‘Come, come, come an’ ’ave a drink with me
Down by the ole Bull and Bush.
Come, come, come an’ shake ’ands with me
Down by the ole Bull and Bush.
Wot cheer me little Germin band!
Fol the diddle di do!
Come an’ take ’old of me ’and
Come, come, come an’ ’ave a drink with me,
Down by the old Bull and Bush,
Bush! Bush!’
Protracted knocking on the tables greeted the end of the song, but as the Semi-drunk knew no other except odd verses and choruses, he called upon Crass for the next, and that gentleman accordingly sang ‘Work, Boys, Work’ to the tune of ‘Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching’. As this song is the Marseillaise of the Tariff Reform Party, voicing as it does the highest ideals of the Tory workmen of this country, it was an unqualified success, for most of them were Conservatives.
‘Now I’m not a wealthy man,
But I lives upon a plan
Wot will render me as ’appy as a King;
An’ if you will allow, I’ll sing it to you now,
For time you know is always on the wing.
Work, boys, work and be contented
So long as you’ve enough to buy a meal.
For if you will but try, you’ll be wealthy – bye and bye
If you’ll only put yer shoulder to the wheel.’
‘Altogether, boys,’ shouted Grinder, who was a strong Tariff Reformer, and was delighted to see that most of the men were of the same way of thinking; and the ‘boys’ roared out the chorus once more:
Work, boys, work and be contented
So long as you’ve enough to buy a meal
For if you will but try, you’ll be wealthy – bye and bye–
If you’ll only put your shoulder to the wheel.
As they sang the words of this noble chorus the Tories seemed to become inspired with lofty enthusiasm. It is of course impossible to say for certain, but probably as they sang there arose before their exalted imaginations, a vision of the Past, and looking down the long vista of the years that were gone, they saw that from their childhood they had been years of poverty and joyless toil. They saw their fathers and mothers, wearied and broken with privation and excessive labour, sinking un-honoured into the welcome oblivion of the grave.
And then, as a change came over the spirit of their dream, they saw the Future, with their own children travelling along the same weary road to the same kind of goal.
It is possible that visions of this character were conjured up in their minds by the singing, for the words of the song gave expression to their ideal of what human life should be. That was all they wanted – to be allowed to work like brutes for the benefit of other people. They did not want to be civilized themselves and they intended to take good care that the children they had brought into the world should never enjoy the benefits of civilization either. As they often said:
‘Who and what are our children that they shouldn’t be made to work for their betters? They’re not Gentry’s children, are they? The good things of life was never meant for the likes of them. Let ’em work! That’s wot the likes of them was made for, and if we can only get Tariff Reform for ’em they will always be sure of plenty of it – not only Full Time, but Overtime! As for edication, travellin’ in furrin’ parts, an’ enjoying life an’ all sich things as that, they was never meant for the likes of our children – they’re meant for Gentry’s children! Our children is only like so much dirt compared with Gentry’s children! That’s wot the likes of us is made for – to Work for Gentry, so as they can ’ave plenty of time to enjoy theirselves; and the Gentry is made to ’ave a good time so as the likes of us can ’ave Plenty of Work.’
There were several more verses, and by the time they had sung them all, the Tories were in a state of wild enthusiasm. Even Ned Dawson, who had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on his arms on the table, roused himself up at the end of each verse, and after having joined in the chorus, went to sleep again.
At the end of the song they gave three cheers for Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work, and then Crass, who, as the singer of the last song, had the right to call upon the next man, nominated Philpot, who received an ovation when he stood up, for he was a general favourite. He never did no harm to nobody, and he was always willing to do anyone a good turn whenever he had the opportunity. Shouts of ‘Good old Joe’ resounded through the room as he crossed over to the piano, and in response to numerous requests for ‘The old song’ he began to sing ‘The Flower Show’:
‘Whilst walkin’ out the other night, not knowing where to go
I saw a bill upon a wall about a Flower Show,
So I thought the flowers I’d go and see to pass away the night,
And when I got into that Show it was a curious sight.
So with your kind intention and a little of your aid,
Tonight some flowers I’ll mention which I hope will never fade.’
Omnes:
‘To-night some flowers I’ll mention which I hope will never fade.’
There were several more verses, from which it appeared that the principal flowers in the Show were the Rose, the Thistle and the Shamrock.
