The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  ‘But then you see we ain’t shipwrecked on no dissolute island at all,’ sneered Crass. ‘That’s the worst of your arguments. You can’t never get very far without supposing some bloody ridiclus thing or other. Never mind about supposing things wot ain’t true; let’s ’ave facts and common sense.’

  ‘’Ear, ’ear,’ said old Linden. ‘That’s wot we want – a little common sense.’

  ‘What do you mean by poverty, then?’ asked Easton.

  ‘What I call poverty is when people are not able to secure for themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries, comforts, pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres, pictures, music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good and pleasant food.’

  Everybody laughed. It was so ridiculous. The idea of the likes of them wanting or having such things! Any doubts that any of them had entertained as to Owen’s sanity disappeared. The man was as mad as a March hare.

  ‘If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare necessaries of existence, that man’s family is living in poverty. Since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just as well be a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is deprived. What we call civilization – the accumulation of knowledge which has come down to us from our forefathers – is the fruit of thousands of years of human thought and toil. It is not the result of the labour of the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. Every little child that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or dull, whether he is physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much he may excel or fall short of his fellows in other respects, in one thing at least he is their equal – he is one of the heirs of all the ages that have gone before.’

  Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was not sane after all. He certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this. It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could not understand one half of it.

  ‘Why is it,’ continued Owen, ‘that we are not only deprived of our inheritance – we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to obtain even the bare necessaries of existence?’

  No one answered.

  ‘All these things,’ Owen proceeded, ‘are produced by those who work. We do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of the things that are made by work.’

  The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the overpopulation theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such a fool as Owen?

  Sawkins pretended to be asleep.

  Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious.

  ‘As things are now,’ went on Owen, ‘instead of enjoying the advantages of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always had food and –’

  ‘Oh, I don’t see that,’ roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been listening with evident anger and impatience. ‘You can speak for yourself, but I can tell yer I don’t put myself down as a slave.’

  ‘Nor me neither,’ said Crass sturdily. ‘Let them call their selves slaves as wants to.’

  At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the kitchen. Old Misery! or perhaps the Bloke himself! Crass hurriedly pulled out his watch.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he gasped. ‘It’s four minutes past one!’

  Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps and began wandering about the room with them.

  Sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and, snatching a piece of sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously rubbing down the scullery door.

  Easton threw down the copy of the Obscurer and scrambled hastily to his feet.

  The boy crammed the Chronicles of Crime into his trousers pocket.

  Crass rushed over to the bucket and began stirring up the stale whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was simply appalling.

  Consternation reigned.

  They looked like a gang of malefactors suddenly interrupted in the commission of a crime.

  The door opened. It was only Bundy returning from his mission to the Bookie.

  2

  Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord

  Mr Hunter, as he was called to his face and as he was known to his brethren at the Shining Light Chapel, where he was superintendent of the Sunday School, or ‘Misery’ or ‘Nimrod’, as he was named behind his back by the workmen over whom he tyrannized, was the general or walking foreman or ‘manager’ of the firm whose card is herewith presented to the reader:

  There were a number of sub-foremen or ‘coddies’, but Hunter was the foreman.

  He was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered, bony form. His long, thin legs, about which the baggy trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed and terminated in large, flat feet. His arms were very long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. When he removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did to wipe away with a red handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle riding, it was seen that his forehead was high, flat and narrow. His nose was a large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the drooping moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workmen his exhortations to greater exertions. His chin was large and extraordinarily long. The eyes were pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. His head, covered with thick, coarse brown hair, was very large at the back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin.

