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

eight o’clock.

`There’s a bloater I want’s cooked,’ he said.

`All right,’ replied Bert. `Put it over there on the dresser along of

Philpot’s and mine.’

Slyme took the bloater from his food basket, but as he was about to

put it in the place indicated, he observed that his was rather a

larger one than either of the other two. This was an important

matter. After they were cooked it would not be easy to say which was

which: he might possibly be given one of the smaller ones instead of

his own. He took out his pocket knife and cut off the tail of the

large bloater.

`‘Ere it is, then,’ he said to Bert. `I’ve cut the tail of mine so as

you’ll know which it is.’

It was now about twenty minutes past seven and all the other men

having been started at work, Crass washed his hands under the tap.

Then he went into the kitchen and having rigged up a seat by taking

two of the drawers out of the dresser and placing them on the floor

about six feet apart and laying a plank across, he sat down in front

of the fire, which was now burning brightly under the pail, and,

lighting his pipe, began to smoke. The boy went into the scullery and

began washing up the cups and jars for the men to drink out of.

Bert was a lean, undersized boy about fifteen years of age and about

four feet nine inches in height. He had light brown hair and hazel

grey eyes, and his clothes were of many colours, being thickly

encrusted with paint, the result of the unskillful manner in which he

did his work, for he had only been at the trade about a year. Some of

the men had nicknamed him `the walking paintshop’, a title which Bert

accepted good-humouredly.

This boy was an orphan. His father had been a railway porter who had

worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for

many years, with the usual result, namely, that he and his family

lived in a condition of perpetual poverty. Bert, who was their only

child and not very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so

when his father died a little over a year ago, his mother readily

assented when the boy said that he wished to become a decorator. It

was a nice light trade, and she thought that a really good painter,

such as she was sure he would become, was at least always able to earn

a good living. Resolving to give the boy the best possible chance,

she decided if possible to place him at Rushton’s, that being one of

the leading firms in the town. At first Mr Rushton demanded ten

pounds as a premium, the boy to be bound for five years, no wages the

first year, two shillings a week the second, and a rise of one

shilling every year for the remainder of the term. Afterwards, as a

special favour - a matter of charity, in fact, as she was a very poor

woman - he agreed to accept five pounds.

This sum represented the thrifty savings of years, but the poor woman

parted with it willingly in order that the boy should become a skilled

workman. So Bert was apprenticed - bound for five years - to Rushton

& Co.

For the first few months his life had been spent in the paintshop at

the yard, a place that was something between a cellar and a stable.

There, surrounded by the poisonous pigments and materials of the

trade, the youthful artisan worked, generally alone, cleaning the

dirty paint-pots brought in by the workmen from finished `jobs’

outside, and occasionally mixing paint according to the instructions

of Mr Hunter, or one of the sub-foremen.

Sometimes he was sent out to carry materials to the places where the

men were working - heavy loads of paint or white lead - sometimes

pails of whitewash that his slender arms had been too feeble to carry

more than a few yards at a time.

Often his fragile, childish figure was seen staggering manfully along,

bending beneath the weight of a pair of steps or a heavy plank.

He could manage a good many parcels at once: some in each hand and

some tied together with string and slung over his shoulders.

Occasionally, however, there were more than he could carry; then they

were put into a handcart which he pushed or dragged after him to the

distant jobs.

That first winter the boy’s days were chiefly spent in the damp,

evil-smelling, stone-flagged paintshop, without even a fire to warm

the clammy atmosphere.

But in all this he had seen no hardship. With the unconsciousness of

boyhood, he worked hard and cheerfully. As time went on, the goal of

his childish ambition was reached - he was sent out to work with the

men! And he carried the same spirit with him, always doing his best

to oblige those with whom he was working.

He tried hard to learn, and to be a good boy, and he succeeded, fairly

well.

He soon became a favourite with Owen, for whom he conceived a great

respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any

special work of any kind to be done it was Owen who did it. On such

occasions, Bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to

assist Owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy

might be allowed to work with him.

