Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) đź“•
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
Read free book «Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Robert Tressell
- Performer: -
Read book online «Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕». Author - Robert Tressell
be out of debt.’
`What’s the good of talking? You’d never be able to do the work even
if we had the furniture.’
`Oh, the work’s nothing,’ replied Ruth, `and as for the furniture,
we’ve got plenty of spare bedclothes, and we could easily manage
without a washstand in our room for a bit, so the only thing we really
want is a small bedstead and mattress; we could get them very cheap
second-hand.’
`There ought to be a chest of drawers,’ said Easton doubtfully.
`I don’t think so,’ replied Ruth. `There’s a cupboard in the room and
whoever took it would be sure to have a box.’
`Well, if you think you can do the work I’ve no objection,’ said
Easton. `It’ll be a nuisance having a stranger in the way all the
time, but I suppose we must do something of the sort or else we’ll
have to give up the house and take a couple of rooms somewhere. That
would be worse than having lodgers ourselves.
`Let’s go and have a look at the room,’ he added, getting up and
taking the lamp from the wall.
They had to go up two flights of stairs before arriving at the top
landing, where there were two doors, one leading into the front room -
their bedroom - and the other into the empty back room. These two
doors were at right angles to each other. The wallpaper in the back
room was damaged and soiled in several places.
`There’s nearly a whole roll of this paper on the top of the
cupboard,’ said Ruth. `You could easily mend all those places. We
could hag up a few almanacks on the walls; our washstand could go
there by the window; a chair just there, and the bed along that wall
behind the door. It’s only a small window, so I could easily manage
to make a curtain out of something. I’m sure I could make the room
look quite nice without spending hardly anything.’
Easton reached down the roll of paper. It was the same pattern as
that on the wall. The latter was a good deal faded, of course, but it
would not matter much if the patches showed a little. They returned
to the kitchen.
`Do you think you know anyone who would take it?’ asked Ruth. Easton
smoked thoughtfully.
`No,’ he said at length. `But I’ll mention it to one or two of the
chaps on the job; they might know of someone.’
`And I’ll get Mrs Crass to ask her lodgers: p’raps they might have a
friend what would like to live near them.’
So it was settled; and as the fire was nearly out and it was getting
late, they prepared to retire for the night. The baby was still
sleeping so Easton lifted it, cradle and all, and carried it up the
narrow staircase into the front bedroom, Ruth leading the way,
carrying the lamp and some clothes for the child. So that the infant
might be within easy reach of its mother during the night, two chairs
were arranged close to her side of the bed and the cradle placed on
them.
`Now we’ve forgot the clock,’ said Easton, pausing. He was half
undressed and had already removed his slippers.
`I’ll slip down and get it,’ said Ruth.
`Never mind, I’ll go,’ said Easton, beginning to put his slippers on
again.
`No, you get into bed. I’ve not started undressing yet. I’ll get
it,’ replied Ruth who was already on her way down.
`I don’t know as it was worth the trouble of going down,’ said Ruth
when she returned with the clock. `It stopped three or four times
today.’
`Well, I hope it don’t stop in the night,’ Easton said. `It would be
a bit of all right not knowing what time it was in the morning. I
suppose the next thing will be that we’ll have to buy a new clock.’
He woke several times during the night and struck a match to see if it
was yet time to get up. At half past two the clock was still going
and he again fell asleep. The next time he work up the ticking had
ceased. He wondered what time it was? It was still very dark, but
that was nothing to go by, because it was always dark at six now. He
was wide awake: it must be nearly time to get up. It would never do
to be late; he might get the sack.
He got up and dressed himself. Ruth was asleep, so he crept quietly
downstairs, lit the fire and heated the tea. When it was ready he
went softly upstairs again. Ruth was still sleeping, so he decided
not to disturb her. Returning to the kitchen, he poured out and drank
a cup of tea, put on his boots, overcoat and hat and taking his basket
went out of the house.
The rain was still falling and it was very cold and dark. There was
no one else in the street. Easton shivered as he walked along
wondering what time it could be. He remembered there was a clock over
the front of a jeweller’s shop a little way down the main road. When
he arrived at this place he found that the clock being so high up he
could not see the figures on the face distinctly, because it was still
very dark. He stood staring for a few minutes vainly trying to see
what time it was when suddenly the light of a bull’s-eye lantern was
flashed into his eyes.
