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

Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others,

peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then

he opened the door and went out into the street. Crass and the others

- through the window - watched him assist the Semidrunk to his feet

and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some

argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm.

Crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished

drinks.

`Why, old Joe ain’t drunk ‘ardly ‘arf of ‘is!’ cried Easton, seeing

Philpot’s porter on the counter. ‘Fancy going away like that!’

`More fool ‘im,’ growled Crass. `There was no need for it: the man’s

all right.’

The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with

his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot’s glass. He had just finished his

own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter

when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared.

`Hullo! What ‘ave you done with ‘im?’ inquired Crass.

`I think ‘e’ll be all right,’ replied Philpot. `He wouldn’t let me go

no further with ‘im: said if I didn’t go away, ‘e’d go for me! But I

believe ‘e’ll be all right. I think the fall sobered ‘im a bit.’

`Oh, ‘e’s all right,’ said Crass offhandedly. `There’s nothing the

matter with ‘im.’

Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding `good night’ to the Old

Dear, the landlady and the Besotted Wretch, they all set out for home.

As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the

hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the

wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field.

Just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly

observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in

front of them. It seemed to be a large animal of some kind and was

coming slowly and stealthily towards them.

They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness.

The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground,

groping about in search of a stone, and - with the exception of Crass,

who was too frightened to move - the others followed his example.

They found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature -

whatever it was - to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at

it. They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its

side and moaned as if in pain. Observing this, the four men advanced

cautiously towards it. Bundy struck a match and held it over the

prostrate figure. It was the Semidrunk.

After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all

right for some distance. As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to

some extent sobered him; but he had not gone very far before the drink

he had taken began to affect him again and he had fallen down.

Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands

and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong

direction. Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he

would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They

raised him up, and Philpot, exhorting him to `pull himself together’

inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be able to

tell them his address, which was fortunately at Windley, where they

all resided.

Bundy and Philpot took him home, separating from Crass and Easton at

the corner of the street where both the latter lived.

Crass felt very full and satisfied with himself. He had had six and a

half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections on the

polyphone at a total cost of one penny.

Easton had but a few yards to go before reaching his own house after

parting from Crass, but he paused directly he heard the latter’s door

close, and leaning against a street lamp yielded to the feeling of

giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way

home. All the inanimate objects around him seemed to be in motion.

The lights of the distant street lamps appeared to be floating about

the pavement and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a

troubled sea. He searched his pockets for his handkerchief and having

found it wiped his mouth, inwardly congratulating himself that Crass

was not there to see him. Resuming his walk, after a few minutes he

reached his own home. As he passed through, the gate closed of itself

after him, clanging loudly. He went rather unsteadily up the narrow

path that led to his front door and entered.

The baby was asleep in the cradle. Slyme had gone up to his own room,

and Ruth was sitting sewing by the fireside. The table was still set

for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea.

Easton lurched in noisily. `‘Ello, old girl!’ he cried, throwing his

dinner basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality

and resting his hands on the table to support himself. `I’ve come at

last, you see.’

Ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands fall into her lap, sat

looking at him. She had never seen him like this before. His face

was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips

tremulous and moist, and the ends of the hair of his fair moustache,

stuck together with saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily round

his mouth in damp clusters.

Perceiving that she did not speak or smile, Easton concluded that she

was angry and became grave himself.

`I’ve come at last, you see, my dear; better late than never.’

He found it very difficult to speak plainly, for his lips trembled and

refused to form the words.

`I don’t know so much about that,’ said Ruth, inclined to cry and

trying not to let him see the pity she could not help feeling for him.

`A nice state you’re in. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

Easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. `Don’t be angry, Ruth.

It’s no good, you know.’

He walked clumsily towards her, still leaning on the table to steady

himself.

`Don’t be angry,’ he mumbled as he stooped over her, putting his arm

round her neck and his face close to hers. `It’s no good being angry,

you know, dear.’

She shrank away, shuddering with involuntary disgust as he pressed his

wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. His fetid breath, foul

with the smell of tobacco and beer, and the odour of the stale tobacco

smoke that exuded from his clothes filled her with loathing. He

kissed her repeatedly and when at last he released her she hastily

wiped her face with her handkerchief and shivered.

Easton said he did not want any tea, and went upstairs to bed almost

immediately. Ruth did not want any tea either now, although she had

been very hungry before he came home. She sat up very late, sewing,

and when at length she did go upstairs she found him lying on his

back, partly undressed on the outside of the bedclothes, with his

mouth wide open, breathing stertorously.