The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  ‘Then,’ continued the Chief, ‘we can arrange for it to be proposed in the Council that the Town should purchase the Electric Light Works.’

  ‘But not by one of us four, you know,’ said Grinder with a cunning leer.

  ‘Certainly not; that would give the show away at once. There are, as you know – several members of the Band who are not shareholders in the company; we’ll get some of them to do most of the talking. We, being the directors of the company, must pretend to be against selling, and stick out for our own price; and when we do finally consent we must make out that we are sacrificing our private interests for the good of the Town. We’ll get a committee appointed – we’ll have an expert engineer down from London – I know a man that will suit our purpose admirably – we’ll pay him a trifle and he’ll say whatever we tell him to – and we’ll rush the whole business through before you can say “Jack Robinson”, and before the ratepayers have time to realize what’s being done. Not that we need worry ourselves much about them. Most of them take no interest in public affairs, but even if there is something said, it won’t matter much to us once we’ve got the money. It’ll be a nine days’ wonder and then we’ll hear no more of it.’

  As the Chief ceased speaking, the other brigands also remained silent, speechless with admiration of his cleverness.

  ‘Well, what do you think of it?’ he asked.

  ‘Think of it!’ cried Grinder, enthusiastically. ‘I think it’s splendid! Nothing could be better. If we can honly git away with it, I reckon it’ll be one of the smartest things we’ve ever done.’

  ‘Smart ain’t the word for it,’ observed Rushton.

  ‘There’s no doubt it’s a grand idear!’ exclaimed Didlum, ‘and I’ve just thought of something else that might be done to help it along. We could arrange to ’ave a lot of letters sent “To the Editor of the Obscurer” and “To the Editor of the Ananias” and “To the Editor of the Weekly Chloroform” in favour of the scheme.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a very good idea,’ said Grinder. ‘For that matter the editors could write them to themselves and sign them “Progress”, “Ratepayer”, “Advance Mugsborough”, and sich-like.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all right,’ said the Chief, thoughtfully, ‘but we must be careful not to overdo it; of course there will have to be a certain amount of publicity, but we don’t want to create too much interest in it.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ observed Rushton arrogantly, ‘why should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the ratepayers at all? Why should we trouble to fake the books, or declare a dividend or ’ave the harticles in the papers or anything else? We’ve got the game in our own ’ands; we’ve got a majority in the Council, and, as Mr Sweater ses, very few people even take the trouble to read the reports of the meetings.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right enough,’ said Grinder. ‘But it’s just them few wot would make a lot of trouble and talk; they’re the very people we ’as to think about. If we can only manage to put them in a fog we’ll be all right, and the way to do it is as Mr Sweater proposes.’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said the Chief. ‘We must be very careful. I can work it all right in the Ananias and the Chloroform, and of course you’ll see that the Obscurer backs us up.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ said Grinder, grimly.

  The three local papers were run by limited companies. Sweater held nearly all the shares of the Ananias and of the Weekly Chloroform, and controlled their policy and contents. Grinder occupied the same position with regard to the Obscurer. The editors were a sort of marionettes who danced as Sweater and Grinder pulled the strings.

  ‘I wonder how Dr Weakling will take it?’ remarked Rushton.

  ‘That’s the very thing I was just thinkin’ about,’ cried Didlum. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good plan if we could arrange to ’ave somebody took bad – you know, fall down in a fit or something in the street just outside the Town ’All just before the matter is brought forward in the Council, and then ’ave someone to come and call ’im out to attend to the party wot’s ill, and keep ’im out till the business is done.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a capital idear,’ said Grinder thoughtfully. ‘But who could we get to ’ave the fit? It would ’ave to be someone we could trust, you know.’

  ‘’Ow about Rushton? You wouldn’t mind doin’ it, would yer?’ inquired Didlum.

  ‘I should strongly object,’ said Rushton haughtily. He regarded the suggestion that he should act such an undignified part as a kind of sacrilege.

