The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  ‘Yes: I reckon that’s what’ll be the end of it,’ said Easton in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘It’s a grand finish, isn’t it?’ observed Owen. ‘After working hard all one’s life to be treated like a criminal at the end.’

  ‘I don’t know what you call bein’ treated like criminals,’ exclaimed Crass. ‘I reckon they ’as a bloody fine time of it, an’ we’ve got to find the money.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t start no more arguments,’ cried Harlow, addressing Owen. ‘We ’ad enough of that last week. You can’t expect a boss to employ a man when ’e’s too old to work.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Crass.

  Philpot said – nothing.

  ‘I don’t see no sense in always grumblin’,’ Crass proceeded. ‘These things can’t be altered. You can’t expect there can be plenty of work for everyone with all this ’ere labour-savin’ machinery what’s been invented.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Harlow, ‘the people what used to be employed on the work what’s now done by machinery, has to find something else to do. Some of ’em goes to our trade, for instance: the result is there’s too many at it, and there ain’t enough work to keep ’em all goin’.’

  ‘Yes,’ cried Crass, eagerly. ‘That’s just what I say. Machinery is the real cause of all the poverty. That’s what I said the other day.’

  ‘Machinery is undoubtedly the cause of unemployment,’ replied Owen, ‘but it’s not the cause of poverty: that’s another matter altogether.’

  The others laughed derisively.

  ‘Well, it seems to me to amount to the same thing,’ said Harlow, and nearly everyone agreed.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to me to amount to the same thing,’ Owen replied. ‘In my opinion, we are all in a state of poverty even when we have employment – the condition we are reduced to when we’re out of work is more properly described as destitution.’

  ‘Poverty,’ continued Owen after a short silence, ‘consists in a shortage of the necessaries of life. When those things are so scarce or so dear that people are unable to obtain sufficient of them to satisfy all their needs, those people are in a condition of poverty. If you think that the machinery, which makes it possible to produce all the necessaries of life in abundance, is the cause of the shortage, it seems to me that there must be something the matter with your minds.’

  ‘Oh, of course we’re all bloody fools except you,’ snarled Crass. ‘When they were servin’ out the sense, they give you such a ’ell of a lot, there wasn’t none left for nobody else.’

  ‘If there wasn’t something wrong with your minds,’ continued Owen, ‘you would be able to see that we might have “Plenty of Work” and yet be in a state of destitution. The miserable wretches who toil sixteen or eighteen hours a day – father, mother and even the little children – making match-boxes, or shirts or blouses, have “plenty of work”, but I for one don’t envy them. Perhaps you think that if there was no machinery and we all had to work thirteen or fourteen hours a day in order to obtain a bare living, we should not be in a condition of poverty? Talk about there being something the matter with your minds! If there were not, you wouldn’t talk one day about Tariff Reform as a remedy for unemployment and then the next day admit that Machinery is the cause of it! Tariff Reform won’t do away with the machinery, will it?’

  ‘Tariff Reform is the remedy for bad trade,’ returned Crass.

  ‘In that case Tariff Reform is the remedy for a disease that does not exist. If you would only take the trouble to investigate for yourself you would find out that trade was never so good as it is at present: the output – the quantity of commodities of every kind – produced in and exported from this country is greater than it has ever been before. The fortunes amassed in business are larger than ever before: but at the same time – owing, as you have just admitted – to the continued introduction and extended use of wages-saving machinery, the number of human beings employed is steadily decreasing. I have here,’ continued Owen, taking out his pocket-book, ‘some figures which I copied from the Daily Mail Year Book for 1907, page 33:

  ‘“It is a very noticeable fact that although the number of factories and their value have vastly increased in the United Kingdom, there is an absolute decrease in the number of men and women employed in those factories between 1895 and 1901. This is doubtless due to the displacement of hand labour by machinery!”

  ‘Will Tariff Reform deal with that? Are the good, kind capitalists going to abandon the use of wages-saving machinery if we tax all foreign-made goods? Does what you call “Free Trade” help us here? Or do you think that abolishing the House of Lords, or disestablishing the Church, will enable the workers who are displaced to obtain employment? Since it is true – as you admit – that machinery is the principal cause of unemployment, what are you going to do about it? What’s your remedy?’

  No one answered, because none of them knew of any remedy: and Crass began to feel sorry that he had re-introduced the subject at all.

  ‘In the near future,’ continued Owen, ‘it is probable that horses will be almost entirely superseded by motor cars and electric trams. As the services of horses will be no longer required, all but a few of those animals will be caused to die out: they will no longer be bred to the same extent as formerly. We can’t blame the horses for allowing themselves to be exterminated. They have not sufficient intelligence to understand what’s being done. Therefore they will submit tamely to the extinction of the greater number of their kind.

  ‘As we have seen, a great deal of the work which was formerly done by human beings is now being done by machinery. This machinery belongs to a few people: it is being worked for the benefit of those few, just the same as were the human beings it displaced. These Few have no longer any need of the services of so many human workers, so they propose to exterminate them! The unnecessary human beings are to be allowed to starve to death! And they are also to be taught that it is wrong to marry and breed children, because the Sacred Few do not require so many people to work for them as before!’

