The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  Philpot looked at him wistfully, but Sweater evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room.

  ‘I see they’ve put a new piece of skirting here,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Newman, who came into the room just then to get the turps. ‘The old piece was all to bits with dry-rot.’

  ‘I feel as if I ’ad a touch of the dry-rot meself, don’t you?’ said Philpot to Newman, who smiled feebly and cast a sidelong glance at Sweater, who did not appear to notice the significance of the remark, but walked out of the room and began climbing up to the next floor, where Harlow and Sawkins were working.

  ‘Well, there’s a bleeder for yer!’ said Philpot with indignation. ‘After all the trouble I took to clean ’is coat! Not a bloody stiver! Well, it takes the cake, don’t it?’

  ‘I told you ’ow it would be, didn’t I?’ replied Newman.

  ‘P’raps I didn’t make it plain enough,’ said Philpot, thoughtfully. ‘We must try to get some of our own back somehow, you know.’

  Going out on the landing he called softly upstairs:

  ‘I say, Harlow.’

  ‘Hallo,’ said that individual, looking over the banisters.

  ‘’Ow are yer getting on up there?’

  ‘Oh, all right, you know.’

  ‘Pretty dry job, ain’t it?’ Philpot continued, raising his voice a little and winking at Harlow.

  ‘Yes, it is, rather,’ replied Harlow with a grin.

  ‘I think this would be a very good time to take up the collection, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it wouldn’t be a bad idear.’

  ‘Well, I’ll put me cap on the stairs,’ said Philpot, suiting the action to the word. ‘You never knows yer luck. Things is gettin’ a bit serious on this floor, you know; my mate’s fainted away once already!’

  Philpot now went back to his room to await developments: but as Sweater made no sign, he returned to the landing and again hailed Harlow.

  ‘I always reckon a man can work all the better after ’e’s ’ad a drink: you can seem to get over more of it, like.’

  ‘Oh, that’s true enough,’ responded Harlow. ‘I’ve often noticed it meself.’

  Sweater came out of the front bedroom and passed into one of the back rooms without any notice of either of the men.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a frost, mate,’ Harlow whispered, and Philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little while he came out again and once more accosted Harlow.

  ‘I knowed a case once,’ he said in a melancholy tone, ‘where a chap died – of thirst – on a job just like this; and at the inquest the doctor said as ’arf a pint would ’a saved ’im!’

  ‘It must ’ave been a norrible death,’ remarked Harlow.

  ‘’Orrible ain’t the word for it, mate,’ replied Philpot mournfully. ‘It was something chronic!’

  After this final heartrending appeal to Sweater’s humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their efforts, they had done their best. They had placed the matter fully and fairly before him: nothing more could be said: the issue now rested entirely with him.

  But it was all in vain. Sweater either did not or would not understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the cap which Philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floor.

  9

  Who is to Pay?

  Sweater reached the hall almost at the same moment that Rushton entered by the front door. They greeted each other in a friendly way and after a few remarks concerning the work that was being done, they went into the drawing-room where Owen and Easton were and Rushton said:

  ‘What about this room? Have you made up your mind what you’re going to have done to it?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Sweater; ‘but I’ll tell you about that afterwards. What I’m anxious about is the drains. Have you brought the plans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s it going to cost?’

  ‘Just wait a minute,’ said Rushton, with a slight gesture calling Sweater’s attention to the presence of the two workmen. Sweater understood.

  ‘You might leave that for a few minutes, will you?’ Rushton continued, addressing Owen and Easton. ‘Go and get on with something else for a little while.’

  When they were alone, Rushton closed the door and remarked: ‘It’s always as well not to let these fellows know more than is necessary.’

  Sweater agreed.

  ‘Now this ’ere drain work is really two separate jobs,’ said Rushton. ‘First, the drains of the house: that is, the part of the work that’s actually on your ground. When that’s done, there will ’ave to be a pipe carried right along under this private road to the main road to connect the drains of the house with the town main. You follow me?’

  ‘Perfectly. What’s it going to cost for the lot?’

  ‘For the drains of the house, £25.0.0. and for the connecting pipe £30.0.0. £55.0.0. for the lot.’

  ‘Um! That the lowest you can do it for, eh?’

  ‘That’s the lowest. I’ve figured it out most carefully, the time and materials, and that’s practically all I’m charging you.’

  The truth of the matter was that Rushton had had nothing whatever to do with estimating the cost of this work: he had not the necessary knowledge to do so. Hunter had drawn the plans, calculated the cost and prepared the estimate.

  ‘I’ve been thinking over this business lately,’ said Sweater, looking at Rushton with a cunning leer. ‘I don’t see why I should have to pay for the connecting pipe. The Corporation ought to pay for that. What do you say?’

