The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  The paint was of a dark drab colour and the surface of the newly painted doors bore a strong resemblance to corduroy cloth, and from the bottom corners of nearly every panel there was trickling down a large tear, as if the doors were weeping for the degenerate conditon of the decorative arts. But these tears caused no throb of pity in the bosom of Misery: neither did the corduroy-like surface of the work grate upon his feelings. He perceived them not. He saw only that there was a Lot of Work done and his soul was filled with rapture as he reflected that the man who had accomplished all this was paid only fivepence an hour. At the same time it would never do to let Sawkins know that he was satisfied with the progress made, so he said:

  ‘I don’t want you to stand too much over this up ’ere, you know, Sawkins. Just mop it over anyhow, and get away from it as quick as you can.’

  ‘All right, sir,’ replied Sawkins, wiping the sweat from his brow as Misery began crawling downstairs again.

  ‘Where’s Harlow got to, then?’ he demanded of Philpot. ‘’E wasn’t ’ere just now, when I came up.’

  ‘’E’s gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,’ replied Joe, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. ’E’ll be back in ’arf a mo.’ And indeed at that moment Harlow was just coming upstairs again.

  ‘’Ere, we can’t allow this kind of thing in workin’ hours, you know,’ Hunter bellowed. ‘There’s plenty of time for that in the dinner hour!’

  Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which Easton and Owen had been painting. He stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with that done by Sawkins in the attics. Misery was not a painter himself: he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain painting.

  ‘I believe it would pay us a great deal better,’ he thought to himself, ‘if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like Sawkins.’ And with his mind filled with this reflection he shortly afterwards sneaked stealthily from the house.

  14

  Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence

  Owen spent the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the drawing-room making pencil sketches in his pocket-book and taking measurements. In the evening after leaving off, instead of going straight home as usual he went round to the Free Library to see if he could find anything concerning Moorish decorative work in any of the books there. Although it was only a small and ill-equipped institution he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations of several examples of which he made sketches. After about an hour spent in this way, as he was proceeding homewards he observed two children – a boy and a girl – whose appearance seemed familiar. They were standing at the window of a sweetstuff shop examining the wares exposed therein. As Owen came up the children turned round and they recognized each other simultaneously. They were Charley and Elsie Linden. Owen spoke to them as he drew near and the boy appealed to him for his opinion concerning a dispute they had been having.

  ‘I say, mister. Which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of everlasting stickjaw torfee, or a prize packet?’

  ‘I’d rather have a prize packet,’ replied Owen, unhesitatingly.

  ‘There! I told you so!’ cried Elsie, triumphantly.

  ‘Well, I don’t care. I’d sooner ’ave the torfee,’ said Charley, doggedly.

  ‘Why, can’t you agree which of the two to buy?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not that,’ replied Elsie. ‘We was only just supposing what we’d buy if we ’ad a fardin; but we’re not really goin’ to buy nothing, because we ain’t got no money.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Owen. ‘But I think I have some money,’ and putting his hand into his pocket he produced two halfpennies and gave one to each of the children, who immediately went in to buy the toffee and the prize packet, and when they came out he walked along with them, as they were going in the same direction as he was: indeed, they would have to pass by his house.

  ‘Has your grandfather got anything to do yet?’ he inquired as they went along.

  ‘No. ’E’s still walkin’ about, mister,’ replied Charley.

  When they reached Owen’s door he invited them to come up to see the kitten, which they had been inquiring about on the way. Frankie was delighted with these two visitors, and whilst they were eating some home-made cakes that Nora gave them, he entertained them by displaying the contents of his toy box, and the antics of the kitten, which was the best toy of all, for it invented new games all the time: acrobatic performances on the rails of chairs; curtain climbing; running slides up and down the oilcloth; hiding and peeping round corners and under the sofa. The kitten cut so many comical capers, and in a little while the children began to create such an uproar, that Nora had to interfere lest the people in the flat underneath should be annoyed.

  However, Elsie and Charley were not able to stay very long, because their mother would be anxious about them, but they promised to come again some other day to play with Frankie.

  ‘I’m going to ’ave a prize next Sunday at our Sunday School,’ said Elsie as they were leaving.

  ‘What are you going to get it for?’ asked Nora.

  ‘’Cause I learned my text properly. I had to learn the whole of the first chapter of Matthew by heart and I never made one single mistake! So teacher said she’d give me a nice book next Sunday.’

  ‘I ’ad one too, the other week, about six months ago, didn’t I, Elsie?’ said Charley.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Elsie and added: ‘Do they give prizes at your Sunday School, Frankie?’

  ‘I don’t go to Sunday School.’

  ‘Ain’t you never been?’ said Charley in a tone of surprise.

  ‘No,’ replied Frankie. ‘Dad says I have quite enough of school all the week.’

  ‘You ought to come to ours, man!’ urged Charley. ‘It’s not like being in school at all! And we ’as a treat in the summer, and prizes and sometimes a magic lantern ’tainment. It ain’t ’arf all right, I can tell you.’