  ‘Yes, and you’ll never be able to prevent it, mate!’ shouted Crass.

  ‘Why can’t we?’

  ‘Because it can’t be done!’ cried Crass fiercely. ‘It’s impossible!’

  ‘You’re always sayin’ that everything’s all wrong,’ complained Harlow, ‘but why the ’ell don’t you tell us ’ow they’re goin’ to be put right?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to me as if any of you really wish to know. I believe that even if it were proved that it could be done, most of you would be sorry and would do all you could to prevent it.’

  ‘’E don’t know ’isself,’ sneered Crass. ‘Accordin’ to ’im, Tariff Reform ain’t no bloody good – Free Trade ain’t no bloody good, and everybody else is wrong! But when you arst ’im what ought to be done – ’e’s flummuxed.’

  Crass did not feel very satisfied with the result of this machinery argument, but he consoled himself with the reflection that he would be able to flatten out his opponent on another subject. The cutting from the Obscurer which he had in his pocket would take a bit of answering! When you have a thing in print – in black and white – why there it is, and you can’t get away from it! If it wasn’t all right, a paper like that would never have printed it. However, as it was now nearly half past eight, he resolved to defer this triumph till another occasion. It was too good a thing to be disposed of in a hurry.

  8

  The Cap on the Stairs

  After breakfast, when they were working together in the drawing-room, Easton, desiring to do Owen a good turn, thought he would put him on his guard, and repeated to him in a whisper the substance of the conversation he had held with Crass concerning him.

  ‘Of course, you needn’t mention that I told you, Frank,’ he said, ‘but I thought I ought to let you know: you can take it from me, Crass ain’t no friend of yours.’

  ‘I’ve known that for a long time, mate,’ replied Owen. ‘Thanks for telling me, all the sa
me.’

  ‘The bloody rotter’s no friend of mine either, or anyone else’s, for that matter,’ Easton continued, ‘but of course it doesn’t do to fall out with ’im because you never know what he’d go and say to old ’Unter.’

  ‘Yes, one has to remember that.’

  ‘Of course we all know what’s the matter with ’im as far as you’re concerned,’ Easton went on. ‘He don’t like ’avin’ anyone on the firm wot knows more about the work than ’e does ’imself – thinks ’e might git worked out of ’is job.’

  Owen laughed bitterly.

  ‘He needn’t be afraid of me on that account. I wouldn’t have his job if it were offered to me.’

  ‘But ’e don’t think so,’ replied Easton, ‘and that’s why ’e’s got ’is knife into you.’

  ‘I believe that what he said about Hunter is true enough,’ said Owen. ‘Every time he comes here he tries to goad me into doing or saying something that would give him an excuse to tell me to clear out. I might have done it before now if I had not guessed what he was after, and been on my guard.’

  Meantime, Crass, in the kitchen, had resumed his seat by the fire with the purpose of finishing his pipe of tobacco. Presently he took out his pocket-book and began to write in it with a piece of black-lead pencil. When the pipe was smoked out he knocked the bowl against the grate to get rid of the ash, and placed the pipe in his waistcoat pocket. Then, having torn out the leaf on which he had been writing, he got up and went into the pantry, where Bert was still struggling with the old whitewash.

  ‘Ain’t yer nearly finished? I don’t want yer to stop in ’ere all day, yer know.’

  ‘I ain’t got much more to do now,’ said the boy. ‘Just this bit under the bottom shelf and then I’m done.’

  ‘Yes, and a bloody fine mess you’ve made, what I can see of it!’ growled Crass. ‘Look at all this water on the floor!’

  Bert looked guiltily at the floor and turned very red.

  ‘I’ll clean it all up,’ he stammered. ‘As soon as I’ve got this bit of wall done, I’ll wipe all the mess up with the swab.’

  Crass now took a pot of paint and some brushes and, having put some more fuel on the fire, began in a leisurely way to paint some of the woodwork in the kitchen. Presently Bert came in.

  ‘I’ve finished out there,’ he said.

  ‘About time, too. You’ll ’ave to look a bit livelier than you do, you know, or me and you will fall out.’

  Bert did not answer.

  ‘Now I’ve got another job for yer. You’re fond of drorin, ain’t yer?’ continued Crass in a jeering tone.

  ‘Yes, a little,’ replied the boy, shamefacedly.

  ‘Well,’ said Crass, giving him the leaf he had torn out of the pocket-book, ‘you can go to the yard and git them things and put ’em on a truck and dror it up ’ere, and git back as soon as you can. Just look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. I don’t want you to make no mistakes.’

  Bert took the paper and with some difficulty read as follows:

  1 pare steppes 8 foot

  ½ galoon Plastor off perish

  1 pale off witewosh

  12 lbs wite led

  ½ galoon Linsede Hoil

  Do. Do. turps

  ‘I can make it out all right.’

  ‘You’d better bring the big truck,’ said Crass, ‘because I want you to take the venetian blinds with you on it when you take it back tonight. They’ve got to be painted at the shop.’

