Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕

buying a bag of cakes or fruit for them.

All sorts of theories were put forward to account for his apparent

affluence. Some said he was a toff in disguise; others that he had

rich relations who were ashamed of him because he was a Socialist, and

who allowed him so much a week so long as he kept away from them and

did not use his real name. Some of the Liberals said that he was in

the pay of the Tories, who were seeking by underhand methods to split

up the Progressive Liberal Party. Just about that time several

burglaries took place in the town, the thieves getting clear away with

the plunder, and this circumstance led to a dark rumour that

Barrington was the culprit, and that it was these ill-gotten gains

that he was spending so freely.

About the middle of October an event happened that drew the town into

a state of wild excitement, and such comparatively unimportant

subjects as unemployment and starvation were almost forgotten.

Sir Graball D’Encloseland had been promoted to yet a higher post in

the service of the country that he owned such a large part of; he was

not only to have a higher and more honourable position, but also - as

was nothing but right - a higher salary. His pay was to be increased

to seven thousand five hundred a year or one hundred and fifty pounds

per week, and in consequence of this promotion it was necessary for

him to resign his seat and seek re-election.

The ragged-trousered Tory workmen as they loitered about the streets,

their stomachs empty, said to each other that it was a great honour

for Mugsborough that their Member should be promoted in this way.

They boasted about it and assumed as much swagger in their gait as

their broken boots permitted.

They stuck election cards bearing Sir Graball’s photograph in their

windows and tied bits of blue and yellow ribbon - Sir Graball’s

colours - on their underfed children.

The Liberals were furious. They said that an election had been sprung

on them - they had been taken a mean advantage of - they had no

candidate ready.

They had no complaint to make about the salary, all they complained of

was the short notice. It wasn’t fair because while they - the leading

Liberals - had been treating the electors with the contemptuous

indifference that is customary, Sir Graball D’Encloseland had been

most active amongst his constituents for months past, cunningly

preparing for the contest. He had really been electioneering for the

past six months! Last winter he had kicked off at quite a number of

football matches besides doing all sorts of things for the local

teams. He had joined the Buffalos and the Druids, been elected

President of the Skull and Crossbones Boys’ Society, and, although he

was not himself an abstainer, he was so friendly to Temperance that he

had on several occasions, taken the chair at teetotal meetings, to say

nothing of the teas to the poor school children and things of that

sort. In short, he had been quite an active politician, in the Tory

sense of the word, for months past and the poor Liberals had not smelt

a rat until the election was sprung upon them.

A hurried meeting of the Liberal Three Hundred was held, and a

deputation sent to London to find a candidate but as there was only a

week before polling day they were unsuccessful in their mission.

Another meeting was held, presided over by Mr Adam Sweater - Rushton

and Didlum also being present.

Profound dejection was depicted on the countenances of those assembled

slave-drivers as they listened to the delegates’ report. The sombre

silence that followed was broken at length by Mr Rushton, who suddenly

started up and said that he began to think they had made a mistake in

going outside the constituency at all to look for a man. It was

strange but true that a prophet never received honour in his own land.

They had been wasting the precious time running about all over the

country, begging and praying for a candidate, and overlooking the fact

that they had in their midst a gentleman - a fellow townsman, who, he

believed, would have a better chance of success than any stranger.

Surely they would all agree - if they could only prevail upon him to

stand - that Adam Sweater would be an ideal Liberal Candidate!

While Mr Rushton was speaking the drooping spirits of the Three

Hundred were reviving, and at the name of Sweater they all began to

clap their hands and stamp their feet. Loud shouts of enthusiastic

approval burst forth, and cries of `Good old Sweater’ resounded

through the room.

When Sweater rose to reply, the tumult died away as suddenly as it had

commenced. He thanked them for the honour they were conferring upon

him. There was no time to waste in words or idle compliments; rather

than allow the Enemy to have a walk-over, he would accede to their

request and contest the seat.

A roar of applause burst from the throats of the delighted Three

Hundred.

Outside the hail in which the meeting was being held a large crowd of

poverty-stricken Liberal working men, many of them wearing broken

boots and other men’s castoff clothing, was waiting to hear the

report of the slave-drivers’ deputation, and as soon as Sweater had

consented to be nominated, Didlum rushed and opened the window

overlooking the street and shouted the good news down to the crowd,

which joined in the cheering. In response to their demands for a

speech, Sweater brought his, obese carcass to the window and addressed

a few words to them, reminding them of the shortness of the time at

their disposal, and intreating them to work hard in order that the

Grand old Flag might be carried to victory.