  This man had been with Rushton – no one had ever seen the ‘Co.’ – for fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the latter commenced business. Rushton had at that period realized the necessity of having a deputy who could be used to do all the drudgery and running about so that he himself might be free to attend to the more pleasant or more profitable matters. Hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point of starting on his own account, when Rushton offered him a constant job as foreman, two pounds a week, and two and a half per cent of the profits of all work done. On the face of it this appeared a generous offer. Hunter closed with it, gave up the idea of starting for himself, and threw himself heart and mind into the business. When an estimate was to be prepared it was Hunter who measured up the work and laboriously figured out the probable cost. When their tenders were accepted it was he who superintended the work and schemed how to scamp it, where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where there ought to have been cement, sheet zinc where they were supposed to put sheet lead, boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint where five were paid for. In fact, scamping the work was with this man a kind of mania. It grieved him to see anything done properly. Even when it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force of habit on having it scamped. Then he was almost happy, because he felt that he was doing someone down. If there were an architect superintending the work, Misery would square him or bluff him. If it were not possible to do either, at least he had a try; and in the intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye was ever on the look-out for fresh jobs. His long red nose was thrust into every estate agent’s office in the town in the endeavour to smell out what properties had r
ecently changed hands or been let, in order that he might interview the new owners and secure the order for whatever alterations or repairs might be required. He it was who entered into unholy compacts with numerous charwomen and nurses of the sick, who in return for a small commission would let him know when some poor sufferer was passing away and would recommend Rushton & Co. to the bereaved and distracted relatives. By these means often – after first carefully inquiring into the financial position of the stricken family – Misery would contrive to wriggle his unsavoury carcase into the house of sorrow, seeking, even in the chamber of death, to further the interests of Rushton & Co. and to earn his miserable two and a half per cent.

  It was to make possible the attainment of this object that Misery slaved and drove and schemed and cheated. It was for this that the workers’ wages were cut down to the lowest possible point and their offspring went ill clad, ill shod and ill fed, and were driven forth to labour while they were yet children, because their fathers were unable to earn enough to support their homes.

  Fifteen years!

  Hunter realized now that Rushton had had considerably the best of the bargain. In the first place, it will be seen that the latter had bought over one who might have proved a dangerous competitor, and now, after fifteen years, the business that had been so laboriously built up, mainly by Hunter’s energy, industry and unscrupulous cunning, belonged to Rushton & Co. Hunter was but an employee, liable to dismissal like any other workman, the only difference being that he was entitled to a week’s notice instead of an hour’s notice, and was but little better off financially than when he started for the firm.

  Fifteen years!

  Hunter knew now that he had been used, but he also knew that it was too late to turn back. He had not saved enough to make a successful start on his own account even if he had felt mentally and physically capable of beginning all over again, and if Rushton were to discharge him now he was too old to get a job as a journeyman. Further, in his zeal for Rushton & Co. and his anxiety to earn his commission, he had often done things that had roused the animosity of rival firms to such an extent that it was highly improbable that any of them would employ him, and even if they would, Misery’s heart failed him at the thought of having to meet on an equal footing those workmen whom he had tyrannized over and oppressed. It was for these reasons that Hunter was as terrified of Rushton as the hands were of himself.

  Over the men stood Misery, ever threatening them with dismissal and their wives and children with hunger. Behind Misery was Rushton, ever bullying and goading him on to greater excesses and efforts for the furtherance of the good cause – which was to enable the head of the firm to accumulate money.

  Mr Hunter, at the moment when the reader first makes his acquaintance on the afternoon of the day when the incidents recorded in the first chapter took place, was executing a kind of strategical movement in the direction of the house where Crass and his mates were working. He kept to one side of the road because by so doing he could not be perceived by those within the house until the instant of his arrival. When he was within about a hundred yards of the gate he dismounted from his bicycle, there being a sharp rise in the road just there, and as he toiled up, pushing the bicycle in front, his breath showing in white clouds in the frosty air, he observed a number of men hanging about. Some of them he knew; they had worked for him at various times, but were now out of a job. There were five men altogether; three of them were standing in a group, the other two stood each by himself, being apparently strangers to each other and the first three. The three men who stood together were nearest to Hunter and as the latter approached, one of them advanced to meet him.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  Hunter replied by an inarticulate grunt, without stopping; the man followed.

  ‘Any chance of a job, sir?’

  ‘Full up,’ replied Hunter, still without stopping. The man still followed, like a beggar soliciting charity.

  ‘Be any use calling in a day or so, sir?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Hunter replied. ‘Can if you like; but we’re full up.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the man, and turned back to his friends.

  By this time Hunter was within a few yards of one of the other two men, who also came to speak to him. This man felt there was no hope of getting a job; still, there was no harm in asking. Besides, he was getting desperate. It was over a month now since he had finished up for his last employer. It had been a very slow summer altogether. Sometimes a fortnight for one firm; then perhaps a week doing nothing; then three weeks or a month for another firm, then out again, and so on. And now it was November. Last winter they had got into debt; that was nothing unusual, but owing to the bad summer they had not been able, as in other years, to pay off the debts accumulated in winter. It was doubtful, too, whether they would be able to get credit again this winter. In fact this morning when his wife sent their little girl to the grocer’s for some butter the latter had refused to let the child have it without the money. So although he felt it to be hopeless he accosted Hunter.

