The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  ‘Doubtless some of you have noticed the unseemly condition of the interior of our Chapel. The flooring is broken in countless places, the walls are sadly in need of cleansing and distempering, and they also need cementing externally to keep out the draught. The seats and benches and the chairs are also in a most unseemly condition and need varnishing.

  ‘Now, therefore, after much earnest meditation and prayer, it has been decided to open a Subscription List, and although times are very hard just now, we believe we shall succeed in getting enough to have the work done; so I want each one of you to take one of these cards and go round to all your friends to see how much you can collect. It doesn’t matter how trifling the amounts are, because the smallest donations will be thankfully received.

  ‘Now, I hope you will all do your very best. Ask everyone you know; do not refrain from asking people because you think that they are too poor to give a donation, but remind them that if they cannot give their thousands they can give the widow’s mite. Ask Everyone! First of all ask those whom you feel certain will give: then ask all those whom you think may possibly give: and, finally, ask all those whom you feel certain will not give: and you will be surprised to find that many of these last will donate abundantly.

  ‘If your friends are very poor and unable to give a large donation at one time, a good plan would be to arrange to call upon them every Saturday afternoon with your card to collect their donations. And while you are asking others, do not forget to give what you can yourselves. Just a little self-denial, and those pennies and halfpennies which you so often spend on sweets and other unnecessary things might be given – as a donation – to the good cause.’

  Here the holy man paused again, and there was a rumbling, gurgling noise in the interior of the balloon, followed by several escapes of gas through the safety valve. The paroxysm over, the apostle of self-denial continued:

  ‘All those who wish to collect donations will stay behind for a few minutes after school, when Brother Hunter – who has kindly consented to act as secretary to the fund – will issue the cards.

  ‘I would like here to say a few words of thanks to Brother Hunter for the great interest he has displayed in this matter, and for all the trouble he is taking to help us to gather in the donations.’

  This tribute was well deserved; Hunter in fact had originated the whole scheme in the hope of securing the job for Rushton & Co., and two-and-a-half per cent of the profits for himself.

  Mr Belcher now replaced the collecting card on the table and, taking up one of the hymn-books, gave out the words and afterwards conducted the singing, flourishing one fat, flabby white hand in the air and holding the book in the other.

  As the last strains of the music died away, he closed his eyes and a sweet smile widened his mouth as he stretched forth his right hand, open, palm down, with the fingers close together, and said:

  ‘Let us pray.’

  With much shuffling of feet everyone knelt down. Hunter’s lanky form was distributed over a very large area; his body lay along one of the benches, his legs and feet sprawled over the floor, and his huge hands clasped the sides of the seat. His eyes were tightly closed and an expression of the most intense misery pervaded his long face.

  Mrs Starvem, being so fat that she knew if she once knelt down she would never be able to get up again, compromised by sitting on the extreme edge of her chair, resting her elbows on the back of the seat in front of her, and burying her face in her hands. It was a very large face, but her hands were capacious enough to receive it.

  In a seat at the back of the hall knelt a pale-faced, weary-looking little woman about thirty-six years of age, very shabbily dressed, who had come in during the singing. This was Mrs White, the caretaker, Bert White’s mother. When her husband died, the committee of the Chapel, out of charity, gave her this work, for which they paid her six shillings a week. Of course, they could not offer her full employment; the idea was that she could get other work as well, charing and things of that kind, and do the Chapel work in between. There wasn’t much to do: just the heating furnace to light when necessary; the Chapel, committee rooms, classrooms and Sunday School to sweep and scrub out occasionally; the hymn-books to collect, etc. Whenever they had a tea meeting – which was on an average about twice a week – there were the trestle tables to fix up, the chairs to arrange, the table to set out, and then, supervised by Miss Didlum or some other lady, the tea to make. There was rather a lot to do on the days following these functions: the washing up, the tables and chairs to put away, the floor to sweep, and so on; but the extra work was supposed to be compensated by the cakes and broken victuals generally left over from the feast, which were much appreciated as a welcome change from the bread and dripping or margarine that constituted Mrs White’s and Bert’s usual fare.