At such times these people forgot all about unemployment and

starvation, and became enthusiastic about `Grand old Flags’. Their

devotion to this flag was so great that so long as they were able to

carry it to victory, they did not mind being poverty stricken and

hungry and ragged; all that mattered was to score off their hated

`enemies’ their fellow countrymen the Tories, and carry the grand old

flag to victory. The fact that they had carried the flag to victory

so often in the past without obtaining any of the spoils, did not seem

to damp their ardour in the least. Being philanthropists, they were

content - after winning the victory - that their masters should always

do the looting.

At the conclusion of Sweater’s remarks the philanthropists gave three

frantic cheers and then someone in the crowd shouted `What’s the

colour?’ After a hasty consultation with Rushton, who being a

`master’ decorator, was thought to be an authority on colours - green -

grass green - was decided upon, and the information was shouted down

to the crowd, who cheered again. Then a rush was made to Sweater’s

Emporium and several yards of cheap green ribbon were bought, and

divided up into little pieces, which they tied into their buttonholes,

and thus appropriately decorated, formed themselves into military

order, four deep, and marched through all the principal streets, up

and down the Grand Parade, round and round the Fountain, and finally

over the hill to Windley, singing to the tune of `Tramp, tramp, tramp,

the Boys are marching’:

`Vote, Vote, Vote for Adam Sweater!

Hang old Closeland on a tree!

Adam Sweater is our man,

And we’ll have him if we can,

Then we’ll always have the biggest loaf for tea.’

The spectacle presented by these men - some of them with grey heads

and beards - as they marked time or tramped along singing this

childish twaddle, would have been amusing if it had not been

disgusting.

By way of variety they sang several other things, including:

`We’ll hang ole Closeland

On a sour apple tree,’

and

`Rally, Rally, men of Windley

For Sweater’s sure to win.’

As they passed the big church in Quality Street, the clock began to

strike. It was one of those that strike four chimes at each quarter

of the hour. It was now ten o’clock so there were sixteen musical

chimes:

Ding, dong! Ding Dong!

Ding dong! Ding dong!

Ding dong! Ding dong!

Ding dong! Ding dong!

They all chanted A-dam Sweater’ in time with the striking clock. In

the same way the Tories would chant:

`Grab - all Close - land!

Grab - all Close - land!

Grab - all Close - land!

Grab - all Close - land!’

The town was soon deluged with mendacious literature and smothered

with huge posters:

`Vote for Adam Sweater!

The Working-man’s Friend!’

`Vote for Sweater and Temperance Reform.’

`Vote for Sweater - Free Trade and Cheap Food.’

or

`Vote for D’Encloseland: Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work!’

This beautiful idea - `Plenty of Work’ - appealed strongly to the Tory

workmen. They seemed to regard themselves and their children as a

sort of machines or beasts of burden, created for the purpose of

working for the benefit of other people. They did not think it right

that they should Live, and enjoy the benefits of civilization. All

they desired for themselves and their children was `Plenty of Work’.

They marched about the streets singing their Marseillaise, `Work,

Boys, Work and be contented’, to the tune of `Tramp, tramp, tramp the

Boys are marching’, and at intervals as they tramped along, they gave

three cheers for Sir Graball, Tariff Reform, and - Plenty of Work.

Both sides imported gangs of hired orators who held forth every night

at the corners of the principal streets, and on the open spaces from

portable platforms, and from motor cars and lorries. The Tories said

that the Liberal Party in the House of Commons was composed

principally of scoundrels and fools, the Liberals said that the Tory

Party were fools and scoundrels. A host of richly dressed canvassers

descended upon Windley in carriages and motor cars, and begged for

votes from the poverty-stricken working men who lived there.

One evening a Liberal demonstration was held at the Cross Roads on

Windley Hill. Notwithstanding the cold weather, there was a great

crowd of shabbily dressed people, many of whom had not had a really

good meal for months. It was a clear night. The moon was at the

full, and the scene was further illuminated by the fitful glare of

several torches, stuck on the end of twelve-foot poles. The platform

was a large lorry, and there were several speakers, including Adam

Sweater himself and a real live Liberal Peer - Lord Ammenegg. This

individual had made a considerable fortune in the grocery and

provision line, and had been elevated to the Peerage by the last

Liberal Government on account of his services to the Party, and in

consideration of other considerations.

Both Sweater and Ammenegg were to speak at two other meetings that

night and were not expected at Windley until about eight-thirty, so to

keep the ball rolling till they arrived, several other gentlemen,

including Rushton - who presided - and Didlum, and one of the five

pounds a week orators, addressed the meeting. Mingled with the crowd

were about twenty rough-looking men - strangers to the town - who wore

huge green rosettes and loudly applauded the speakers. They also

distributed Sweater literature and cards with lists of the different

meetings that were to be held during the election. These men were

bullies hired by Sweater’s agent. They came from the neighbourhood of

Seven Dials in London and were paid ten shillings a