Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕
Another answer is that `The Philanthropists' is not a treatise oressay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story fullof human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, thesubject of Socialism being treated incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded isfor others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses atleast one merit - that of being true. I have invented nothing. Thereare no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not eitherwitnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared Ilet th
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enough to attempt to land their forces on our shores. But they would
now be able to starve us all to death in a month if it were not for
the Navy. It’s a sensible and creditable position, isn’t it?’
concluded Barrington. `Even in times of peace, thousands of people
standing idle and tamely starving in their own fertile country,
because a few land “Lords” forbid them to cultivate it.’
`Is there any more questions?’ demanded Philpot, breaking a prolonged
silence.
`Would any Liberal or Tory capitalist like to get up into the pulpit
and oppose the speaker?’ the chairman went on, finding that no one
responded to his appeal for questions.
The silence continued.
`As there’s no more questions and no one won’t get up into the pulpit,
it is now my painful duty to call upon someone to move a resolution.’
`Well, Mr Chairman,’ said Harlow, `I may say that when I came on this
firm I was a Liberal, but through listenin’ to several lectures by
Professor Owen and attendin’ the meetings on the hill at Windley and
reading the books and pamphlets I bought there and from Owen, I came
to the conclusion some time ago that it’s a mug’s game for us to vote
for capitalists whether they calls theirselves Liberals or Tories.
They’re all alike when you’re workin’ for ‘em; I defy any man to say
what’s the difference between a Liberal and a Tory employer. There is
none - there can’t be; they’re both sweaters, and they’ve got to be,
or they wouldn’t be able to compete with each other. And since that’s
what they are, I say it’s a mug’s game for us to vote ‘em into
Parliament to rule over us and to make laws that we’ve got to abide by
whether we like it or not . There’s nothing to choose between ‘em, and
the proof of it is that it’s never made much difference to us which
party was in or which was out. It’s quite true that in the past both
of ‘em have passed good laws, but they’ve only done it when public
opinion was so strong in favour of it that they knew there was no
getting out of it, and then it was a toss up which side did it.
`That’s the way I’ve been lookin’ at things lately, and I’d almost
made up my mind never to vote no more, or to trouble myself about
politics at all, because although I could see there was no sense in
voting for Liberal or Tory capitalists, at the same time I must admit
I couldn’t make out how Socialism was going to help us. But the
explanation of it which Professor Barrington has given us this
afternoon has been a bit of an eye opener for me, and with your
permission I should like to move as a resolution, “That it is the
opinion of this meeting that Socialism is the only remedy for
Unemployment and Poverty.”’
The conclusion of Harlow’s address was greeted with loud cheers from
the Socialists, but most of the Liberal and Tory supporters of the
present system maintained a sulky silence.
`I’ll second that resolution,’ said Easton.
`And I’ll lay a bob both ways,’ remarked Bundy. The resolution was
then put, and though the majority were against it, the Chairman
declared it was carried unanimously.
By this time the violence of the storm had in a great measure abated,
but as rain was still falling it was decided not to attempt to resume
work that day. Besides, it would have been too late, even if the
weather had cleared up.
`P’raps it’s just as well it ‘as rained,’ remarked one man. `If it
‘adn’t some of us might ‘ave got the sack tonight. As it is, there’ll
be hardly enough for all of us to do tomorrer and Saturday mornin’
even if it is fine.’
This was true: nearly all the outside was finished, and what remained
to be done was ready for the final coat. Inside all there was to do
was to colour wash the walls and to give the woodwork of the kitchen
and scullery the last coat of paint.
It was inevitable - unless the firm had some other work for them to do
somewhere else - that there would be a great slaughter on Saturday.
`Now,’ said Philpot, assuming what he meant to be the manner of a
school teacher addressing children, `I wants you hall to make a
speshall heffort and get ‘ere very early in the mornin’ - say about
four o’clock - and them wot doos the most work tomorrer, will get a
prize on Saturday.’
`What’ll it be, the sack?’ inquired Harlow.
`Yes,’ replied Philpot, `and not honly will you get a prize for good
conduck tomorrer, but if you all keep on workin’ like we’ve bin doing
lately till you’re too hold and wore hout to do� any more, you’ll be
allowed to go to a nice workhouse for the rest of your lives! and each
one of you will be given a title - “Pauper!”’
And they laughed!
Although the majority of them had mothers or fathers or other near
relatives who had already succeeded to the title - they laughed!
As they were going home, Crass paused at the gate, and pointing up to
the large gable at the end of the house, he said to Philpot:
`You’ll want the longest ladder - the 65, for that, tomorrow.’
Philpot looked up at the gable.
It was very high.
