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

take their places. But if they had been Rushton’s property, such work

as this would have been deferred until it could be done without danger

to the health and lives of the slaves; or at any rate, even if it were

proceeded with during such weather, their owner would have seen to it

that they were properly clothed and fed; he would have taken as much

care of them as he would of his horse.

People always take great care of their horses. If they were to

overwork a horse and make it ill, it would cost something for medicine

and the veterinary surgeon, to say nothing of the animal’s board and

lodging. If they were to work their horses to death, they would have

to buy others. But none of these considerations applies to workmen.

If they work a man to death they can get another for nothing at the

corner of the next street. They don’t have to buy him; all they have

to do is to give him enough money to provide him with food and

clothing - of a kind - while he is working for them. If they only

make him ill, they will not have to feed him or provide him with

medical care while he is laid up. He will either go without these

things or pay for them himself. At the same time it must be admitted

that the workman scores over both the horse and the slave, inasmuch as

he enjoys the priceless blessing of Freedom. If he does not like the

hirer’s conditions he need not accept them. He can refuse to work,

and he can go and starve. There are no ropes on him. He is a Free

man. He is the Heir of all the Ages. He enjoys perfect Liberty. He

has the right to choose freely which he will do - Submit or Starve.

Eat dirt or eat nothing.

The wind blew colder and colder. The sky, which at first had shown

small patches of blue through rifts in the masses of clouds, had now

become uniformly grey. There was every indication of an impending

fall of snow.

The men perceived this with conflicting feelings. If it did commence

to snow, they would not be able to continue this work, and therefore

they found themselves involuntarily wishing that it would snow, or

rain, or hail, or anything that would stop the work. But on the other

hand, if the weather prevented them getting on with the outside, some

of them would have to `stand off’, because the inside was practically

finished. None of them wished to lose any time if they could possibly

help it, because there were only ten days more before Christmas.

The morning slowly wore away and the snow did not fall. The hands

worked on in silence, for they were in no mood for talking, and not

only that, but they were afraid that Hunter or Rushton or Crass might

be watching them from behind some bush or tree, or through some of the

windows. This dread possessed them to such an extent that most of

them were almost afraid even to look round, and kept steadily on at

work. None of them wished to spoil his chance of being kept on to

help to do the other house that it was reported Rushton & Co. were

going to `do up’ for Mr Sweater.

Twelve o’clock came at last, and Crass’s whistle had scarcely ceased

to sound before they all assembled in the kitchen before the roaring

fire. Sweater had sent in two tons of coal and had given orders that

fires were to be lit every day in nearly every room to make the house

habitable by Christmas.

`I wonder if it’s true as the firm’s got another job to do for old

Sweater?’ remarked Harlow as he was toasting a bloater on the end of

the pointed stick.

`True? No!’ said the man on the pail scornfully. `It’s all bogy. You

know that empty ‘ouse as they said Sweater ‘ad bought - the one that

Rushton and Nimrod was seen lookin’ at?’

`Yes,’ replied Harlow. The other men listened with evident interest.

`Well, they wasn’t pricing it up after all! T he landlord of that

‘ouse is abroad, and there was some plants in the garden as Rushton

thought ‘e’d like, and ‘e was tellin’ Misery which ones ‘e wanted.

And afterwards old Pontius Pilate came up with Ned Dawson and a truck.

They made two or three journeys and took bloody near everything in the

garden as was worth takin’. What didn’t go to Rushton’s place went to

‘Unter’s.’

The disappointment of their hopes for another job was almost forgotten

in their interest in this story.

`Who told you about it?’ said Harlow.

`Ned Dawson ‘imself. It’s right enough what I say. Ask ‘im.’

Ned Dawson, usually called `Bundy’s mate’, had been away from the

house for a few days down at the yard doing odd jobs, and had only

come back to the `Cave’ that morning. On being appealed to, he

corroborated Dick Wantley’s statement.

`They’ll be gettin’ theirselves into trouble if they ain’t careful,’

remarked Easton.

`Oh, no they won’t, Rushton’s too artful for that. It seems the agent

is a pal of ‘is, and they worked it between ‘em.’

`Wot a bloody cheek, though!’ exclaimed Harlow.

`Oh, that’s nothing to some of the things I’ve known ‘em do before

now,’ said the man on the pail. `Why, don’t you remember, back in the

summer, that carved hoak hall table as Rushton pinched out of that

‘ouse on Grand Parade?’

`Yes; that was a bit of all right too, wasn’t it?’ cried Philpot, and

several of the others laughed.

