The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  As the singing proceeded, the scornful expression faded from the visage of the Semi-drunk, and he not only joined in, but unfolded his arms and began waving them about as if he were conducting the music.

  By the time the singing was over a considerable crowd had gathered, and then one of the evangelists, the same man who had given out the hymn, stepped into the middle of the ring. He had evidently been offended by the unseemly conduct of the two well-dressed young men, for after a preliminary glance round upon the crowd, he fixed his gaze upon the pair, and immediately launched out upon a long tirade against what he called ‘Infidelity’. Then, having heartily denounced all those who – as he put it – ‘refused’ to believe, he proceeded to ridicule those half-and-half believers, who, while professing to believe the Bible, rejected the doctrine of Hell. That the existence of a place of eternal torture is taught in the Bible, he tried to prove by a long succession of texts. As he proceeded he became very excited, and the contemptuous laughter of the two unbelievers seemed to make him worse. He shouted and raved, literally foaming at the mouth and glaring in a frenzied manner around upon the faces of the crowd.

  ‘There is a Hell!’ he shouted. ‘And understand this clearly – “The wicked shall be turned into hell” – “He that believeth not shall be damned.”’

  ‘Well, then, you’ll stand a very good chance of being damned also,’ exclaimed one of the two young men.

  ‘’Ow do you make it out?’ demanded the preacher, wiping the froth from his lips and the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief.

  ‘Why, because you don’t believe the Bible yourselves.’

  Nimrod and the other evangelists laughed, and looked pityingly at the young man.

  ‘Ah, my dear brother,’ said Misery. ‘That’s your delusion. I thank God I do believe it, every word!’

  ‘Amen,’ fervently ejaculated Slyme and several of the other disciples.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ replied the other. ‘And I can prove you don’t.’

  ‘Prove it, then,’ said Nimrod.

  ‘Read out the 17th and 18th verses of the XVIth chapter of Mark,’ said the disturber of the meeting. The crowd began to close in on the centre, the better to hear the dispute. Misery, standing close to the lantern, found the verse mentioned and read aloud as follows:

  ‘And these signs shall follow them that believe. In my name shall they cast out devils: they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.’

  ‘Well, you can’t heal the sick, neither can you speak new languages or cast out devils: but perhaps you can drink deadly things without suffering harm.’ The speaker here suddenly drew from his waistcoat pocket a small glass bottle and held it out towards Misery, who shrank from it with horror as he continued: ‘I have here a most deadly poison. There is in this bottle sufficient strychnine to kill a dozen unbelievers. Drink it! And if it doesn’t harm you, we’ll know that you really are a believer and that what you believe is the truth!’

  ‘’Ear, ’ear!’ said the Semi-drunk, who had listened to the progress of the argument with great interest. ‘’Ear, ’ear! That’s fair enough. Git it acrost yer chest.’

  Some of the people in the crowd began to laugh, and voices were heard from several quarters calling upon Misery to drink the strychnine.

  ‘Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll explain to you what that there verse means,’ said Hunter. ‘If you read it carefully – with the context –’

  ‘I don’t want you to tell me what it means,’ interrupted the other. ‘I am able to read for myself. Whatever you may say, or pretend to think it means, I know what it says.’

  ‘Hear, Hear,’ shouted several voices, and angry cries of ‘Why don’t you drink the poison?’ began to be heard from the outskirts of the crowd.

  ‘Are you going to drink it or not?’ demanded the man with the bottle.

  ‘No! I’m not such a fool!’ retorted Misery, fiercely, and a loud shout of laughter broke from the crowd.

  ‘P’haps some of the other “believers” would like to,’ said the young man sneeringly, looking round upon the disciples. As no one seemed desirous of availing himself of this offer, the man returned the bottle regretfully to his pocket.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Misery, regarding the owner of the strychnine with a sneer, ‘I suppose you’re one of them there hired critics wot’s goin’ about the country doin’ the Devil’s work?’

