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

content, being persuaded that it was the only one possible and the

best that human wisdom could devise. The reason why they all believed

this was because not one of them had ever troubled to inquire whether

it would not be possible to order things differently. They were

content with the present system. If they had not been content they

would have been anxious to find some way to alter it. But they had

never taken the trouble to seriously inquire whether it was possible

to find some better way, and although they all knew in a hazy fashion

that other methods of managing the affairs of the world had already

been proposed, they neglected to inquire whether these other methods

were possible or practicable, and they were ready and willing to

oppose with ignorant ridicule or brutal force any man who was foolish

or quixotic enough to try to explain to them the details of what he

thought was a better way. They accepted the present system in the

same way as they accepted the alternating seasons. They knew that

there was spring and summer and autumn and winter. As to how these

different seasons came to be, or what caused them, they hadn’t the

remotest notion, and it is extremely doubtful whether the question had

ever occurred to any of them: but there is no doubt whatever about the

fact that none of them knew. From their infancy they had been trained

to distrust their own intelligence, and to leave the management of the

affairs of the world - and for that matter of the next world too - to

their betters; and now most of them were absolutely incapable of

thinking of any abstract subject whatever. Nearly all their betters -

that is, the people who do nothing - were unanimous in agreeing that

he present system is a very good one and that it is impossible to

alter or improve it. Therefore Crass and his mates, although they

knew nothing whatever about it themselves, accepted it as an

established, incontrovertible fact that the existing state of things

is immutable. They believed it because someone else told them so.

They would have believed anything: on one condition - namely, that

they were told to believe it by their betters. They said it was

surely not for the Like of Them to think that they knew better than

those who were more educated and had plenty of time to study.

As the work in the drawing-room proceeded, Crass abandoned the hope

that Owen was going to make a mess of it. Some of the rooms upstairs

being now ready for papering, Slyme was started on that work, Bert

being taken away from Owen to assist Slyme as paste boy, and it was

arranged that Crass should help Owen whenever he needed someone to

lend him a hand.

Sweater came frequently during these four weeks, being interested in

the progress of the work. On these occasions Crass always managed to

be present in the drawing-room and did most of the talking. Owen was

very satisfied with this arrangement, for he was always ill at ease

when conversing with a man like Sweater, who spoke in an offensively

patronizing way and expected common people to kowtow to and `Sir’ him

at every second word. Crass however, seemed to enjoy doing that kind

of thing. He did not exactly grovel on the floor, when Sweater spoke

to him, but he contrived to convey the impression that he was willing

to do so if desired.

Outside the house Bundy and his mates had dug deep trenches in the

damp ground in which they were laying new drains. This work, like

that of the painting of the inside of the house, was nearly completed.

It was a miserable job. Owing to the fact that there had been a spell

of bad weather the ground was sodden with rain and there was mud

everywhere, the men’s clothing and boots being caked with it. But the

worst thing about the job was the smell. For years the old

drainpipes had been defective and leaky. The ground a few feet below

the surface was saturated with fetid moisture and a stench as of a

thousand putrefying corpse emanated from the opened earth. The

clothing of the men who were working in the hendeca became saturated

with this fearful odour, and for that matter, so did the men

themselves.

They said they could smell and taste it all the time, even when they

were away from the work at home, and when they were at meals.

Although they smoked their pipes all the time they were at work,

Misery having ungraciously given them permission, several times Bundy

and one or other of his mates were attacked with fits of vomiting.

But, as they began to realize that the finish of the job was in sight,

a kind of panic seized upon the hands, especially those who had been

taken on last and who would therefore be the first to be `stood

still’. Easton, however, felt pretty confident that Crass would do

his best to get him kept on till the end of the job, for they had

become quite chummy lately, usually spending a few evenings together

at the Cricketers every week.

`There’ll be a bloody slaughter ‘ere soon,’ remarked Harlow to Philpot

one day as they were painting the banisters of the staircase. `I

reckon next week will about finish the inside.’

`And the outside ain’t goin’ to take very long, you know,’ replied

Philpot.

`They ain’t got no other work in, have they?’

`Not that I knows of,’ replied Philpot gloomily; ‘and I don’t think

anyone else has either.’

`You know that little place they call the “Kiosk” down the Grand

Parade, near the bandstand,’ asked Harlow after a pause.

`Where they used to sell refreshments?’

`Yes; it belongs to the Corporation, you know.’

`It’s been closed up lately, ain’t it?’

`Yes; the people who ‘ad it couldn’t make it pay; but I ‘eard last

night that Grinder the fruit-merchant is goin’ to open it again. If

it’s true, there’ll be a bit of a job there for someone, because it’ll

‘ave to be done up.’

