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

`Yes, certainly,’ said Philpot.

Harlow said nothing. He also would have liked a pint of beer, but, as

was usual with him, he had not the necessary cash. Having restored

the circulation to a certain extent, they now resumed their work, and

only just in time, for a few minutes afterwards they observed Misery

peeping round the corner of the house at them and they wondered how

long he had been there, and whether he had overheard their

conversation.

At twelve o’clock Crass and Slyme cleared off in a great hurry, and a

little while afterwards, Philpot took off his apron and put on his

coat to go to the `Cricketers’. When the others found out where he

was going, several of them asked him to bring back a drink for them,

and then someone suggested that all those who wanted some beer should

give twopence each. This was done: one shilling and fourpence was

collected and given to Philpot, who was to bring back a gallon of beer

in a jar. He promised to get back as soon as ever he could, and some

of the shareholders decided not to drink any tea with their dinners,

but to wait for the beer, although they knew that it would be nearly

time to resume work before he could get back. It would be a quarter

to one at the very earliest.

The minutes dragged slowly by, and after a while the only man on the

job who had a watch began to lose his temper and refused to answer any

more inquiries concerning the time. So presently Bert was sent up to

the top of the house to look at a church clock which was visible

therefrom, and when he came down he reported that it was ten minutes

to one.

Symptoms of anxiety now began to manifest themselves amongst the

shareholders, several of whom went down to the main road to see if

Philpot was yet in sight, but each returned with the same report -

they could see nothing of him.

No one was formally `in charge’ of the job during Crass’s absence, but

they all returned to their work promptly at one because they feared

that Sawkins or some other sneak might report any irregularity to

Crass or Misery.

At a quarter-past one, Philpot was still missing and the uneasiness of

the shareholders began to develop into a panic. Some of them plainly

expressed the opinion that he had gone on the razzle with the money.

As the time wore on, this became the general opinion. At two o’clock,

all hope of his return having been abandoned, two or three of the

shareholders went and drank some of the cold tea.

Their fears were only too well founded, for they saw no more of

Philpot till the next morning, when he arrived looking very sheepish

and repentant and promised to refund all the money on Saturday. He

also made a long, rambling statement from which it appeared that on

his way to the `Cricketers’ he met a couple of chaps whom he knew who

were out of work, and he invited them to come and have a drink. When

they got to the pub, they found there the Semidrunk and the Besotted

Wretch. One drink led to another, and then they started arguing, and

he had forgotten all about the gallon of beer until he woke up this

morning.

Whilst Philpot was making this explanation they were putting on their

aprons and blouses, and Crass was serving out the lots of colour.

Slyme took no part in the conversation, but got ready as quickly as

possible and went outside to make a start. The reason for this haste

soon became apparent to some of the others, for they noticed that he

had selected and commenced painting a large window that was so

situated as to be sheltered from the keen wind that was blowing.

The basement of the house was slightly below the level of the ground

and there was a sort of a trench or area about three feet deep in

front of the basement windows. The banks of this trench were covered

with rose trees and evergreens, and the bottom was a mass of slimy,

evil-smelling, rain-sodden earth, foul with the excrement of nocturnal

animals. To second-coat these basement windows, Philpot and Harlow

had to get down into and stand in all this filth, which soaked through

the worn and broken soles of their boots. As they worked, the thorns

of the rose trees caught and tore their clothing and lacerated the

flesh of their half-frozen hands.

Owen and Easton were working on ladders doing the windows immediately

above Philpot and Harlow, Sawkins, on another ladder, was painting one

of the gables, and the other men were working at different parts of

the outside of the house. The boy Bert was painting the iron railings

of the front fence. The weather was bitterly cold, the sun was

concealed by the dreary expanse of grey cloud that covered the wintry

sky.

As they stood there working most of the time they were almost

perfectly motionless, the only part of their bodies that were

exercised being their right arms. The work they were now doing

required to be done very carefully and deliberately, otherwise the

glass would be `messed up’ or the white paint of the frames would `run

into’ the dark green of the sashes, both colours being wet at the same

time, each man having two pots of paint and two sets of brushes. The

wind was not blowing in sudden gusts, but swept by in a strong,

persistent current that penetrated their clothing and left them

trembling and numb with cold. It blew from the right; and it was all

the worse on that account, because the right arm, being in use, left

that side of the body fully exposed. They were able to keep their

left hands in their trousers pockets and the left arm close to the

side most of the time. This made a lot of difference.