  ‘Then I’ll do it meself if necessary,’ said Didlum. ‘I’m not proud when there’s money to be made; anything for an honest living.’

  ‘Well, I think we’re all agreed, so far,’ remarked Sweater. The others signified assent.

  ‘And I think we all deserve a drink,’ the Chief continued, producing a decanter and a box of cigars from a cupboard by the side of his desk. ‘Pass that water bottle from behind you, Didlum.’

  ‘I suppose nobody won’t be comin’ in?’ said the latter, anxiously. ‘I’m a teetotaller, you know.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ said Sweater, taking four glasses out of the cupboard and pouring out the whisky. ‘I’ve given orders that we’re not to be disturbed for anyone. Say when.’

  ‘Well, ’ere’s success to Socialism,’ cried Grinder, raising his glass, and taking a big drink.

  ‘Amen – ’ear, ’ear, I mean,’ said Didlum, hastily correcting himself.

  ‘Wot I likes about this ’ere business is that we’re not only doin’ ourselves a bit of good,’ continued Grinder with a laugh, ‘we’re not only doin’ ourselves a bit of good, but we’re likewise doin’ the Socialists a lot of ’arm. When the ratepayers ’ave bought the Works, and they begins to kick up a row because they’re losin’ money over it – we can tell ’em that it’s Socialism! And then they’ll say that if that’s Socialism they don’t want no more of it.’

  The other brigands laughed gleefully, and some of Didlum’s whisky went down the wrong way and nearly sent him into a fit.

  ‘You might as well kill a man at once,’ he protested as he wiped the tears from his eyes, ‘you might as well kill a man at once as choke ’im to death.’

  ‘And now I’ve got a bit of good news for you,’ said the Chief as he put his empty glass down.

  The others became serious at once.

  ‘Although we’ve had a very rough time of it in our contest with the Gasworks Company, and although we’ve got the worst of it, it hasn’t been all lavender for them, you know. They’ve not enjoyed themselves either: we hit them pretty hard when we put up the coal dues.’

  ‘A damn good job too,’ said Grinder malignantly.

  ‘Well,’ continued Sweater, ‘they’re just as sick of the fight as they want to be, because of course they don’t know exactly how badly we’ve been hit. For all they know, we could have continued the struggle indefinitely: and – well, to make a long story short, I’ve had a talk with the managing director and one or two others, and they’re willing to let us in with them. So that we can put the money we get for the Electric Light Works into gas shares!’

  This was such splendid news that they had another drink on the strength of it, and Didlum said that one of the first things they would have to do would be to totally abolish the Coal Dues, because they pressed so hard on the poor.

  31

  The Deserter

  About the end of January, Slyme left Easton’s. The latter had not succeeded in getting anything to do since the work at ‘The Cave’ was finished, and latterly the quality of the food had been falling off. The twelve shillings Slyme paid for his board and lodging was all that Ruth had to keep house with. She had tried to get some work to do herself, but generally without success; there were one or two jobs that she might have had if she had been able to give her whole time to them, but of course that was not possible; the child and the housework had to be attended to, and Slyme’s meals had to be prepared. Nevertheless, she contrived to get
away several times when she had a chance of earning a few shillings by doing a day’s charing for some lady or other, and then she left everything in such order at home that Easton was able to manage all right while she was away. On these occasions, she usually left the baby with Owen’s wife, who was an old schoolmate of hers. Nora was the more willing to render her this service because Frankie used to be so highly delighted whenever it happened. He never tired of playing with the child, and for several days afterwards he used to worry his mother with entreaties to buy a baby of their own.

  Easton earned a few shillings occasionally; now and then he got a job to clean windows, and once or twice he did a few days’ or hours’ work with some other painter who had been fortunate enough to get a little job ‘on his own’ – such as a ceiling to wash and whiten, or a room or two to paint; but such jobs were few.