  There were several advantages attached to the position: the caretaker became acquainted with the leading members and their wives, some of who, out of charity, occasionally gave her a day’s work as charwoman, the wages being on about the same generous scale as those she earned at the Chapel, sometimes supplemented by a parcel of broken victuals or some cast-off clothing.

  An evil-minded, worldly or unconverted person might possibly sum up the matter thus: these people required this work done: they employed this woman to do it, taking advantage of her poverty to impose upon her conditions of price and labour that they would not have liked to endure themselves. Although she worked very hard, early and late, the money they paid her as wages was insufficient to enable her to provide herself with the bare necessaries of life. Then her employers, being good, kind, generous, Christian people, came to the rescue and bestowed charity, in the form of cast-off clothing and broken victuals.

  Should any such evil-minded, worldly or unconverted persons happen to read these lines, it is a sufficient answer to their impious and malicious criticisms to say that no such thoughts ever entered the simple mind of Mrs White herself: on the contrary, this very afternoon as she knelt in the Chapel, wearing an old mantle that some years previously had adorned the obese person of the saintly Mrs Starvem, her heart was filled with gratitude towards her generous benefactors.

  During the prayer the door was softly opened: a gentleman in clerical dress entered on tiptoe and knelt down next to Mr Didlum. He came in very softly, but all the same most of those present heard him and lifted their heads or peeped through their fingers to see who it was, and when they recognized him a sound like a sigh swept through the hall.

  At the end of the prayer, amid groans and cries of ‘Amen’, the balloon slowly descended from the platform, and collapsed into one of the seats, and everyone rose up from the floor. When all were seated and the shuffling, coughing and blowing of noses had ceased Mr Didlum stood up and said:

  ‘Before we sing the closin’ ’ymn, the gentleman hon my left, the Rev. Mr John Starr, will say a few words.’

  An expectant murmur rippled through the hall. The ladies lifted their eyebrows and nodded, smiled and whispered to each other; the gentlemen assumed various attitudes and expressions; the children were very quiet. Everyone was in a state of suppressed excitement as John Starr rose from his seat and, stepping up on to the platform, stood by the side of the table, facing them.

  He was about twenty-six years of age, tall and slenderly built. His clean-cut, intellectual face, with its lofty forehead, and his air of refinement and culture were in striking contrast to the coarse appearance of the other adults in the room: the vulgar, ignorant, uncultivated crowd of profit-mongers and hucksters in front of him. But it was not merely his air of good breeding and the general comeliness of his exterior that attracted and held one. There was an indefinable something about him – an atmosphere of gentleness and love that seemed to radiate from his whole being, almost compelling confidence and affection from all those with whom he came in contact.

  As he stood there facing the others with an inexpressibly winning smile upon his comely face, it seemed impossible that there could be any fellowship
between him and them.

  There was nothing in his appearance to give anyone even an inkling of the truth, which was: that he was there for the purpose of bolstering up the characters of the despicable crew of sweaters and slave-drivers who paid his wages.

  He did not give a very long address this afternoon – only just a Few Words but they were very precious, original and illuminating. He told them of certain Thoughts that had occurred to his mind on his way there that afternoon; and as they listened, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum, Hunter, and the other disciples exchanged significant looks and gestures. Was it not magnificent! Such power! Such reasoning! In fact, as they afterwards modestly admitted to each other, it was so profound that even they experienced great difficulty in fathoming the speaker’s meaning.

  As for the ladies, they were motionless and dumb with admiration. They sat with flushed faces, shining eyes and palpitating hearts, looking hungrily at the dear man as he proceeded:

  ‘Unfortunately, our time this afternoon does not permit us to dwell at length upon these Thoughts. Perhaps at some future date we may have the blessed privilege of so doing; but this afternoon I have been asked to say a Few Words on another subject. The failing health of your dear minister has for some time past engaged the anxious attention of the congregation.’