  ‘Wot I wants to know is this ’ere,’ said the Semi-drunk, suddenly advancing into the middle of the ring and speaking in a loud voice. ‘Where did Cain get ’is wife from?’

  ‘Don’t answer ’im, Brother ’Unter,’ said Mr Didlum, one of the disciples. This was rather an unnecessary piece of advice, because Misery did not know the answer.

  An individual in a long black garment – the ‘minister’ – now whispered something to Miss Didlum, who was seated at the organ, whereupon she began to play, and the ‘believers’ began to sing, as loud as they could so as to drown the voices of the disturbers of the meeting, a song called ‘Oh, that will be Glory for me!’

  After this hymn the ‘minister’ invited a shabbily dressed ‘brother’ – a working-man member of the PSA, to say a ‘few words’, and the latter accordingly stepped into the centre of the ring and held forth as follows:

  ‘My dear frens, I thank Gord tonight that I can stand ’ere tonight, hout in the hopen hair and tell hall you dear people tonight of hall wot’s been done for me. Ho my dear frens hi ham so glad tonight as I can stand ’ere tonight and say as hall my sins is hunder the blood tonight and wot ’E’s done for me ’E can do for you tonight. If you’ll honly do as I done and just acknowledge yourself a lost sinner –’

  ‘Yes! that’s the honly way!’ shouted Nimrod.

  ‘Amen,’ cried all the other believers.

  ‘– If you’ll honly come to ’im tonight in the same way as I done you’ll see wot ’E’s done for me ’E can do for you. Ho my dear frens, don’t go puttin’ it orf from day to day like a door turnin’ on its ’inges, don’t put orf to some more convenient time because you may never ’ave another chance. ’Im that bein’ orfen reproved ’ardeneth ’is neck shall be suddenly cut orf and that without remedy. Ho come to ’im tonight, for ’Is name’s sake and to ’Im we’ll give hall the glory. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the believers, fervently, and then the man who was dressed in the long garment entreated all those who were not yet true believers – and doers – of the word to join earnestly and meaningly in the singing of the closing hymn, which he was about to read out to them.

  The Semi-drunk obligingly conducted as before, and the crowd faded away with the last notes of the music.

  24

  Ruth

  As has already been stated, hitherto Slyme had passed the greater number of his evenings at home, but during the following three weeks a change took place in his habits in this respect. He now went out nearly every night and did not return until after ten o’clock. On meeting nights he always changed his attire, dressing himself as on Sundays, but on the other occasions he went out in his week-day clothes. Ruth often wondered where he went on those nights, but he never volunteered the information and she never asked him.

  Easton had chummed up with a lot of the regular customers at the ‘Cricketers’, where he now spent most of his spare time, drinking beer, telling yarns or playing shove-ha’penny or hooks and rings. When he had no cash the Old Dear gave him credit until Saturday. At first, the place had not had much attraction for him, and he really went there only for the purpose of ‘keeping in’ with Crass: but after a time he found it a very congenial way of passing his evenings…

  [One evening, Ruth saw Slyme] meet Crass as if by appointment and as the two men went away together she returned to her housework wondering what it meant.

  Meantime, Crass and Slyme proceeded on their way down town. It was about half pas
t six o’clock: the shops and streets were brilliantly lighted, and as they went along they saw numerous groups of men talking together in a listless way. Most of them were artisans and labourers out of employment and evidently in no great hurry to go home. Some of them had neither tea nor fire to go to, and stayed away from home as long as possible so as not to be compelled to look upon the misery of those who were waiting for them there. Others hung about hoping against all probability that they might even yet – although it was so late – hear of some job to be started somewhere or other.

  As they passed one of these groups they recognized and nodded to Newman and old Jack Linden, and the former left the others and came up to Crass and Slyme, who did not pause, so Newman walked along with them.

  ‘Anything fresh in, Bob?’ he asked.