  Sometimes, when they were very hard up, they sold some thing; the Bible that used to lie on the little table in the bay window was one of the first things to be parted with. Ruth erased the inscription from the fly-leaf and then they sold the book at a second-hand shop for two shillings. As time went on, they sold nearly everything that was saleable, except of course, the things that were obtained on the hire system.

  Slyme could see that they were getting very much into debt and behind with the rent, and on two occasions already Easton had borrowed five shillings from him, which he might never be able to pay back. Another thing was that Slyme was always in fear that Ruth – who had never wholly abandoned herself to wrongdoing – might tell Easton what had happened; more than once she had talked of doing so, and the principal reason why she refrained was that she knew that even if he forgave her, he could never think the same of her as before. Slyme repeatedly urged this view upon her, pointing out that no good could result from such a confession.

  Latterly the house had become very uncomfortable. It was not only that the food was bad and that sometimes there was no fire, but Ruth and Easton were nearly always quarrelling about something or other. She scarcely spoke to Slyme at all, and avoided sitting at the table with him whenever possible. He was in constant dread that Easton might notice her manner towards him, and seek for some explanation. Altogether the situation was so unpleasant that Slyme determined to clear out. He made the excuse that he had been offered a few weeks’ work at a place some little distance outside the town. After he was gone they lived for several weeks in semi-starvation on what credit they could get and by selling the furniture or anything else they possessed that could be turned into money. The things out of Slyme’s room were sold almost directly he left.

  32

  The Veteran

  Old Jack Linden had tried hard to earn a little money by selling bloaters, but they often went bad, and even when he managed to sell them all the profit was so slight that it was not worth doing.

  Before the work at ‘The Cave’ was finished, Philpot was a good friend to them; he frequently gave old Jack sixpence or a shilling and often brought a bag of cakes or buns for the children. Sometimes he came to tea with them on Sundays as an excuse for bringing a tin of salmon.

  Elsie and Charley frequently went to Owen’s house to take tea with Frankie; in fact, whilst Owen had anything to do, they almost lived there, for both Owen and Nora, knowing that the Lindens had nothing to live on except the earnings of the young woman, encouraged the children to come often.

  Old Jack made some hopeless attempts to get work – work of any kind, but nobody wanted him; and to make things worse, his eyesight, which had been failing for a long time, became very bad. Once he was given a job by a big provision firm to carry an advertisement about the streets. The man who had been carrying it before – an old soldier – had been sacked the previous day for getting drunk while on duty. The advertisement was not an ordinary pair of sandwich boards, but a sort of box without any bottom or lid, a wooden frame, four sides covered with canvas, on which were pasted printed bills advertising margarine. Each side of this box or frame was rather larger than an ordinary sandwich board.

  Old Linden had to get inside this thing and carry it about the streets; two straps fixed across the top of the frame and passing one over each of his shoulders enabled him to carry it. It swayed about a good deal as he walked along, especially when the wind caught it, but there were two handles inside to hold it steady by. The pay was eighteenpence a day, and he had to travel a certain route, up and down the busiest streets.

  At first the frame did not feel very heavy, but the weight seemed to increase as the time went on, and the straps hurt his shoulders. He felt very much ashamed, also, whenever he encountered any of his old mates, some of whom laughed at him.

  In consequence of the frame requiring so much attention to keep it steady, and being unused to the work, and his sight so bad, he several times narrowly escaped being run over. Another thing that added to his embarrassment was the jeering of the other sandwichmen, the loafers outside the public houses, and the boys, who shouted ‘Old Jack in the box’ after him. Sometimes the boys threw refuse at the frame, and once a decayed orange thrown by one of them knocked his hat off.

