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

the door open.’

Philpot, muttering something about it being all the same to him - shut

or open - got down from the steps and opened the door. Hunter went

out again without making any further remark and once more began

crawling over the house.

Owen was working by himself in a room on the same floor as Philpot.

He was at the window, burning off with a paraffin torch-lamp those

parts of the old paintwork that were blistered and cracked.

In this work the flame of the lamp is directed against the old paint,

which becomes soft and is removed with a chisel knife, or a scraper

called a shavehook. The door was ajar and he had opened the top sash

of the window for the purpose of letting in some fresh air, because

the atmosphere of the room was foul with the fumes of the lamp and

the smell of the burning paint, besides being heavy with moisture.

The ceiling had only just been water washed and the walls had just been

stripped. The old paper, saturated with water, was piled up in a heap

in the middle of the floor.

Presently, as he was working he began to feel conscious of some other

presence in the room; he looked round. The door was open about six

inches and in the opening appeared a long, pale face with a huge chin,

surmounted by a bowler hat and ornamented with a large red nose, a

drooping moustache and two small, glittering eyes set very close

together. For some seconds this apparition regarded Owen intently,

then it was silently withdrawn, and he was again alone. He had been

so surprised and startled that he had nearly dropped the lamp, and now

that the ghastly countenance was gone, Owen felt the blood surge into

his own cheeks. He trembled with suppressed fury and longed to be

able to go out there on the landing and hurl the lamp into Hunter’s

face.

Meanwhile, on the landing outside Owen’s door, Hunter stood thinking.

Someone must be got rid of to make room for the cheap man tomorrow.

He had hoped to catch somebody doing something that would have served

as an excuse for instant dismissal, but there was now no hope of that

happening. What was to be done? He would like to get rid of Linden,

who was now really too old to be of much use, but as the old man had

worked for Rushton on and off for many years, Hunter felt that he

could scarcely sack him off hand without some reasonable pretext.

Still, the fellow was really not worth the money he was getting.

Sevenpence an hour was an absurdly large wage for an old man like him.

It was preposterous: he would have to go, excuse or no excuse.

Hunter crawled downstairs again.

Jack Linden was about sixty-seven years old, but like Philpot, and as

is usual with working men, he appeared older, because he had had to

work very hard all his life, frequently without proper food and

clothing. His life had been passed in the midst of a civilization

which he had never been permitted to enjoy the benefits of. But of

course he knew nothing about all this. He had never expected or

wished to be allowed to enjoy such things; he had always been of

opinion that they were never intended for the likes of him. He called

himself a Conservative and was very patriotic.

At the time when the Boer War commenced, Linden was an enthusiastic

jingo: his enthusiasm had been somewhat damped when his youngest son,

a reservist, had to go to the front, where he died of fever and

exposure. When this soldier son went away, he left his wife and two

children, aged respectively four and five years at that time, in his

father’s care. After he died they stayed on with the old people. The

young woman earned a little occasionally by doing needlework, but was

really dependent on her father-in-law. Notwithstanding his poverty,

he was glad to have them in the house, because of late years his wife

had been getting very feeble, and, since the shock occasioned by the

news of the death of her son, needed someone constantly with her.

Linden was still working at the vestibule doors when the manager came

downstairs. Misery stood watching him for some minutes without

speaking. At last he said loudly:

`How much longer are you going to be messing about those doors? Why

don’t you get them under colour? You were fooling about there when I

was here this morning. Do you think it’ll pay to have you playing

about there hour after hour with a bit of pumice stone? Get the work

done! Or if you don’t want to, I’ll very soon find someone else who

does! I’ve been noticing your style of doing things for some time

past and I want you to understand that you can’t play the fool with

me. There’s plenty of better men than you walking about. If you

can’t do more than you’ve been doing lately you can clear out; we can

do without you even when we’re busy.’

Old Jack trembled. He tried to answer, but was unable to speak. If

he had been a slave and had failed to satisfy his master, the latter

might have tied him up somewhere and thrashed him. Hunter could not

do that; he could only take his food away. Old Jack was frightened -

it was not only HIS food that might be taken away. At last, with a

great effort, for the words seemed to stick in his throat, he said:

`I must clean the work down, sir, before I go on painting.’