  ‘No; we ain’t got ’ardly anything,’ replied Crass. ‘I reckon we shall finish up at “The Cave” next week, and then I suppose we shall all be stood orf. We’ve got several plumbers on, and I believe there’s a little gas-fitting work in, but next to nothing in our line.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t know of any other firm what’s got anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t, mate. Between you and me, I don’t think any of ’em has; they’re all in about the same fix.’

  ‘I’ve not done anything since I left, you know,’ said Newman, ‘and we’ve just about got as far as we can get, at home.’

  Slyme and Crass said nothing in reply to this. They wished that Newman would take himself off, because they did not want him to know where they were going.

  However, Newman continued to accompany them and an awkward silence succeeded. He seemed to wish to say something more, and they both guessed what it was. So they walked along as rapidly as possible in order not to give him any encouragement. At last Newman blurted out:

  ‘I suppose – you don’t happen – either of you – to have a tanner you could lend me? I’ll let you have it back – when I get a job.’

  ‘I ain’t, mate,’ replied Crass. ‘I’m sorry; if I ’ad one on me, you should ’ave it, with pleasure.’

  Slyme also expressed his regret that he had no money with him, and at the corner of the next street Newman – ashamed of having asked – wished them ‘good night’ and went away.

  Slyme and Crass hurried along and presently arrived at Rushton & Co.’s shop. The windows were lit up with electric light, displaying an assortment of wallpapers, gas and electric light fittings, glass shades, globes, tins of enamel, paint and varnish. Several framed show-cards – ‘Estimates Free’, ‘First class work only, at moderate charges’, ‘Only First Class Workmen Employed’ and several others of the same type. On one side wall of the window was a large shield-shaped board covered with black velvet on which a number of brass fittings for coffins were arranged. The shield was on an oak mount with the inscription: ‘Funerals conducted on modern principles’.

  Slyme waited outside while Crass went in. Mr Budd, the shopman, was down at the far end near the glazed partition which separated Mr Rushton’s office from the front shop. As Crass entered, Budd – who was a pale-faced, unhealthy-looking, undersized youth about twenty years of age – looked round and, with a grimace, motioned him to walk softly. Crass paused, wondering what the other meant; but the shopman beckoned him to advance, grinning and winking and jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the office. Crass hesitated, fearing that possibly the miserable Budd had gone – or been driven – out of his mind; but as the latter continued to beckon and grin and point towards the office Crass screwed up his courage and followed him behind one of the showcases, and applying his eye to a crack in the woodwork of the partition indicated by Budd, he could see Mr Rushton in the act of kissing and embracing Miss Wade, the young lady clerk. Crass watched them for some time and then whispered to Budd to call Slyme, and when the latter came they all three took turns at peeping through the crack in the partition.

  When they had looked their fill they came out from behind the showcase, almost bursting with suppressed merriment. Budd reached down a key from where it was hanging on a hook on the wall and gave it to Crass and the two resumed their interrupted journey. But before they had proceeded a dozen yards from the shop, they were accosted by a short, elderly man with grey hair and a beard. This man looked about sixty-five years of age, and was very shabbily dressed. The ends of the sleeves of his coat were frayed and ragged, and the elbows were worn threadbare. His boots were patched, broken, and down at heel, and the knees and bottoms of the legs of his trousers were in the same condition as the sleeves of his coat. This man’s name was Latham; he was a venetian blind maker and repairer. With his son, he was supposed to be ‘in business’ on his own account, but as most of their work was done for ‘the trade’, that is, for such firms as Rushton & Co., they would be more correctly described as men who did piece-work at home.

  He had been ‘in business’ – as he called it – for about forty years working, working, always working; and ever since his son became old enough to labour he had helped his father in the philanthropic task of manufacturing profits for the sweaters who employed them. They had been so busy running after work, and working for the benefit of others, that they had overlooked the fact that they were only earning a bare living for themselves and now, after forty years’ hard labour, the old man was clothed in rags and on the verge of destitution.