The `Sixty-five’
The next morning after breakfast, Philpot, Sawkins, Harlow and
Barrington went to the Yard to get the long ladder - the 65 - so
called because it had sixty-five rungs. It was really what is known
as a builder’s scaffold ladder, and it had been strengthened by
several iron bolts or rods which passed through just under some of the
rungs. One side of the ladder had an iron band or ribbon twisted and
nailed round it spirally. It was not at all suitable for painters’
work, being altogether too heavy and cumbrous. However, as none of
the others were long enough to reach the high gable at the Refuge,
they managed, with a struggle, to get it down from the hooks and put
it on one of the handcarts and soon passed through the streets of mean
and dingy houses in the vicinity of the yard, and began the ascent of
the long hill.
There had been a lot of rain during the night, and the sky was still
overcast with dark grey clouds. The cart went heavily over the muddy
road; Sawkins was at the helm, holding the end of the ladder and
steering; the others walked a little further ahead, at the sides of
the cart.
It was such hard work that by the time they were half-way up the hill
they were so exhausted and out of breath that they had to stop for a
rest.
`This is a bit of all right, ain’t it?’ remarked Harlow as he took off
his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.
While they rested they kept a good look out for Rushton or Hunter, who
were likely to pass by at any moment.
At first, no one made any reply to Harlow’s observation, for they were
all out of breath and Philpot’s lean fingers trembled violently as he
wiped the perspiration from his face.
`Yes, mate,’ he said despondently, after a while. `It’s one way of
gettin’ a livin’ and there’s plenty better ways.’
In addition to the fact that his rheumatism was exceptionally bad, he
felt unusually low-spirited this morning; the gloomy weather and the
prospect of a long day of ladder work probably had something to do
with it.
`A “living” is right,’ said Barrington bitterly. He also was
exhausted with the struggle up the hill and enraged by the woebegone
appearance of poor old Philpot, who was panting and quivering from the
exertion.
They relapsed into silence. The unaccountable depression that
possessed Philpot deprived him of all his usual jocularity and filled
him with melancholy thoughts. He had travelled up and down this hill
a great many times before under similar circumstances and he said to
himself that if he had half a quid now for every time he had pushed a
cart up this road, he wouldn’t need to do anyone out of a job all the
rest of his life.
The shop where he had been apprenticed used to be just down at the
bottom; the place had been pulled down years ago, and the ground was
now occupied by more pretentious buildings. Not quite so far down the
road - on the other side - he could see the church where he used to
attend Sunday School when he was a boy, and where he was married just
thirty years ago. Presently - when they reached the top of the hill -
he would be able to look across the valley and see the spire of the
other church, the one in the graveyard, where all those who were dear
to him had been one by one laid to rest. He felt that he would not be
sorry when the time came to join them there. Possibly, in the next
world - if there were such a place - they might all be together once
more.
He was suddenly aroused from these thoughts by an exclamation from
Harlow.
`Look out! Here comes Rushton.’
They immediately resumed their journey. Rushton was coming up the
hill in his dog-cart with Grinder sitting by his side. They passed so
closely that Philpot - who was on that side of the cart - was splashed
with mud from the wheels of the trap.
`Them’s some of your chaps, ain’t they?’ remarked Grinder.
`Yes,’ replied Rushton. `We’re doing a job up this way.’
`I should ‘ave thought it would pay you better to use a ‘orse for sich
work as that,’ said Grinder.
`We do use the horses whenever it’s necessary for very big loads, you
know,’ answered Rushton, and added with a laugh: `But the donkeys are
quite strong enough for such a job as that.’
The `donkeys’ struggled on up the hill for about another hundred yards
and then they were forced to halt again.
`We mustn’t stop long, you know,’ said Harlow. `Most likely he’s gone
to the job, and he’ll wait to see how long it takes us to get there.’
Barrington felt inclined to say that in that case Rushton would have
to wait, but he remained silent, for he remembered that although he
personally did not care a brass button whether he got the sack or not,
the others were not so fortunately circumstanced.
While they were resting, another two-legged donkey passed by pushing
another cart - or rather, holding it back, for he was coming slowly
down the hill. Another Heir of all the ages - another Imperialist - a
degraded, brutalized wretch, clad in filthy, stinking rags, his toes
protruding from the rotten broken boots that were tied with bits of
string upon his stockingless feet. The ramshackle cart was loaded
with empty bottles and putrid rags, heaped loosely in the cart and
packed into a large sack. Old coats and trousers, dresses,
petticoats, and underclothing, greasy, mildewed and malodorous. As
he crept along with his eyes on the ground, the man gave utterance at
intervals to uncouth, inarticulate sounds.
`That’s another way of gettin’ a livin’,’ said Sawkins with a laugh as
the miserable
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