Another reason why it is worse when the wind strikes upon one from the

right side is that the buttons on a man’s coat are always on the right

side, and consequently the wind gets underneath. Philpot realized

this all the more because some of the buttons on his coat and

waistcoat were missing.

As they worked on, trembling with cold, and with their teeth

chattering, their faces and hands became of that pale violet colour

generally seen on the lips of a corpse. Their eyes became full of

water and the lids were red and inflamed. Philpot’s and Harlow’s

boots were soon wet through, with the water they absorbed from the

damp ground, and their feet were sore and intensely painful with cold.

Their hands, of course, suffered the most, becoming so numbed that

they were unable to feel the brushes they held; in fact, presently, as

Philpot was taking a dip of colour, the brush fell from his hand into

the pot; and then, finding that he was unable to move his fingers, he

put his hand into his trousers pocket to thaw, and began to walk

about, stamping his feet upon the ground. His example was quickly

followed by Owen, Easton and Harlow, and they all went round the

corner to the sheltered side of the house where Slyme was working, and

began walking up and down, rubbing their hands, stamping their feet

and swinging their arms to warm themselves.

`If I thought Nimrod wasn’t comin’, I’d put my overcoat on and work in

it,’ remarked Philpot, ‘but you never knows when to expect the b—r,

and if ‘e saw me in it, it would mean the bloody push.’

`It wouldn’t interfere with our workin’ if we did wear ‘em,’ said

Easton; `in fact, we’d be able to work all the quicker if we wasn’t so

cold.’

`Even if Misery didn’t come, I suppose Crass would ‘ave something to

say if we did put ‘em on,’ continued Philpot.

`Well, yer couldn’t blame ‘im if ‘e did say something, could yer?’

said Slyme, offensively. `Crass would get into a row ‘imself if

‘Unter came and saw us workin’ in overcoats. It would look ridiclus.’

Slyme suffered less from the cold than any of them, not only because

he had secured the most sheltered window, but also because he was

better clothed than most of the rest.

`What’s Crass supposed to be doin’ inside?’ asked Easton as he tramped

up and down, with his shoulders hunched up and his hands thrust deep

into the pockets of his trousers.

`Blowed if I know,’ replied Philpot. `Messin’ about touchin’ up or

makin’ colour. He never does ‘is share of a job like this; ‘e knows

‘ow to work things all right for ‘isself.’

`What if ‘e does? We’d be the same if we was in ‘is place, and so

would anybody else,’ said Slyme, and added sarcastically: `Or p’haps

you’d give all the soft jobs to other people and do all the rough

yerself!’

Slyme knew that, although they were speaking of Crass, they were also

alluding to himself, and as he replied to Philpot he looked slyly at

Owen, who had so far taken no part in the conversation.

`It’s not a question of what we would do,’ chimed in Harlow. `It’s a

question of what’s fair. If it’s not fair for Crass to pick all the

soft jobs for ‘imself and leave all the rough for others, the fact

that we might do the same if we ‘ad the chance don’t make it right.’

`No one can be blamed for doing the best he can for himself under

existing circumstances,’ said Owen in reply to Slyme’s questioning

look. That is the principle of the present system - every man for

himself and the devil take the rest. For my own part I don’t pretend

to practise unselfishness. I don’t pretend to guide my actions by the

rules laid down in the Sermon on the Mount. But it’s certainly

surprising to hear you who profess to be a follower of Christ -

advocating selfishness. Or, rather, it would be surprising if it were

not that the name of “Christian” has ceased to signify one who follows

Christ, and has come to mean only liar and hypocrite.’

Slyme made no answer. Possibly the fact that he was a true believer

enabled him to bear this insult with meekness and humility.

`I wonder what time it is?’ interposed Philpot.

Slyme looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock.

`Jesus Christ! Is that all?’ growled Easton as they returned to work.

`Two hours more before dinner!’

Only two more hours, but to these miserable, half-starved, ill-clad

wretches, standing here in the bitter wind that pierced their clothing

and seemed to be tearing at their very hearts and lungs with icy

fingers, it appeared like an eternity. To judge by the eagerness with

which they longed for dinner-time, one might have thought they had

some glorious banquet to look forward to instead of bread and cheese

and onions, or bloaters - and stewed tea.

Two more hours of torture before dinner; and three more hours after

that. And then, thank God, it would be too dark to see to work any

longer.

It would have been much better for them if, instead of being

`Freemen’, they had been slaves, and the property, instead of the

hirelings, of Mr Rushton. As it was, HE would not have cared if one

or all of them had become ill or died from the effects of exposure.

It would have made no difference to him. There were plenty of others

out of work and on