`I’m not talking about what you’re doing, but the time it takes you to

do it!’ shouted Hunter. `And I don’t want any back answers or argument

about it. You must move yourself a bit quicker or leave it alone

altogether.’

Linden did not answer: he went on with his work, his hand trembling to

such an extent that he was scarcely able to hold the pumice stone.

Hunter shouted so loud that his voice filled all the house. Everyone

heard and was afraid. Who would be the next? they thought.

Finding that Linden made no further answer, Misery again began walking

about the house.

As he looked at them the men did their work in a nervous, clumsy,

hasty sort of way. They made all sorts of mistakes and messes.

Payne, the foreman carpenter, was putting some new boards on a part of

the drawing-room floor: he was in such a state of panic that, while

driving a nail, he accidentally struck the thumb of his left hand a

severe blow with his hammer. Bundy was also working in the drawing-room putting some white-glazed tiles in the fireplace. Whilst cutting

one of these in half in order to fit it into its place, he inflicted a

deep gash on one of his fingers. He was afraid to leave off to bind

it up while Hunter was there, and consequently as he worked the white

tiles became all smeared and spattered with blood. Easton, who was

working with Harlow on a plank, washing off the old distemper from the

hall ceiling, was so upset that he was scarcely able to stand on the

plank, and presently the brush fell from his trembling hand with a

crash upon the floor.

Everyone was afraid. They knew that it was impossible to get a job

for any other firm. They knew that this man had the power to deprive

them of the means of earning a living; that he possessed the power to

deprive their children of bread.

Owen, listening to Hunter over the banisters upstairs, felt that he

would like to take him by the throat with one hand and smash his face

in with the other.

And then?

Why then he would be sent to gaol, or at the best he would lose his

employment: his food and that of his family would be taken away. That

was why he only ground his teeth and cursed and beat the wall with his

clenched fist. So! and so! and so!

If it were not for them!

Owen’s imagination ran riot.

First he would seize him by the collar with his left hand, dig his

knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall and then, with

his right fist, smash! smash! smash! until Hunter’s face was all cut

and covered with blood.

But then, what about those at home? Was it not braver and more manly

to endure in silence?

Owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, panting and exhausted.

Downstairs, Misery was still going to and fro in the house and walking

up and down in it. Presently he stopped to look at Sawkins’ work.

This man was painting the woodwork of the back staircase. Although

the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, Misery had given

orders that it was not to be cleaned before being painted.

`Just dust it down and slobber the colour on,’ he had said.

Consequently, when Crass made the paint, he had put into it an extra

large quantity of dryers. To a certain extent this destroyed the

`body’ of the colour: it did not cover well; it would require two

coats. When Hunter perceived this he was furious. He was sure it

could be made to do with one coat with a little care; he believed

Sawkins was doing it like this on purpose. Really, these men seemed

to have no conscience.

Two coats! and he had estimated for only three.

`Crass!’

`Yes, sir.’

`Come here!’

`Yes, sir.’

Crass came hurrying along.

`What’s the meaning of this? Didn’t I tell you to make this do with

one coat? Look at it!’

`It’s like this, sir,’ said Crass. `If it had been washed down -‘

`Washed down be damned,’ shouted Hunter. `The reason is that the

colour ain’t thick enough. Take the paint and put a little more body

in it and we’ll soon see whether it can be done or not. I can make it

cover if you can’t.’

Crass took the paint, and, superintended by Hunter, made it thicker.

Misery then seized the brush and prepared to demonstrate the

possibility of finishing the work with one coat. Crass and Sawkins

looked on in silence.

Just as Misery was about to commence he fancied he heard someone

whispering somewhere. He laid down the brush and crawled stealthily

upstairs to see who it was. Directly his back was turned Crass seized

a bottle of oil that was standing near and, tipping about half a pint

of it into the paint, stirred it up quickly. Misery returned almost

immediately: he had not caught anyone; it must have been fancy. He

took up the brush and began to paint. The result was worse than

Sawkins!

He messed and fooled about for some time, but could not make it come

right. At last he gave it up.

`I suppose it’ll have to have two coats after all,’ he said,

mournfully. `But it’s a thousand pities.’

He almost wept.

The firm would be ruined if things went on like this.

`You’d better go on with it,’ he said as he laid down the brush.

He began to walk about the house again. He wanted to go away now, but

he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of

the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his

bicycle