  Sympathetic glances were directed towards the interesting invalid; the ladies murmured, ‘Poor dear!’ and other expressions of anxious concern.

  ‘Although naturally robust,’ continued Starr, ‘long, continued Overwork, the loving solicitude for Others that often prevented him taking even necessary repose, and a too rigorous devotion to the practice of Self-denial have at last brought about the inevitable Breakdown, and rendered a period of Rest absolutely imperative.’

  The orator paused to take breath, and the silence that ensued was disturbed only by faint rumblings in the interior of the ascetic victim of overwork.

  ‘With this laudable object,’ proceeded Starr, ‘a Subscription List was quietly opened about a month ago, and those dear children who had cards and assisted in the good work of collecting donations will be pleased to hear that altogether a goodly sum was gathered, but as it was not quite enough, the committee voted a further amount out of the General Fund, and at a special meeting held last Friday evening, your dear Shepherd was presented with an illuminated address, and a purse of gold sufficient to defray the expenses of a month’s holiday in the South of France.

  ‘Although, of course, he regrets being separated from you even for such a brief period he feels that in going he is choosing the lesser of two evils. It is better to go to the South of France for a month than to continue Working in spite of the warnings of exhausted nature and perhaps be taken away from you altogether – by Heaven.’

  ‘God forbid!’ fervently ejaculated several disciples, and a ghastly pallor overspread the features of the object of their prayers.

  ‘Even as it is there is a certain amount of danger. Let us hope and pray for the best, but if the worst should happen and he is called upon to Ascend, there will be some satisfaction in knowing that you have done what you could to avert the dreadful calamity.’

  Here, probably as a precaution against the possibility of an involuntary ascent, a large quantity of gas was permitted to escape through the safety valve of the balloon.

  ‘He sets out on his pilgrimage tomorrow,’ concluded Starr, ‘and I am sure he will be followed by the good wishes and prayers of all the members of his flock.’

  The reverend gentleman resumed his seat, and almost immediately it became evident from the oscillations of the balloon that Mr Belcher was desirous of rising to say a Few Words in acknowledgement, but he was restrained by the entreaties of those near him, who besought him not to exhaust himself. He afterwards said that he would not have been able to say much even if they had permitted him to speak, because he felt too full.

  ‘During the absence of our beloved pastor,’ said Brother Didlum, who now rose to give out the closing hymn, ‘his flock will not be left hentirely without a shepherd, for we ’ave arranged with Mr Starr to come and say a Few Words to us hevery Sunday.’

  From the manner in which they constantly referred to themselves, it might have been thought that they were a flock of sheep instead of being what they really were – a pack of wolves.

  When they heard Brother Didlum’s announcement a murmur of intense rapture rose from the ladies, and Mr Starr rolled his eyes and smiled sweetly. Brother Didlum did not mention the details of the ‘arrangement’; to have done so at that time would have been most unseemly, but the following extract from the accounts of the chapel will not be out of place here: ‘Paid to Rev. John Starr for Sunday, Nov. 14 – £4.4.0 per the treasurer.’ It was not a large sum considering the great services rendered by Mr Starr, but, small as it was, it is to be feared that many worldly, unconverted persons will think it was far too much to pay for a Few Words, even such wise words as Mr John Starr’s admittedly always were. But the Labourer is worthy of his hire.

  After the ‘service’ was over, most of the children, including Charley and Frankie, remained to get collecting cards. Mr Starr was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and a little later, when he rode away with Mr Belcher and Mr Sweater in the latter’s motor car, the ladies looked hungrily after that conveyance, listening to the melancholy ‘pip, pip’ of its hooter and trying to console themselves with the reflection that they would see him again in a few hours’ time at the evening service.

  18

  The Lodger

  In accordance with his arrangement with Hunter, Owen commenced the work in the drawing-room on the Monday morning. Harlow and Easton were distempering some of the ceilings, and about ten o’clock they went down to the scullery to get some more whitewash. Crass was there as usual, pretending to be very busy mixing colours.

  ‘Well, wot do you think of it?’ he said as he served them with what they required.