  ‘Is Rushton there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Crass, attempting to pass on; but the old man detained him.

  ‘He promised to let us know about them blinds for “The Cave”. We gave ’im a price for ’em about a month ago. In fact, we gave ’im two prices, because he said the first was too high. Five and six a set I asked ’im! take ’em right through the ’ole ’ouse! one with another – big and little. Two coats of paint, and new tapes and cords. That wasn’t too much, was it?’

  ‘No,’ said Crass, walking on; ‘that was cheap enough!’

  ‘He said it was too much,’ continued Latham. ‘Said as ’e could get ’em done cheaper! But I say as no one can’t do it and make a living.’

  As he walked along, talking, between Crass and Slyme, the old man became very excited.

  ‘But we ’adn’t nothing to do to speak of, so my son told ’im we’d do ’em for five bob a set, and ’e said ’e’d let us know, but we ain’t ’eard nothing from ’im yet, so I thought I’d try and see ’im tonight.’

  ‘Well, you’ll find ’im in there now,’ said Slyme with a peculiar look, and walking faster. ‘Good night.’

  ‘I won’t take ’em on for no less!’ cried the old man as he turned back. I’ve got my livin’ to get, and my son’s got ’is wife and little ’uns to keep. We can’t work for nothing!’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Crass, glad to get away at last. ‘Good night, and good luck to you.’

  As soon as they were out of hearing, they both burst out laughing at the old man’s vehemence.

  ‘Seemed quite upset about it,’ said Slyme; and they laughed again.

  They now left the main road and pursued their way through a number of badly lighted, mean-looking streets, and finally turning down a kind of alley, arrived at their destination. On one side of this street was a row of small houses; facing these were a number of buildings of a miscellaneous description – sheds and stables; and beyond these a plot of waste ground on which could be seen, looming weirdly through the dusk, a number of empty carts and waggons with their shafts resting on the ground or reared up into the air. Threading their way carefully through these and avoiding as much as possible the mud, pools of water, and rubbish which covered the ground, they arrived at a large gate fastened with a padlock. Applying the key, Crass swung back the gate and they found themselves in a large yard filled with building materials and plant, ladders, huge tressels, planks and beams of wood, handcarts, and wheelbarrows, heaps of sand and mortar and innumerable other things that assumed strange fantastic shapes in the semi-darkness. Crates and packing cases, lengths of i
ron guttering and rain-pipes, old, door-frames and other woodwork that had been taken from buildings where alterations had been made. And over all these things, a gloomy, indistinct and shapeless mass, rose the buildings and sheds that comprised Rushton & Co.’s workshop.

  Crass struck a match, and Slyme, stooping down, drew a key from a crevice in the wall near one of the doors, which he unlocked, and they entered. Crass struck another match and lit the gas at the jointed bracket fixed to the wall. This was the paint-shop. At one end was a fireplace without a grate but with an iron bar fixed across the blackened chimney for the purpose of suspending pails or pots over the fire, which was usually made of wood on the hearthstone. All round the walls of the shop – which had once been whitewashed, but were now covered with smears of paint of every colour where the men had ‘rubbed out’ their brushes – were rows of shelves with kegs of paint upon them. In front of the window was a long bench covered with an untidy litter of dirty paint-pots, including several earthenware mixing vessels or mortars, the sides of these being thickly coated with dried paint. Scattered about the stone floor were a number of dirty pails, either empty or containing stale whitewash; and standing on a sort of low platform or shelf at one end of the shop were four large round tanks fitted with taps and labelled ‘Boiled Oil’, ‘Turps’, ‘Linseed Oil’, ‘Turps Substitute’. The lower parts of the walls were discoloured with moisture. The atmosphere was cold and damp and foul with the sickening odours of the poisonous materials.

  It was in this place that Bert – the apprentice – spent most of his time, cleaning out pots and pails, during slack periods when there were no jobs going on outside.