  Frankie looked inquiringly at his mother.

  ‘Might I go, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, if you like, dear.’

  ‘But I don’t know the way.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not far from ’ere,’ cried Charley. ‘We ’as to pass by your ’ouse when we’re goin’, so I’ll call for you on Sunday if you like.’

  ‘It’s only just round in Duke Street; you know, the “Shining Light Chapel”,’ said Elsie. ‘It commences at three o’clock.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nora. ‘I’ll have Frankie ready at a quarter to three. But now you must run home as fast as you can. Did you like those cakes?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ answered Elsie.

  ‘Not ’arf!’ said Charley.

  ‘Does your mother make cakes for you sometimes?’

  ‘She used to, but she’s too busy now, making blouses and one thing and another,’ Elsie answered.

  ‘I suppose she hasn’t much time for cooking,’ said Nora, ‘so I’ve wrapped up some more of those cakes in this parcel for you to take home for tomorrow. I think you can manage to carry it all right, can’t you, Charley?’

  ‘I think I’d better carry it myself,’ said Elsie. ‘Charley’s so careless, he’s sure to lose some of them.’

  ‘I ain’t no more careless than you are,’ cried Charley, indignantly. ‘What about the time you dropped the quarter of butter you was sent for in the mud?’

  ‘That wasn’t carelessness: that was an accident, and it wasn’t butter at all: it was margarine, so there!’

  Eventually it was arranged that they were to carry the parcel in turns, Elsie to have first innings. Frankie went downstairs to the front door with them to see them off, and as they went down the street he shouted after them:

  ‘Mind you remember, next Sunday!’

  ‘All right,’ Charley shouted back. ‘We shan’t forget.’

  On Thursday Owen stayed at home until after
breakfast to finish the designs which he had promised to have ready that morning.

  When he took them to the office at nine o’clock, the hour at which he had arranged to meet Rushton, the latter had not yet arrived, and he did not put in an appearance until half an hour later. Like the majority of the people who do brain work, he needed a great deal more rest than those who do only mere physical labour.

  ‘Oh, you’ve brought them sketches, I suppose,’ he remarked in a surly tone as he came in. ‘You know, there was no need for you to wait: you could ’ave left ’em ’ere and gone on to your job.’

  He sat down at his desk and looked carelessly at the drawing that Owen handed to him. It was on a sheet of paper about twenty-four by eighteen inches. The design was drawn with pencil and one half of it was coloured.

  ‘That’s for the ceiling,’ said Owen. ‘I hadn’t time to colour all of it.’

  With an affectation of indifference, Rushton laid the drawing down and took the other which Owen handed to him.

  ‘This is for the large wall. The same design would be adapted for the other walls; and this one shows the door and the panels under the window.’

  Rushton expressed no opinion about the merits of the drawings. He examined them carelessly one after the other, and then, laying them down, he inquired:

  ‘How long would it take you to do this work – if we get the job?’

  ‘About three weeks: say 150 hours. That is – the decorative work only. Of course, the walls and ceiling would have to be painted first: they will need three coats of white.’

  Rushton scribbled a note on a piece of paper.

  ‘Well,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you can leave these ’ere and I’ll see Mr Sweater about it and tell ’im what it will cost, and if he decides to have it done I’ll let you know.’

  He put the drawings aside with the air of a man who has other matters to attend to, and began to open one of the several letters that were on his desk. He meant this as an intimation that the audience was at an end and that he desired the ‘hand’ to retire from the presence. Owen understood this, but he did not retire, because it was necessary to mention one or two things which Rushton would have to allow for when preparing the estimate.

  ‘Of course I should want some help,’ he said. ‘I should need a man occasionally, and the boy most of the time. Then there’s the gold leaf – say, fifteen books.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be possible to use gold paint?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ inquired Rushton as he finished writing down these items.

  ‘I think that’s all, except a few sheets of cartridge paper for stencils and working drawings. The quantity of paint necessary for the decorative work will be very small.’

  As soon as Owen was gone, Rushton took up the designs and examined them attentively.

  ‘These are all right,’ he muttered. ‘Good enough for anywhere. If he can paint anything like as well as this on the walls and ceiling of the room, it will stand all the looking at that anyone in this town is likely to give it.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he continued. ‘He said three weeks, but he’s so anxious to do the job that he’s most likely under-estimated the time; I’d better allow four weeks: that means about 200 hours: 200 hours at eightpence: how much is that? And say he has a painter to help him half the time, 100 hours at sixpence-ha’penny.’

  He consulted a ready reckoner that was on the desk.

  ‘Time, £9.7.6. Materials: fifteen books of gold, say a pound. Then there’s the cartridge paper and the colours – say another pound, at the outside. Boy’s time? Well, he gets no wages as yet, so we needn’t mention that at all. Then there’s the preparing of the room. Three coats of white paint. I wish Hunter was here to give me an idea what it will cost.’

