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

No one saw him go.

For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises

made by the hands as they worked. The musical ringing of Bundy’s

trowel, the noise of the carpenters’ hammers and saws and the

occasional moving of a pair of steps.

No one dared to speak.

At last Philpot could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty.

He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived.

He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he

looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front

room. Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to

attract his attention. Owen looked round and Philpot began to make

signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of

the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking

grotesquely the while. This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to

whether Hunter had departed. He shook his head and shrugged his

shoulders to intimate that he did not know.

Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the

banisters, listening breathlessly. `Was it gorn or not?’ he wondered.

He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen’s room, glancing left and right,

the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. `Do you

think it’s gorn?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen’s

door.

`I don’t know,’ replied Owen in a low tone.

Philpot wondered. He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for

Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he

was gone or not.

At last an idea came. He would go downstairs to get some more cement.

Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room

in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the

landing again.

`Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?’ he asked in a loud voice.

`No,’ replied Owen. `I’m not using it.’

`Then I suppose I’ll have to go down and get some. Is there anything

I can bring up for you?’

`No, thanks,’ replied Owen.

Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized

as a paintshop. Crass was there mixing some colour.

`I want a bit of stopping,’ Philpot said as he helped himself to some.

`Is the b—r gorn?’ whispered Crass.

`I don’t know,’ replied Philpot. `Where’s his bike?’

`‘E always leaves it outside the gate, so’s we can’t see it,’ replied

Crass.

`Tell you what,’ whispered Philpot, after a pause. `Give the boy a

hempty bottle and let ‘im go to the gate and look to the bikes there.

If Misery sees him ‘e can pretend to be goin’ to the shop for some

hoil.’

This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately:

the bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house a chorus

of thanksgiving burst forth.

`Thank Gord!’ said one.

`Hope the b—r falls orf and breaks ‘is bloody neck,’ said another.

`These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any

good yet,’ cried a third.

Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left

off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on

working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that

Misery’s presence inspired, they made better progress. A few of them

lit their pipes and smoked as they worked.

One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had

received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he

would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves. As a rule he did not

smoke when working; it was contrary to orders.

As Philpot was returning to work again he paused for a moment to

whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him

upstairs.

On reaching Philpot’s room the latter placed the step-ladder near the

cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed it to Linden with

the remark, `Get some of that acrost yer, matey; it’ll put yer right.’

While Linden was taking a hasty drink, Joe kept watch on the landing

outside in case Hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear.

When Linden was gone downstairs again, Philpot, having finished what

remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up the chimney, resumed the

work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls. He

must make a bit of a show tonight or there would be a hell of a row

when Misery came in the morning.

Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way. He felt like a beaten

dog.

He was more indignant on poor old Linden’s account than on his own,

and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation.

All his life it had been the same: incessant work under similar more

or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being

just able to avoid starvation.

And the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past;

darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough,

when he would be unable to work any more.

He thought of his child. Was he to be a slave and a drudge all his

life also?

it would be better for the boy to die now.

As Owen thought of his child’s future there sprung up within him a

feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fellow workmen.

THEY WERE THE ENEMY. Those who not only quietly submitted like so

many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and

opposed and ridiculed any suggestion to alter it.

THEY WERE THE REAL OPPRESSORS - the men who spoke of themselves as

`The likes of us,’ who, having lived in poverty and degradation all

their lives considered that what had been good enough for them was

good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into

existence.

He hated and despised them because the calmly saw their children

condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberately

refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than

those they had themselves.

It was because they were indifferent to the fate of THEIR children

that he would be unable to secure a natural and human life for HIS.

It was their apathy or active opposition that made it impossible to

establish a better system of society under which those who did their

fair share of the world’s work would be honoured and rewarded.

Instead of helping to do this, they abased themselves, and grovelled

before their oppressors, and compelled and taught their children to do

the same. THEY were the people who were really responsible for the

continuance of the present system.

Owen laughed bitterly to himself. What a very comical system it was.

Those who worked were looked upon with contempt, and subjected to

every possible indignity. Nearly everything they produced was taken

away from them and enjoyed by the people who did nothing. And then

the workers bowed down and grovelled before those who had robbed them

of the fruits of their labour and were childishly grateful to them for

leaving anything at all.

No wonder the rich despised them and looked upon them as dirt. They

WERE despicable. They WERE dirt. They admitted it and gloried in it.

While these thoughts were seething in Owen’s mind, his fellow workmen

were still patiently toiling on downstairs. Most of them had by this

time dismissed Hunter from their thoughts. They did not take things

so seriously as Owen. They flattered themselves that they had more

sense than that. It could not be altered. Grin and bear it. After

all, it was only for life! Make the best of things, and get your own

back whenever you get a chance.

Presently Harlow began to sing. He had a good voice and it was a good

song, but his mates just then did not appreciate either one of the

other. His singing was the signal for an outburst of exclamations and

catcalls.

`Shut it, for Christ’s sake!’

`That’s enough of that bloody row!’

And so on. Harlow stopped.

`How’s the enemy?’ asked Easton presently, addressing no one in

particular.

`Don’t know,’ replied Bundy. `It must be about half past four. Ask

Slyme; he’s got a watch,’

It was a quarter past four.

`It gets dark very early now,’ said Easton.

`Yes,’ replied Bundy. `It’s been very dull all day. I think it’s

goin’ to rain. Listen to the wind.’

`I ‘ope not,’ replied Easton. `That means a wet shirt goin’ ‘ome.’

He called out to old Jack Linden, who was still working at the front

doors:

`Is it raining, Jack?’

Old Jack, his pipe still in his mouth, turned to look at the weather.

It was raining, but Linden did not see the large drops which splashed

heavily upon the ground. He saw only Hunter, who was standing at the

gate, watching him. For a few seconds the two men looked at each

other in silence. Linden was paralysed with fear. Recovering

himself, he hastily removed his pipe, but it was too late.

Misery strode up.

`I don’t pay you for smoking,’ he said, loudly. `Make out your time

sheet, take it to the office and get your money. I’ve had enough of

you!’

Jack made no attempt to defend himself: he knew it was of no use. He

silently put aside the things he had been using, went into the room

where he had left his tool-bag and coat, removed his apron and white

jacket, folded them up and put them into his tool-bag along with the

tools he had been using - a chisel-knife and a shavehook - put on his

coat, and, with the tool-bag slung over his shoulder, went away from

the house.

Without speaking to anyone else, Hunter then hastily walked over the

place, noting what progress had been made by each man during his

absence. He then rode away, as he wanted to get to the office in time

to give Linden his money.

It was now very cold and dark within the house, and as the gas was not

yet laid on, Crass distributed a number of candles to the men, who

worked silently, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts. Who

would be the next?

Outside, sombre masses of lead-coloured clouds gathered ominously in

the tempestuous sky. The gale roared loudly round the old-fashioned

house and the windows rattled discordantly. Rain fell in torrents.

They said it meant getting wet through going home, but all the same,

Thank God it was nearly five o’clock!