  Rushton laughed. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied.

  ‘I think we could arrange it all right, don’t you?’ Sweater went on. ‘Anyhow, the work will have to be done, so you’d better let ’em get on with it. £55.0.0. covers both jobs, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, all right, you get on with it and we’ll see what can be done with the Corporation later on.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll find ’em very difficult to deal with,’ said Rushton with a grin, and Sweater smiled agreement.

  As they were passing through the hall they met Hunter, who had just arrived. He was rather surprised to see them, as he knew nothing of their appointment. He wished them ‘Good morning’ in an awkward hesitating undertone as if he were doubtful how his greeting would be received. Sweater nodded slightly, but Rushton ignored him altogether and Nimrod passed on looking and feeling like a disreputable cur that had just been kicked.

  As Sweater and Rushton walked together about the house, Hunter hovered about them at a respectful distance, hoping that presently some notice might be taken of him. His dismal countenance became even longer than usual when he observed that they were about to leave the house without appearing even to know that he was there. However, just as they were going out, Rushton paused on the threshold and called him:

  ‘Mr Hunter!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Nimrod ran to him like a dog taken notice of by his master: if he had possessed a tail, it is probable that he would have wagged it. Rushton gave him the plans with an intimation that the work was to be proceeded with.

  For some time after they were gone, Hunter crawled silently about the house, in and out of the rooms, up and down the corridors and the staircases. After a while he went into the room where Newman was and stood quietly watching him for about ten minutes as he worked. The man was painting the skirting, and just then he came to a part that was split in several places, so he took his knife and began to fill the cracks with putty. He was so nervous under Hunter’s scrutiny that his hand trembled to such an extent that it took him about twice as long as it should have done, and Hunter told him so with brutal directness.

  ‘Never mind about puttying up such little cracks as them!’ he shouted. ‘Fill ’em up with the paint. We can’t afford to pay you for messing about like that!’

  Newman made no reply.


  Misery found no excuse for bullying anyone else, because they were all tearing into it for all they were worth. As he wandered up and down the house like an evil spirit, he was followed by the furtively unfriendly glances of the men, who cursed him in their hearts as he passed.

  He sneaked into the drawing-room and after standing with a malignant expression, silently watching Owen and Easton, he came out again without having uttered a word.

  Although he frequently acted in this manner, yet somehow today the circumstance worried Owen considerably. He wondered uneasily what it meant, and began to feel vaguely apprehensive. Hunter’s silence seemed more menacing than his speech.

  10

  The Long Hill

  Bert arrived at the shop and with as little delay as possible loaded up the handcart with the things he had been sent for and started on the return journey. He got on all right in the town, because the roads were level and smooth, being paved with wood blocks. If it had only been like that all the way it would have been easy enough, although he was a very small boy for such a large truck, and such a heavy load. While the wood road lasted the principal trouble he experienced was the difficulty of seeing where he was going, the handcart being so high and himself so short. The pair of steps on the cart of course made it all the worse in that respect. However, by taking great care he managed to get through the town all right, although he narrowly escaped colliding with several vehicles, including two or three motor cars and an electric tram, besides nearly knocking over an old woman who was carrying a large bundle of washing. From time to time he saw other small boys of his acquaintance, some of them former schoolmates. Some of these passed by carrying heavy loads of groceries in baskets, and others with wooden trays full of joints of meat.

  Unfortunately, the wood paving ceased at the very place where the ground began to rise. Bert now found himself at the beginning of a long stretch of macadamized road which rose slightly and persistently throughout its whole length. Bert had pushed a cart up this road many times before and consequently knew the best method of tackling it. Experience had taught him that a frontal attack on this hill was liable to failure, so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of making diagonal movements, crossing the road repeatedly from right to left and left to right, after the fashion of a sailing ship tacking against the wind, and halting about every twenty yards to rest and take breath. The distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by his powers of endurance as by the various objects by the wayside – the lampposts, for instance. During each rest he used to look ahead and select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next stopping-place, and when he started again he used to make the most strenuous and desperate efforts to reach it.

  Generally the goal he selected was too distant, for he usually overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to give in he ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure.

  On the present occasion, during one of these rests, it flashed upon him that he was being a very long time: he would have to buck up or he would get into a row: he was not even halfway up the road yet!

  Selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to reach it before resting again.

  The cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece at the end, forming the handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and, placing his chest against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before him.

  It seemed to get heavier and heavier every foot of the way. His whole body, but especially the thighs and the calves of his legs, pained terribly, but still he strained and struggled and said to himself that he would not give in until he reached the lamppost.