  As if in answer to his wish, Nimrod entered the office at that moment, and in reply to Rushton’s query said that to give the walls and ceiling three coats of paint would cost about three pounds five for time and material. Between them the two brain workers figured that fifteen pounds would cover the entire cost of the work – painting and decorating.

  ‘Well, I reckon we can charge Sweater forty-five pounds for it,’ said Rushton. ‘It isn’t like an ordinary job, you know. If he gets a London firm to do it, it’ll cost him double that, if not more.’

  Having arrived at this decision, Rushton rang up Sweater’s Emporium on the telephone, and, finding that Mr Sweater was there, he rolled up the designs and set out for that gentleman’s office.

  The men work with their hands, and the masters work with their brains. What a dreadful calamity it would be for the world and for mankind if all these brain workers were to go on strike.

  15

  The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones

  Hunter had taken on three more painters that morning. Bundy and two labourers had commenced the work of putting in the new drains; the carpenters were back again doing some extra work, and there was also a plumber working on the house; so there was quite a little crowd in the kitchen at dinner-time. Crass had been waiting for a suitable opportunity to produce the newspaper cutting which it will be remembered he showed to Easton on Monday morning, but he had waited in vain, for there had been scarcely any ‘political’ talk at meal-times all the week, and it was now Thursday. As far as Owen was concerned, his thoughts were so occupied with the designs for the drawing-room that he had no time for anything else, and most of the others were only too willing to avoid a subject which frequently led to unpleasantness. As a rule Crass himself had no liking for such discussion, but he was so confident of being able to ‘flatten out’ Owen with the cutting from the Obscurer that he had several times tried to lead the conversation into the desired channel, but so far without success.

  During dinner – as they called it – various subjects were discussed. Harlow mentioned that he had found traces of bugs in one of the bedrooms upstairs and this called forth a number of anecdotes of those vermin and of houses infested by them. Philpot remembered working in a house over at Windley; the people who lived in it were very dirty and had very little furniture; no bedsteads, the beds consisting of dilapidated mattresses and rags on the floor. He declared that these ragged mattresses used to wander about the rooms by themselves. The house was so full of fleas that if one placed a sheet of newspaper on the floor one could hear and see them jumping on it. In fact, directly one went into that house one was covered from head to foot with fleas! During the few days he worked at that place, he lost several pounds in weight, and of evenings as he walked homewards the children and the people in the streets, observing his ravaged countenance, thought he was suffering from some disease and used to get out of his way when they saw him coming.

  There were several other of these narratives, four or five men talking at the top of their voices at the same time, each one telling a different story. At first each story-teller addressed himself to the company generally, but after a while, finding it impossible to make himself heard, he would select some particular individual who seemed disposed to listen and tell him the story. It sometimes happened that in the middle of the tale the man to whom it was being told would remember a somewhat similar adventure of his own, which he would immediately proceed to relate without waiting for the other to finish, and each of them was generally so interested in the gruesome details of his own story that he was unconscious of the fact that the other was telling one at all. In a contest of this kind the victory usually went to the man with the loudest voice, but sometimes a man who had a weak voice scored by repeating the same tale several times until someone heard it.

  Barrington, who seldom spoke and was an ideal listener, was appropriated by several men in succession, who each told him a different yarn. There was one man sitting on an up-ended pail in the far corner of the room and it was evident from the movements of his lips that he also was relating a story, although nobody knew what it was about or heard a single word of it, for no one took
the slightest notice of him…

  [When the uproar had subsided Harlow remembered the case of a family whose house got into such a condition that the landlord had given them notice and the father had committed] suicide because the painters had come to turn ’em out of house and home. There were a man and his wife and daughter – a girl about seventeen – living in the house, and all three of ’em used to drink like hell. As for the woman, she could shift it and no mistake! Several times a day she used to send the girl with a jug to the pub at the corner. When the old man was out, one could have anything one liked to ask for from either of ’em for half a pint of beer, but for his part, said Harlow, he could never fancy it. They were both too ugly.

  The finale of this tale was received with a burst of incredulous laughter by those who heard it.

  ‘Do you ’ear what Harlow says, Bob?’ Easton shouted to Crass.

  ‘No. What was it?’

  ‘’E ses ’e once ’ad a chance to ’ave something but ’e wouldn’t take it on because it was too ugly!’

  ‘If it ’ad bin me, I should ’ave shut me bl—y eyes,’ cried Sawkins. ‘I wouldn’t pass it for a trifle like that.’

  ‘No,’ said Crass amid laughter, ‘and you can bet your life ’e didn’t lose it neither, although ’e tries to make ’imself out to be so innocent.’

  ‘I always thought old Harlow was a bl—y liar,’ remarked Bundy, ‘but now we knows ’e is.’

  Although everyone pretended to disbelieve him, Harlow stuck to his version of the story.

  ‘It’s not their faces you want, you know,’ added Bundy as he helped himself to some more tea.