Bert’s regard for Owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of

Crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy’s aspirations.

`There’ll be plenty of time for you to think about doin’ fancy work

after you’ve learnt to do plain painting,’ he would say.

This morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, Bert

returned with them to the kitchen.

`Now let’s see,’ said Crass, thoughtfully, `You’ve put the tea in the

pail, I s’pose.’

`Yes.’

`And now you want a job, don’t you?’

`Yes,’ replied the boy.

`Well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and

wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and

walls.’

`All right,’ said Bert. When he got as far as the door leading into

the scullery he looked round and said:

`I’ve got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.’

`Never mind about that,’ said Crass. `I’ll do them.’

Bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a

pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the

bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded

to carry out Crass’s instructions.

It was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle

only made it seem more so. Bert shivered: he would like to have put

his jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this.

He lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing

up on to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a

square yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush.

He was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down

over the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm,

wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt. When he had scrubbed it

sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and

then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and,

taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of

the ceiling that he had washed. Then he dropped it back into the

pail, and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation. Then

he peeped into the kitchen, where Crass was still seated by the fire,

smoking and toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed

stick. Bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he

himself might go and have a warm at the fire.

`‘E might just as well ‘ave let me do them bloaters,’ he muttered to

himself, regarding Crass malignantly through the crack of the door.

`This is a fine job to give to anybody - a cold mornin’ like this.’

He shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went

on with the work.

A little later, Crass, still sitting by the fire, heard footsteps

approaching along the passage. He started up guiltily and, thrusting

the hand holding his pipe into his apron pocket, retreated hastily

into the scullery. He thought it might be Hunter, who was in the

habit of turning up at all sorts of unlikely times, but it was only

Easton.

`I’ve got a bit of bacon I want the young ‘un to toast for me,’ he

said as Crass came back.

`You can do it yourself if you like,’ replied Crass affably, looking

at his watch. `It’s about ten to eight.’

Easton had been working for Rushton & Co. for a fortnight, and had

been wise enough to stand Crass a drink on several occasions: he was

consequently in that gentleman’s good books for the time being.

`How are you getting on in there?’ Crass asked, alluding to the work

Easton and Owen were doing in the drawing-room. `You ain’t fell out

with your mate yet, I s’pose?’

`No; ‘e ain’t got much to say this morning; ‘is cough’s pretty bad. I

can generally manage to get on orl right with anybody, you know,’

Easton added.

`Well, so can I as a rule, but I get a bit sick listening to that

bloody fool. Accordin’ to ‘im, everything’s wrong. One day it’s

religion, another it’s politics, and the next it’s something else.’

`Yes, it is a bit thick; too much of it,’ agreed Easton, `but I don’t

take no notice of the bloody fool: that’s the best way.’

`Of course, we know that things is a bit bad just now,’ Crass went on,

`but if the likes of ‘im could ‘ave their own way they’d make ‘em a

bloody sight worse.’

`That’s just what I say,’ replied Easton.

`I’ve got a pill ready for ‘im, though, next time ‘e start yappin’,’

Crass continued as he drew a small piece of printed paper from his

waistcoat pocket. `Just read that; it’s out of the Obscurer.’

Easton took the newspaper cutting and read it: `Very good,’ he

remarked as he handed it back.

`Yes, I think that’ll about shut ‘im up. Did yer notice the other day

when we was talking about poverty and men bein’ out of work, ‘ow ‘e

dodged out of answerin’ wot I said about machinery bein’ the cause of

it? ‘e never answered me! Started talkin’ about something else.’

`Yes, I remember ‘e never answered it,’ said Easton, who had really no

recollection of the incident at all.

`I mean to tackle ‘im about it at breakfast-time. I don’t see why ‘e

should be allowed to get out of it like that. There was a bloke down

at the “Cricketers” the other night talkin’ about the same thing - a

chap as takes a interest in politics and the like, and ‘e said the

very same as me. Why, the number of men what’s been throwed out of

work by all this ‘ere new-fangled machinery is something chronic!’