cost of one penny.
Easton had but a few yards to go before reaching his own house after
parting from Crass, but he paused directly he heard the latter’s door
close, and leaning against a street lamp yielded to the feeling of
giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way
home. All the inanimate objects around him seemed to be in motion.
The lights of the distant street lamps appeared to be floating about
the pavement and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a
troubled sea. He searched his pockets for his handkerchief and having
found it wiped his mouth, inwardly congratulating himself that Crass
was not there to see him. Resuming his walk, after a few minutes he
reached his own home. As he passed through, the gate closed of itself
after him, clanging loudly. He went rather unsteadily up the narrow
path that led to his front door and entered.
The baby was asleep in the cradle. Slyme had gone up to his own room,
and Ruth was sitting sewing by the fireside. The table was still set
for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea.
Easton lurched in noisily. `‘Ello, old girl!’ he cried, throwing his
dinner basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality
and resting his hands on the table to support himself. `I’ve come at
last, you see.’
Ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands fall into her lap, sat
looking at him. She had never seen him like this before. His face
was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips
tremulous and moist, and the ends of the hair of his fair moustache,
stuck together with saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily round
his mouth in damp clusters.
Perceiving that she did not speak or smile, Easton concluded that she
was angry and became grave himself.
`I’ve come at last, you see, my dear; better late than never.’
He found it very difficult to speak plainly, for his lips trembled and
refused to form the words.
`I don’t know so much about that,’ said Ruth, inclined to cry and
trying not to let him see the pity she could not help feeling for him.
`A nice state you’re in. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
Easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. `Don’t be angry, Ruth.
It’s no good, you know.’
He walked clumsily towards her, still leaning on the table to steady
himself.
`Don’t be angry,’ he mumbled as he stooped over her, putting his arm
round her neck and his face close to hers. `It’s no good being angry,
you know, dear.’
She shrank away, shuddering with involuntary disgust as he pressed his
wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. His fetid breath, foul
with the smell of tobacco and beer, and the odour of the stale tobacco
smoke that exuded from his clothes filled her with loathing. He
kissed her repeatedly and when at last he released her she hastily
wiped her face with her handkerchief and shivered.
Easton said he did not want any tea, and went upstairs to bed almost
immediately. Ruth did not want any tea either now, although she had
been very hungry before he came home. She sat up very late, sewing,
and when at length she did go upstairs she found him lying on his
back, partly undressed on the outside of the bedclothes, with his
mouth wide open, breathing stertorously.
The Forty Thieves. The Battle: Brigands versus Bandits
This is an even more unusually dull and uninteresting chapter, and
introduces several matters that may appear to have nothing to do with
the case. The reader is nevertheless entreated to peruse it, because
it contains certain information necessary to an understanding of this
history.
The town of Mugsborough was governed by a set of individuals called
the Municipal Council. Most of these `representatives of the people’
were well-to-do or retired tradesmen. In the opinion of the
inhabitants of Mugsborough, the fact that a man had succeeded in
accumulating money in business was a clear demonstration of his
fitness to be entrusted with the business of the town.
Consequently, when that very able and successful man of business Mr
George Rushton was put up for election to the Council he was returned
by a large majority of the votes of the working men who thought him an
ideal personage …
These Brigands did just as they pleased. No one ever interfered with
them. They never consulted the ratepayers in any way. Even at
election time they did not trouble to hold meetings: each one of them
just issued a kind of manifesto setting forth his many noble qualities
and calling upon the people for their votes: and the latter never
failed to respond. They elected the same old crew time after time …
The Brigands committed their depredations almost unhindered, for the
voters were engaged in the Battle of Life. Take the public park for
instance. Like so many swine around a trough - they were so busily
engaged in this battle that most of them had no time to go to the
park, or they might have noticed that there were not so many costly
plants there as there should have been. And if they had inquired
further they would have discovered that nearly all the members of the
Town Council had very fine gardens. There was reason for these
gardens being so grand, for the public park was systematically robbed
of its best to make them so.
There was a lake in the park where large numbers of ducks and geese
were kept at the ratepayers’ expense. In addition to the food
provided for these fowl with public money, visitors to the park used
to bring them bags of biscuits and bread crusts. When the ducks and
geese were nicely fattened the Brigands used to carry them off and
devour them at home. When they became tired of eating duck or goose,
some of the Councillors made arrangements with certain butchers and
traded away the birds for meat.
One of the most energetic members of the Band was Mr Jeremiah Didlum,
the house-furnisher, who did a large hire system trade. He had an
extensive stock of second-hand furniture that he had resumed
possession of when the unfortunate would-be purchasers failed to pay
the instalments regularly. Other of the second-hand things had been
purchased for a fraction of their real value at Sheriff’s sales or
from people whom misfortune or want of employment had reduced to the
necessity of selling their household possessions.
Another notable member of the Band was Mr Amos Grinder, who had
practically monopolized the greengrocery trade and now owned nearly
all the fruiterers’ shops in the town. As for the other shops, if
they did not buy their stocks from him - or, rather, the company of
which he was managing director and principal shareholder - if these
other fruiterers and greengrocers did not buy their stuff from his
company, he tried to smash them by opening branches in their
immediate neighbourhood and selling below cost. He was a self-made
man: an example of what may be accomplished by cunning and
selfishness.
Then there was the Chief of the Band - Mr Adam Sweater, the Mayor. He
was always the Chief, although he was not always Mayor, it being the
rule that the latter `honour’ should be enjoyed by all the members of
the Band in turn. A bright `honour’, forsooth! to be the first
citizen in a community composed for the most part of ignorant
semi-imbeciles, slaves, slave-drivers and psalm-singing hypocrites.
Mr Sweater was the managing director and principal shareholder of a
large drapery business
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