`You know, that big ‘ouse we did up last summer - No. 596,’ Wantley

continued, for the benefit of those not `in the know’. `Well, it ‘ad

bin empty for a long time and we found this ‘ere table in a cupboard

under the stairs. A bloody fine table it was too. One of them

bracket tables what you fix to the wall, without no legs. It ‘ad a

‘arf-round marble top to it, and underneath was a carved hoak figger,

a mermaid, with ‘er arms up over ‘er ‘ead ‘oldin’ up the table top -

something splendid!’ The man on the pail waxed enthusiastic as he

thought of it. `Must ‘ave been worth at least five quid. Well, just

as we pulled this ‘ere table out, who should come in but Rushton, and

when ‘e seen it, ‘e tells Crass to cover it over with a sack and not

to let nobody see it. And then ‘e clears orf to the shop and sends

the boy down with the truck and ‘as it took up to ‘is own ‘ouse, and

it’s there now, fixed in the front ‘all. I was sent up there a couple

of months ago to paint and varnish the lobby doors and I seen it

meself. There’s a pitcher called “The Day of Judgement” ‘angin’ on

the wall just over it - thunder and lightning and earthquakes and

corpses gettin’ up out o’ their graves - something bloody ‘orrible!

And underneath the picture is a card with a tex out of the Bible -

“Christ is the ‘ead of this ‘ouse: the unknown guest at every meal.

The silent listener to every conversation.” I was workin’ there for

three or four days and I got to know it orf by ‘eart.’

`Well, that takes the biskit, don’t it?’ said Philpot.

`Yes: but the best of it was,’ the man on the pail proceeded, `the

best of it was, when ole Misery ‘eard about the table, ‘e was so

bloody wild because ‘e didn’t get it ‘imself that ‘e went upstairs and

pinched one of the venetian blinds and ‘ad it took up to ‘is own ‘ouse

by the boy, and a few days arterwards one of the carpenters ‘ad to go

and fix it up in ‘is bedroom.’

`And wasn’t it never found out?’ inquired Easton.

`Well, there was a bit of talk about it. The agent wanted to know

where it was, but Pontius Pilate swore black and white as there ‘adn’t

been no blind in that room, and the end of it was that the firm got

the order to supply a new one.’

`What I can’t understand is, who did the table belong to?’ said

Harlow.

`It was a fixture belongin’ to the ‘ouse,’ replied Wantley. `But I

suppose the former tenants had some piece of furniture of their own

that they wanted to put in the ‘all where this table was fixed, so

they took it down and stored it away in this ‘ere cupboard, and when

they left the ‘ouse I suppose they didn’t trouble to put it back

again. Anyway, there was the mark on the wall where it used to be

fixed, but when we did the staircase down, the place was papered over,

and I suppose the landlord or the agent never give the table a

thought. Anyhow, Rushton got away with it all right.’

A number of similar stories were related by several others concerning

the doings of different employers they had worked for, but after a

time the conversation reverted to the subject that was uppermost in

their thoughts - the impending slaughter, and the improbability of

being able to obtain another job, considering the large number of men

who were already out of employment.

`I can’t make it out, myself,’ remarked Easton. `Things seems to get

worse every year. There don’t seem to be ‘arf the work about that

there used to be, and even what there is is messed up anyhow, as if

the people who ‘as it done can’t afford to pay for it.’

`Yes,’ said Harlow; `that’s true enough. Why, just look at the work

that’s in one o’ them ‘ouses on the Grand Parade. People must ‘ave

‘ad more money to spend in those days, you know; all those massive

curtain cornishes over the drawing-and dining-room winders - gilded

solid! Why, nowadays they’d want all the bloody ‘ouse done down right

through - inside and out, for the money it cost to gild one of them.’

`It seems that nearly everybody is more or less ‘ard up nowadays,’

said Philpot. `I’m jiggered if I can understand it, but there it is.’

`You should ast Owen to explain it to yer,’ remarked Crass with a

jeering laugh. `‘E knows all about wot’s the cause of poverty, but ‘e

won’t tell nobody. ‘E’s been GOIN’ to tell us wot it is for a long

time past, but it don’t seem to come orf.’

Crass had not yet had an opportunity of producing the Obscurer

cutting, and he made this remark in the hope of turning the

conversation into a channel that would enable him to do so. But Owen

did not respond, and went on reading his newspaper.

`We ain’t ‘ad no lectures at all lately, ‘ave we?’ said Harlow in an

injured tone. `I think it’s about time Owen explained what the real

cause of poverty is. I’m beginning to get anxious about it.’

The others laughed.

When Philpot had finished eating his dinner he went out of the kitchen

and presently returned with a small pair of steps, which he opened and

placed in a corner of the room, with the back of the steps facing the

audience.

`There you are, me son!’ he exclaimed to Owen. `There’s a pulpit for

yer.’

`Yes! come on ‘ere!’ cried Crass, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for

the cutting. `Tell us wot’s the real cause of poverty.’