  ‘All right.’

  When the boy had departed Crass took a stroll through the house to see how the others were getting on. Then he returned to the kitchen and proceeded with his work.

  Crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rather above middle height and rather stout. He had a considerable quantity of curly black hair and wore a short beard of the same colour. His head was rather large, but low, and flat on the top. When among his cronies he was in the habit of referring to his obesity as the result of good nature and a contented mind. Behind his back other people attributed it to beer, some even going so far as to nickname him the ‘tank’.

  There was no work of a noisy kind being done this morning. Both the carpenters and the bricklayers having been taken away, temporarily, to another ‘job’. At the same time there was not absolute silence: occasionally Crass could hear the voices of the other workmen as they spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. Now and then Harlow’s voice rang through the house as he sang snatches of music-hall songs or a verse of a Moody and Sankey hymn, and occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupted the singer with squeals and catcalls. Once or twice Crass was on the point of telling them to make less row: there would be a fine to-do if Nimrod came and heard them. Just as he had made up his mind to tell them to stop the noise, it ceased of itself and he heard loud whispers:

  ‘Look out! Someone’s comin’.’

  The house became very quiet.

  Crass put out his pipe and opened the window and the back door to get rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. Then he shifted the pair of steps noisily, and proceeded to work more quickly than before. Most likely it was old Misery.

  He worked on for some time in silence, but no one came to the kitchen: whoever it was must have gone upstairs. Crass listened attentively. Who could it be? He would have liked to go to see whom it was, but at the same time, if it were Nimrod, Crass wished to be discovered at work. He therefore waited a little longer and presently he heard the sound of voices upstairs but was unable to recognize them. He was just about to go out into the passage to listen, when whoever it was began coming downstairs. Crass at once resumed his work. The footsteps came along the passage leading to the kitchen: slow, heavy, ponderous footsteps, but yet the sound was not such as would be made by a man heavily shod. It was not Misery, evidently.

  As the footsteps entered the kitchen, Crass looked round and beheld a very tall, obese figure, with a large, fleshy, coarse-featured, clean-shaven face, and a great double chin, the complexion being of the colour and appearance of the fat of uncooked bacon. A very large fleshy nose and weak-looking pale blue eyes, the slightly inflamed lids being almost destitute of eye-lashes. He had large fat feet cased in soft calfskin boots, with drab-coloured spats. His overcoat, heavily trimmed with sealskin, reached just below the knees, and although the trousers were very wide they were filled by the fat legs within, the shape of the calves being distinctly perceptible. Even as the feet seemed about to burst the uppers of the boots, so the legs appeared to threaten the trousers with disruption. This man was so large that his figure completely filled up the doorway, and as he came in he stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glittering silk hat on his head. One gloved hand was thrust into the pocket of the overcoat and in the other he carried a small Gladstone bag.

  When Crass beheld this being, he touched his cap respectfully.

  ‘Good morning, sir!’

  ‘Good morning. They told me upstairs that I should find the foreman here. Are you the foreman?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see you’re getting on with the work here.’

  ‘Ho yes, sir, we’re beginning to make a bit hov a show now, sir,’ replied Crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth.

  ‘Mr Rushton isn’t here yet, I suppose?’

  ‘No, sir: ’e don’t horfun come hon the job hin the mornin’, sir; ’e generally comes hafternoons, sir, but Mr ’Unter’s halmost sure to be ’ere presently, sir.’

  ‘It’s Mr Rushton I want to see: I arranged to meet him here at ten o’clock; but’ – looking at his watch – ‘I’m rather before my time.

  ‘He’ll be here presently, I suppose,’ added Mr Sweater. ‘I’ll just take a look round till he comes.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ responded Crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went out of the room.

  Hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, Crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what progr
ess had so far been made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered only by monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen.

  Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman’s room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the price of a little light refreshment.

  ‘I think,’ he remarked, ‘that we oughter see-ise this ’ere tuneropperty to touch ’im for an allowance.’

  ‘We won’t git nothin’ out of ’im, mate,’ returned Newman. ‘’E’s a red-’ot teetotaller.’

  ‘That don’t matter. ’Ow’s ’e to know that we buys beer with it? We might ’ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all ’e knows!’

  Mr Sweater now began ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently came into the room where Philpot was. The latter greeted him with respectful cordiality:

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning. You’ve begun painting up here, then.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’ve made a start on it,’ replied Philpot, affably.

  ‘Is this door wet?’ asked Sweater, glancing apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the great man, ‘the paint is wet, sir, but the painters is dry.’

  ‘Confound it!’ exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter part of Philpot’s reply. ‘I’ve got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing, sir,’ cried Philpot, secretly delighted. ‘I’ll get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just ’arf a mo!’

  He had a piece of clean rag in his tool-bag, and there was a can of turps in the room. Moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint from Sweater’s sleeve.

  ‘It’s all orf now, sir,’ he remarked, as he rubbed the place with a dry part of the rag. ‘The smell of the turps will go away in about a hour’s time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sweater.