  By the time evening came he was scarcely able to stand for weariness. His shoulders, his legs and his feet ached terribly, and as he was taking the thing back to the shop he was accosted by a ragged, dirty-looking, beer-sodden old man whose face was inflamed with drink and fury. This was the old soldier who had been discharged the previous day. He cursed and swore in the most awful manner and accused Linden of ‘taking the bread out of his mouth’, and, shaking his fist fiercely at him, shouted that he had a good mind to knock his face through his head and out of the back of his neck. He might possibly have tried to put this threat into practice but for the timely appearance of a policeman, when he calmed down at once and took himself off.

  Jack did not go back the next day; he felt that he would rather starve than have any more of the advertisement frame, and after this he seemed to abandon all hope of earning money: wherever he went it was the same – no one wanted him. So he just wandered about the streets aimlessly, now and then meeting an old workmate who asked him to have a drink, but this was not often, for nearly all of them were out of work and penniless.

  33

  The Soldier’s Children

  During most of this time, Jack Linden’s daughter-in-law had ‘Plenty of Work’, making blouses and pinafores for Sweater & Co. She had so much to do that one might have thought that the Tory Millennium had arrived, and that Tariff Reform was already an accomplished fact.

  She had Plenty of Work.

  At first they had employed her exclusively on the cheapest kind of blouses – those that were paid for at the rate of two shillings a dozen, but they did not give her many of that sort now. She did the work so neatly that they kept her busy on the better qualities, which did not pay her so well, because although she was paid more per dozen, there was a great deal more work in them than in the cheaper kinds. Once she had a very special one to make, for which she was paid six shillings; but it took her four and a half days – working early and late – to do it. The lady who bought this blouse was told that it came from Paris, and paid three guineas for it. But of course Mrs Linden knew nothing of that, and even if she had known, it would have made no difference to her.

  Most of the money she earned went to pay the rent, and sometimes there was only two or three shillings left to buy food for all of them: sometimes not even so much, because although she had Plenty of Work she was not always able to do it. There were times when the strain of working the machine was unendurable: her shoulders ached, her arms became cramped, and her eyes pained so that it was impossible to continue. Then for a change she would leave the sewing and do some housework.

  Once, when they owed four weeks’ rent, the agent was so threatening that they were terrified at the thought of being sold up and turned out of the house, and so she decided to sell the round mahogany table and some of the other things out of the sitting-room. Nearly all the furniture that was in the
house now belonged to her, and had formed her home before her husband died. The old people had given most of their things away at different times to their other sons since she had come to live there. These men were all married and all in employment. One was a fitter at the gasworks; the second was a railway porter, and the other was a butcher; but now that the old man was out of work they seldom came to the house. The last time they had been there was on Christmas Eve, and then there had been such a terrible row between them that the children had been awakened by it and frightened nearly out of their lives. The cause of the row was that some time previously they had mutually agreed to each give a shilling a week to the old people. They had done this for three weeks and after that the butcher had stopped his contribution: it had occurred to him that he was not to be expected to help to keep his brother’s widow and her children. If the old people liked to give up the house and go to live in a room somewhere by themselves, he would continue paying his shilling a week, but not otherwise. Upon this the railway porter and the gas-fitter also ceased paying. They said it wasn’t fair that they should pay a shilling a week each when the butcher – who was the eldest and earned the best wages – paid nothing. Provided he paid, they would pay; but if he didn’t pay anything, neither would they. On Christmas Eve they all happened to come to the house at the same time; each denounced the others, and after nearly coming to blows they all went away raging and cursing and had not been near the place since.

  As soon as she decided to sell the things, Mary went to Didlum’s second-hand furniture store, and the manager said he would ask Mr Didlum to call and see the table and other articles. She waited anxiously all the morning, but he did not appear, so she went once more to the shop to remind him. When he did come at last he was very contemptuous of the table and of everything else she offered to sell. Five shillings was the very most he could think of giving for the table, and even then he doubted whether he would ever get his money back. Eventually he gave her thirty shillings for the table, the overmantel, the easy chair, three other chairs and the two best pictures – one a large steel engraving of ‘The Good Samaritan’ and the other ‘Christ Blessing Little Children’.