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

For my part, I’m sick of listening to you about it every damn day.’

`It’s all very well for you to say I needn’t drink it,’ answered

Sawkins, `but I’ve paid my share an’ I’ve got a right to express an

opinion. It’s my belief that ‘arf the money we gives ‘him is spent on

penny ‘orribles: ‘e’s always got one in ‘is hand, an’ to make wot tea

‘e does buy last, ‘e collects all the slops wot’s left and biles it up

day after day.’

`No, I don’t!’ said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. `It’s not me

wot buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and ‘e

buys them ‘imself, so there!’

At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant

glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.

`You’d better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after

this week,’ he said, addressing Sawkins, `and then p’raps we’ll ‘ave a

little peace at mealtimes.’

`An’ you needn’t ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,’

added Bert, tearfully, `cos I won’t do it.’

Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve

months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a

simple labourer, but since then he had `picked up’ a slight knowledge

of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a

white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The

others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition,

but his wages - fivepence an hour - were twopence an hour less than

the standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a

better workman was `stood off’ when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he

was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and

the `Bloke’. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by

his new mates `not to let the b—r Sawkins see anything.’

The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of

the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that

followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.

`How did you get on yesterday?’ asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the

plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the Daily

Obscurer.

`No luck,’ replied Bundy, gloomily. `I had a bob each way on

Stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.’

This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two

others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow’s

races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion

of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence

for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned

Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the

syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper.

He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that

there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in

racing or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion

and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally

admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had

little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about

thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built

that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his

clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an

unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks.

There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his

fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions

on the subjects mentioned.

The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox

opinions. If anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon

discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small

class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity

of the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very

great number - in fact the majority of the people - lived on the verge

of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of

semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but

still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by

privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a

period to their misery. And strangest of all - in his opinion - he

saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by

work, were the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived

in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all

this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such

results was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and

eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might

be done.

It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that

his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably

something wrong with his mind.

When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their

contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and

when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy

had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some

carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection.

Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was

devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned

Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate

or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted

him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his

coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same

intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another

who took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who,

having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back

into his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly

filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence.

Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy

gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough.

This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was

commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to

induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered

amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the

gentleman’s, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been

disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job

in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he

hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery

may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of

the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was

employed as a painter’s labourer at the usual wages - fivepence per

hour.

He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the

majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and

slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to

learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved

in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with

his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and

it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At mealtimes, as on

the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought

and unconscious of his surroundings.

Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation

ensued.

`Is the gent what’s bought this ‘ouse any relation to Sweater the

draper?’ asked Payne, the carpenter’s foreman.

`It’s the same bloke,’ replied Crass.

`Didn’t he used to be on the Town Council or something?’

`‘E’s bin on the Council for years,’ returned Crass. `‘E’s on it now.

‘E’s mayor this year. ‘E’s bin mayor several times before.’

`Let’s see,’ said Payne, reflectively, `‘e married old Grinder’s

sister, didn’t ‘e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.’

`Yes, I believe he did,’ said Crass.

`It wasn’t Grinder’s sister,’ chimed in old Jack Linden. `It was ‘is

niece. I know, because I remember working in their ‘ouse just after

they was married, about ten year ago.’

`Oh yes, I remember now,’ said Payne. `She used to manage one of

Grinder’s branch shops didn’t she?’

`Yes,’ replied Linden. `I remember it very well because there was a

lot of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used

to be a regler ‘ot un: no one never thought as he’d ever git married

at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what

used to work for him.’

This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief

silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.

`Funny name to call a ‘ouse, ain’t it?’ he said. `“The Cave.” I

wonder what made ‘em give it a name like that.’

`They calls ‘em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,’ said old Jack

Linden.

`There’s generally some sort of meaning to it, though,’ observed

Payne. `For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, ‘e

might call ‘is ‘ouse, “Epsom Lodge” or “Newmarket Villa”.’

`Or sometimes there’s a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,’

said another man; `then they calls it “Hoak Lodge” or “Cherry

Cottage”.’

`Well, there’s a cave up at the end of this garden,’ said Harlow with

a grin, `you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the ‘ouse runs

into; praps they called it after that.’

`Talking about the drains,’ said old Jack Linden when the laughter

produced by this elegant joke had ceased. `Talking about the drains,

I wonder what they’re going to do about them; the ‘ouse ain’t fit to

live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to

be done away with.’

`So it is going to be,’ replied Crass. `There’s going to be a new set

of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with

the main.’

Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this

matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be

adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige

with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.

`That’s goin’ to cost a good bit,’ said Linden.

`Yes, I suppose it will,’ replied Crass, `but money ain’t no object to

old Sweater. ‘E’s got tons of it; you know ‘e’s got a large wholesale

business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the

one ‘e’s got ‘ere.’

Easton was still reading the Obscurer; he was not about to understand

exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at - probably the

latter never intended that anyone should understand - but he was

conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against

foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he

began to think that it was about time we did something to protect

ourselves. Still, it