  ‘Think of what?’ asked Easton.

  ‘Why, hour speshul hartist,’ replied Crass with a sneer. ‘Do you think ’e’s goin’ to get through with it?’

  ‘Shouldn’t like to say,’ replied Easton guardedly.

  ‘You know it’s one thing to draw on a bit of paper and colour it with a penny box of paints, and quite another thing to do it on a wall or ceiling,’ continued Crass. ‘Ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes; that’s true enough,’ said Harlow.

  ‘Do you believe they’re ’is own designs?’ Crass went on.

  ‘Be rather ’ard to tell,’ remarked Easton, embarrassed.

  Neither Harlow nor Easton shared Crass’s sentiments in this matter, but at the same time they could not afford to offend him by sticking up for Owen.

  ‘If you was to ast me, quietly,’ Crass added, ‘I should be more inclined to say as ’e copied it all out of some book.’

  ‘That’s just about the size of it, mate,’ agreed Harlow.

  ‘It would be a bit of all right if ’e was to make a bloody mess of it, wouldn’t it?’ Crass continued with a malignant leer.

  ‘Not arf!’ said Harlow.

  When the two men regained the upper landing on which they were working they exchanged significant glances and laughed quietly. Hearing these half-suppressed sounds of merriment, Philpot, who was working alone in a room close by, put his head out of the doorway.

  ‘Wot’s the game?’ he inquired in a low voice.

  ‘Ole Crass ain’t arf wild about Owen doin’ that room,’ replied Harlow, and repeated the substance of Crass’s remarks.

  ‘It is a bit of a take-down for the bleeder, ain’t it, ’avin’ to play second fiddle,’ said Philpot with a delighted grin.

  ‘’E’s ’opin’ Owen’ll make a mess of it,’ Easton whispered.

  ‘Well, ’e’ll be disappointed, mate,’ answered Philpot. ‘I was workin’ along of Owen for Pushem and Sloggem about two year ago, and I seen ’im do a job down at the Royal ’Otel – the smokin’-room ceilin’ it was – and I can tell you it looked a bloody treat!’


  ‘I’ve heard tell of it,’ said Harlow.

  ‘There’s no doubt Owen knows ’is work,’ remarked Easton, ‘although ’e is a bit orf is onion about Socialism.’

  ‘I don’t know so much about that, mate,’ returned Philpot. ‘I agree with a lot that ’e ses. I’ve often thought the same things meself, but I can’t talk like ’im, ’cause I ain’t got no ’ead for it.’

  ‘I agree with some of it too,’ said Harlow with a laugh, ‘but all the same ’e does say some bloody silly things, you must admit. For instance, that cuff about money bein’ the cause of poverty.’

  ‘Yes. I can’t exactly see that meself,’ agreed Philpot.

  ‘We must tackle ’im about that at dinner-time,’ said Harlow. ‘I should rather like to ’ear ’ow ’e makes it out.’

  ‘For Gord’s sake don’t go startin’ no arguments at dinnertime,’ said Easton. ‘Leave ’im alone when ’e is quiet.’

  ‘Yes; let’s ’ave our dinner in peace, if possible,’ said Philpot. ‘Sh!!’ he added, hoarsely, suddenly holding up his hand warningly.

  They listened intently. It was evident from the creaking of the stairs that someone was crawling up them. Philpot instantly disappeared. Harlow lifted up the pail of whitewash and set it down again noisily.

  ‘I think we’d better ’ave the steps and the plank over this side, Easton,’ he said in a loud voice.

  ‘Yes. I think that’ll be the best way,’ replied Easton.

  While they were arranging their scaffold to do the ceiling Crass arrived on the landing. He made no remark at first, but walked into the room to see how many ceilings they had done.

  ‘You’d better look alive, you chaps,’ he said as he went downstairs again. ‘If we don’t get these ceilings finished by dinnertime, Nimrod’s sure to ramp.’

  ‘All right,’ said Harlow, gruffly. ‘We’ll bloody soon slosh ’em over.’