  Finding that the handle hurt his chest, he lowered it to his waist, but that being even more painful he raised it again to his chest, and struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart beating wildly.

  The cart became heavier and heavier. After a while it seemed to the boy as if there were someone at the front of it trying to push him back down the hill. This was such a funny idea that for a moment he felt inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as soon as it came and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold out long enough to reach the lamppost, after all. Clenching his teeth, he made a tremendous effort and staggered forward two or three more steps and then – the cart stopped. He struggled with it despairingly for a few seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone out of him: his legs felt so weak that he nearly collapsed on to the ground, and the cart began to move backwards down the hill. He was just able to stick to it and guide it so that it ran into and rested against the kerb, and then he stood holding it in a half-dazed way, very pale, saturated with perspiration, and trembling. His legs in particular shook so much that he felt that unless he could sit down for a little, he would fall down.

  He lowered the handle very carefully so as not to spill the whitewash out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the cart, then, sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wheel.

  A little way down the road was a church with a clock in the tower. It was five minutes to ten by this clock. Bert said to himself that when it was ten he would make another start.

  Whilst he was resting he thought of many things. Just behind that church was a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with other boys to catch effets. If it were not for the cart he would go across now, to see whether there were any there still. He remembered that he had been very eager to leave school and go to work, but they used to be fine old times after all.

  Then he thought of the day when his mother took him to Mr Rushton’s office to ‘bind’ him. He remembered that day very vividly: it was almost a year ago. How nervous he had been! His hand had trembled so that he was scarcely able to hold the pen. And even when it was all over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. His mother had been very nervous in the office also, and when they got home she cried a lot and held him close to her and kissed him and called him her poor little fatherless boy, and said she hoped he would be good and try to learn. And then he cried as well, and promised her that he would do his best. He reflected with pride that he was keeping his promise about being a good boy and trying to learn: in fact, he knew a great deal about the trade already – he could paint back doors as well as anybody! and railings as well. Owen had taught him lots of things and had promised to do some patterns of graining for him so that he might practise copying them at home in the evenings. Owen was a fine chap. Bert resolved that he would tell him what Crass had been saying to Easton. Just fancy, the cheek of a rotter like Crass, trying to get Owen the sack! It would be more like it if Crass was to be sacked himself, so that Owen could be the foreman.

  One minute to ten.

  With a heavy heart Bert watched the clock. His legs were still aching very badly. He could not see the hands of the clock moving, but they were creeping on all the same. Now, the minute hand was over the edge of the number, and he began to deliberate whether he might not rest for another five minutes? But he had been such a long time already on his errand that he dismissed the thought. The minute hand was now upright and it was time to go on.

  Just as he was about to get up a harsh voice behind him said:

  ‘How much longer are you going to sit there?’

  Bert started up guiltily, and found himself confronted by Mr Rushton, who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst close by towered the colossal figure of the obese Sweater, the expression on his greasy countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such an appalling example of juvenile depravity.

  ‘What do you mean by sich conduct?’ demanded Rushton, indignantly. ‘The idear of sitting there like that when most likely the men are waiting for them things?’

  Crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made no reply.

  ‘You’ve been there a long time,’ continued Rushton, ‘I’ve been watchin’ you all the time I’ve been comin’ down the road.’

  Bert trie
d to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable to articulate a single word.

  ‘You know, that’s not the way to get on in life, my boy,’ observed Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully.

  ‘Get along with you at once!’ Rushton said, roughly. ‘I’m surprised at yer! The idear! Sitting down in my time!’

  This was quite true. Rushton was not merely angry, but astonished at the audacity of the boy. That anyone in his employment should dare to have the impertinence to sit down in his time was incredible.

  The boy lifted the handle of the cart and once more began to push it up the hill. It seemed heavier now than ever, but he managed to get on somehow. He kept glancing back after Rushton and Sweater, who presently turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran the cart to the kerb again to have a breathe. He couldn’t have kept up much further without a spell even if they had still been watching him, but he didn’t rest for more than about half a minute this time, because he was afraid they might be peeping round the corner at him.

  After this he gave up the lamp-post system and halted for a minute or so at regular short intervals. In this way, he at length reached the top of the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that the journey was practically over.

  Just before he arrived at the gate of the house, he saw Hunter sneak out and mount his bicycle and ride away. Bert wheeled his cart up to the front door and began carrying in the things. Whilst thus engaged he noticed Philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the staircase, and called out to him:

  ‘Give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash, will yer, Joe?’

  ‘Certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagony,’ replied Philpot as he hurried down the stairs.

  As they were carrying it in Philpot winked at Bert and whispered:

  ‘Did yer see Pontius Pilate anywheres outside?’

  ‘’E went away on ’is bike just as I come in at the gate.’