`Well, I hope it does come orf replied Philpot. `It’ll be a job for

some poor b—rs.’

`I wonder if they’ve started anyone yet on the venetian blinds for

this ‘ouse?’ remarked Easton after a pause.

`I don’t know,’ replied Philpot.

They relapsed into silence for a while.

`I wonder what time it is?’ said Philpot at length. `I don’t know ‘ow

you feel, but I begin to want my dinner.’

`That’s just what I was thinking; it can’t be very far off it now.

It’s nearly ‘arf an hour since Bert went down to make the tea. It

seems a ‘ell of a long morning to me.’

`So it does to me,’ said Philpot; `slip upstairs and ask Slyme what

time it is.’

Harlow laid his brush across the top of his paint-pot and went

upstairs. He was wearing a pair of cloth slippers, and walked softly,

not wishing that Crass should hear him leaving his work, so it

happened that without any intention of spying on Slyme, Harlow reached

the door of the room in which the former was working without being

heard and, entering suddenly, surprised Slyme - who was standing near

the fireplace - in the act of breaking a whole roll of wallpaper

across his knee as one might break a stick. On the floor beside him

was what had been another roll, now broken into two pieces. When

Harlow came in, Slyme started, and his face became crimson with

confusion. He hastily gathered the broken rolls together and,

stooping down, thrust the pieces up the flue of the grate and closed

the register.

`Wot’s the bloody game?’ inquired Harlow.

Slyme laughed with an affectation of carelessness, but his hands

trembled and his face was now very pale.

`We must get our own back somehow, you know, Fred,’ he said.

Harlow did not reply. He did not understand. After puzzling over it

for a few minutes, he gave it up.

`What’s the time?’ he asked.

`Fifteen minutes to twelve,’ said Slyme and added, as Harlow was going

away: `Don’t mention anything about that paper to Crass or any of the

others.’

`I shan’t say nothing,’ replied Harlow.

Gradually, as he pondered over it, Harlow began to comprehend the

meaning of the destruction of the two rolls of paper. Slyme was doing

the paperhanging piecework - so much for each roll hung. Four of the

rooms upstairs had been done with the same pattern, and Hunter - who

was not over-skilful in such matters - had evidently sent more paper

than was necessary. By getting rid of these two rolls, Slyme would be

able to make it appear that he had hung two rolls more than was really

the case. He had broken the rolls so as to be able to take them away

from the house without being detected, and he had hidden them up the

chimney until he got an opportunity of so doing. Harlow had just

arrived at this solution of the problem when, hearing the lower flight

of stairs creaking, he peeped over and observed Misery crawling up.

He had come to see if anyone had stopped work before the proper time.

Passing the two workmen without speaking, he ascended to the next

floor, and entered the room where Slyme was.

`You’d better not do this room yet,’ said Hunter. `There’s to be a

new grate and mantelpiece put in.’

He crossed over to the fireplace and stood looking at it thoughtfully

for a few minutes.

`It’s not a bad little grate, you know, is it?’ he remarked. `We’ll

be able to use it somewhere or other.’

`Yes; it’s all right,’ said Slyme, whose heart was beating like a

steam-hammer.

`Do for a front room in a cottage,’ continued Misery, stooping down to

examine it more closely. `There’s nothing broke that I can see.’

He put his hand against the register and vainly tried to push it open.

`H’m, there’s something wrong ‘ere,’ he remarked, pushing harder.

`Most likely a brick or some plaster fallen down,’ gasped Slyme,

coming to Misery’s assistance. `Shall I try to open it?’

`Don’t trouble,’ replied Nimrod, rising to his feet. `It’s most

likely what you say. I’ll see that the new grate is sent up after

dinner. Bundy can fix it this afternoon and then you can go on

papering as soon as you like.’

With this, Misery went out of the room, downstairs and away from the

house, and Slyme wiped the sweat from his forehead with his

handkerchief. Then he knelt down and, opening the register, he took

out the broken rolls of paper and hid them up the chimney of the next

room. While he was doing this the sound of Crass’s whistle shrilled

through the house.

`Thank Gord!’ exclaimed Philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on

the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. The

scene here is already familiar to the reader. For seats, the two

pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight

feet apart and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank

placed across; and the upturned pails and the drawers of the dresser.

The floor unswept and littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of

plaster, pieces of lead pipe and dried mud; and in the midst, the

steaming bucket of stewed tea and the collection of cracked cups,

jam-jam and condensed milk