  This time Hunter stopped: he was winded by his climb up the hill.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  Hunter did not return the salutation; he had not the breath to spare, but the man was not hurt; he was used to being treated like that.

  ‘Any chance of a job, sir?’

  Hunter did not reply at once. He was short of breath and he was thinking of a plan that was ever recurring to his mind, and which he had lately been hankering to put into execution. It seemed to him that the long waited for opportunity had come. Just now Rushton & Co. were almost the only firm in Mugsborough who had any work. There were dozens of good workmen out. Yes, this was the time. If this man agreed he would give him a start. Hunter knew the man was a good workman, he had worked for Rushton & Co. before. To make room for him old Linden and some other full-price man could be got rid of; it would not be difficult to find some excuse.

  ‘Well,’ Hunter said at last in a doubtful, hesitating kind of way, ‘I’m afraid not, Newman. We’re about full up.’

  He ceased speaking and remained waiting for the other to say something more. He did not look at the man, but stooped down, fidgeting with the mechanism of the bicycle as if adjusting it.

  ‘Things have been so bad this summer,’ Newman went on. ‘I’ve had rather a rough time of it. I would be very glad of a job even if it was only for a week or so.’

  There was a pause. After a while, Hunter raised his eyes to the other’s face, but immediately let them fall again.

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I might – perhaps – be able to let you have a day or two. You can come here to this job,’ and he nodded his head in the direction of the house where the men were working. ‘Tomorrow at seven. Of course you know the figure?’ he added as Newman was about to thank him. ‘Six and a half.’

  Hunter spoke as if the reduction were already an accomplished fact. The man was more likely to agree, if he thought that others were already working at the reduced rate.

  Newman was taken by surprise and hesitated. He had never worked under price; indeed, he had sometimes gone hungry rather than do so; but now it seemed that others were doing it. And then he was so awfully hard up. If he refused this job he was not likely to get another in a hurry. He thought of his home and his family. Already they owed five weeks’ rent, and last Monday the collector had hinted pretty plainly that the landlord would not wait much longer. Not only that, but if he did not get a job how were they to live? This morning he himself had had no breakfast to speak of, only a cup of tea and some dry bread. These thoughts crowded upon each other in his mind, but still he hesitated. Hunter began to move off.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you like to start you can come here at seven in the morning.’ Then as Newman still hesitated he added impatiently, ‘Are you coming or not?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Newman.

  ‘All right,’ said Hunter, affably. ‘I’ll tell Crass to have a kit ready for you.’
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  He nodded in a friendly way to the man, who went off feeling like a criminal.

  As Hunter resumed his march, well satisfied with himself, the fifth man, who had been waiting all this time, came to meet him. As he approached, Hunter recognized him as one who had started work for Rushton & Co. early in the summer, but who had left suddenly of his own accord, having taken offence at some bullying remark of Hunter’s.

  Hunter was glad to see this man. He guessed that the fellow must be very hard pressed to come again and ask for work after what had happened.

  ‘Any chance of a job, sir?’

  Hunter appeared to reflect.

  ‘I believe I have room for one,’ he said at length. ‘But you’re such an uncertain kind of chap. You don’t seem to care much whether you work or not. You’re too independent, you know; one can’t say two words to you but you must needs clear off.’

  The man made no answer.

  ‘We can’t tolerate that kind of thing, you know,’ Hunter added. ‘If we were to encourage men of your stamp we should never know where we are.’

  So saying, Hunter moved away and again proceeded on his journey.

  When he arrived within about three yards of the gate he noiselessly laid his machine against the garden fence. The high evergreens that grew inside still concealed him from the observation of anyone who might be looking out of the windows of the house. Then he carefully crept along till he came to the gate post, and bending down, he cautiously peeped round to see if he could detect anyone idling, or talking, or smoking. There was no one in sight except old Jack Linden, who was rubbing down the lobby doors with pumice-stone and water. Hunter noiselessly opened the gate and crept quietly along the grass border of the garden path. His idea was to reach the front door without being seen, so that Linden could not give notice of his approach to those within. In this he succeeded and passed silently into the house. He did not speak to Linden; to do so would have proclaimed his presence to the rest. He crawled stealthily over the house but was disappointed in his quest, for everyone he saw was hard at work. Upstairs he noticed that the door of one of the rooms was closed.