`You’re about very early,’ said a voice, the owner of which Easton
could not see. The light blinded him.
`What time is it?’ said Easton. `I’ve got to get to work at seven and
our clock stopped during the night.’
`Where are you working?’
`At “The Cave” in Elmore Road. You know, near the old toll gate.’
`What are you doing there and who are you working for?’ the policeman
demanded.
Easton explained.
`Well,’ said the constable, `it’s very strange that you should be
wandering about at this hour. It’s only about three-quarters of an
hour’s walk from here to Elmore Road. You say you’ve got to get there
at seven, and it’s only a quarter to four now. Where do you live?
What’s your name?’ Easton gave his name and address and began
repeating the story about the clock having stopped.
`What you say may be all right or it may not,’ interrupted the
policeman. `I’m not sure but that I ought to take you to the station.
All I know about you is that I find you loitering outside this shop.
What have you got in that basket?’
`Only my breakfast,’ Easton said, opening the basket and displaying
its contents.
`I’m inclined to believe what you say,’ said the policeman, after a
pause. `But to make quite sure I’ll go home with you. It’s on my
beat, and I don’t want to run you in if you’re what you say you are,
but I should advise you to buy a decent clock, or you’ll be getting
yourself into trouble.’
When they arrived at the house Easton opened the door, and after
making some entries in his note-book the officer went away, much to
the relief of Easton, who went upstairs, set the hands of the clock
right and started it going again. He then removed his overcoat and
lay down on the bed in his clothes, covering himself with the quilt.
After a while he fell asleep, and when he awoke the clock was still
ticking.
The time was exactly seven o’clock.
The Placard
Frank Owen was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of
consumption when the boy was only five years old. After that his
mother earned a scanty living as a needlewoman. When Frank was
thirteen he went to work for a master decorator who was a man of a
type that has now almost disappeared, being not merely an employer but
a craftsman of a high order.
He was an old man when Frank Owen went to work for him. At one time
he had had a good business in the town, and used to boast that he had
always done good work, had found pleasure in doing it and had been
well paid for it. But of late years the number of his customers had
dwindled considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which
cared nothing about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness
and profit. From this man and by laborious study and practice in his
spare time, aided by a certain measure of natural ability, the boy
acquired a knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining
and signwriting.
Frank’s mother died when he was twenty-four, and a year afterwards he
married the daughter of a fellow workman. In those days trade was
fairly good and although there was not much demand for the more
artistic kinds of work, still the fact that he was capable of doing
them, if required, made it comparatively easy for him to obtain
employment. Owen and his wife were very happy. They had one child -
a boy - and for some years all went well. But gradually this state of
things altered: broadly speaking, the change came slowly and
imperceptibly, although there were occasional sudden fluctuations.
Even in summer he could not always find work: and in winter it was
almost impossible to get a job of any sort. At last, about twelve
months before the date that this story opens, he determined to leave
his wife and child at home and go to try his fortune in London. When
he got employment he would send for them.
It was a vain hope. He found London, if anything, worse than his
native town. Wherever he went he was confronted with the legend: `No
hands wanted’. He walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold
all his clothes save those he stood in, and stayed in London for six
months, sometimes starving and only occasionally obtaining a few days
or weeks work.
At the end of that time he was forced to give in. The privations he
had endured, the strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the
city combined to defeat him. Symptoms of the disease that had killed
his father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated
entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of
his former self.
That was six months ago, and since then he had worked for Rushton & Co.
Occasionally when they had no work in hand, he was `stood off’ until
something came in.
Ever since his return from London, Owen had been gradually abandoning
himself to hopelessness. Every day he felt that the disease he
suffered from was obtaining a stronger grip on him. The doctor told
him to `take plenty of nourishing food’, and prescribed costly
medicines which Owen had not the money to buy.
Then there was his wife. Naturally delicate, she needed many things
that he was unable to procure for her. And the boy - what hope was
there for him? Often as Owen moodily thought of their circumstances
and prospects he told himself that it would be far better if they
could all three die now, together.
He was tired of suffering himself, tired of impotently watching the
sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought of what was in
store for the child.
Of this nature were his reflections as
Comments (0)