When he had finished, the applause was so deafening and the demands for an encore so persistent that to satisfy them he sang another old favourite – ‘Won’t you buy my pretty flowers?’
‘Ever coming, ever going,
Men and women hurry by,
Heedless of the tear-drops gleaming,
In her sad and wistful eye
How her little heart is sighing
Thro’ the cold and dreary hours,
Only listen to her crying,
“Won’t you buy my pretty flowers?”’
When the last verse of this song had been sung five or six times, Philpot exercised his right of nominating the next singer, and called upon Dick Wantley, who with many suggestive gestures and grimaces sang ‘Put me amongst the girls’, and afterwards called upon Payne, the foreman carpenter, who gave ‘I’m the Marquis of Camberwell Green’.
There was a lot of what music-hall artists call ‘business’ attached to his song, and as he proceeded, Payne, who was ghastly pale and very nervous, went through a lot of galvanic motions and gestures, bowing and scraping and sliding about and flourishing his handkerchief in imitation of the courtly graces of the Marquis. During this performance the audience maintained an appalling silence, which so embarrassed Payne that before he was half-way through the song he had to stop because he could not remember the rest. However, to make up for this failure he sang another called ‘We all must die, like the fire in the grate’. This also was received in a very lukewarm manner by the crowd, some of whom laughed and others suggested that if he couldn’t sing any better than that, the sooner he was dead the better.
This was followed by another Tory ballad, the chorus being as follows:
‘His clothes may be ragged, his hands may be soiled,
But where’s the disgrace if for bread he has toiled.
His ’art is in the right place, deny it no one can,
The backbone of Old England is the honest workin’ man.’
After a few more songs it was decided to adjourn to a field at the rear of the tavern to have a game of cricket. Sides were formed, Rushton, Didlum, Grinder, and the other gentlemen taking part just as if they were only common people, and while the game was in progress the rest played ring quoits or reclined on the grass watching the players, whilst the remainder amused themselves drinking beer and playing cards and shove-ha’penny in the bar parlour, or taking walks around the village sampling the beer at the other pubs, of which there were three.
The time passed in this manner until seven o’clock, the hour at which it had been arranged to start on the return journey; but about a quarter of an hour before they set out an unpleasant incident occurred.
During the time that they were playing cricket a party of g
lee singers, consisting of four young girls and five men, three of whom were young fellows, the other two being rather elderly, possibly the fathers of some of the younger members of the party, came into the field and sang several part songs for their entertainment. Towards the close of the game most of the men had assembled in this field, and during a pause in the singing the musicians sent one of their number, a shy girl about eighteen years of age – who seemed as if she would rather that someone else had the task – amongst the crowd to make a collection. The girl was very nervous and blushed as she murmured her request, and held out a straw hat that evidently belonged to one of the male members of the glee party. A few of the men gave pennies, some refused or pretended not to see either the girl or the hat, others offered to give her some money for a kiss, but what caused the trouble was that two or three of those who had been drinking more than was good for them dropped the still burning ends of their cigars, all wet with saliva as they were, into the hat and Dick Wantley spit into it.
The girl hastily returned to her companions, and as she went some of the men who had witnessed the behaviour of those who had insulted her, advised them to make themselves scarce, as they stood a good chance of getting a thrashing from the girl’s friends. They said it would serve them dam’ well right if they did get a hammering.
Partly sobered by fear, the three culprits sneaked off and hid themselves, pale and trembling with terror, under the box seats of the three brakes. They had scarcely left when the men of the glee party came running up, furiously demanding to see those who had insulted the girl. As they could get no satisfactory answer, one of their number ran back and presently returned, bringing the girl with him, the other young women following a little way behind.
She said she could not see the men they were looking for, so they went down to the public house to see if they could find them there, some of the Rushton’s men accompanying them and protesting their indignation.
[The time passed quickly enough and by half past seven the brakes were loaded up again and a start made for the return journey.]
They called at all the taverns on the road, and by the time they reached the Blue Lion half of them were three sheets in the wind, and five or six were very drunk, including the driver of Crass’s brake and the man with the bugle. The latter was so far gone that they had to let him lie down in the bottom of the carriage amongst their feet, where he fell asleep, while the others amused themselves by blowing weird shrieks out of the horn.
There was an automatic penny-in-the-slot piano at the Blue Lion and as that was the last house of the road they made a rather long stop there, playing hooks and rings, shove-ha’penny, drinking, singing, dancing and finally quarrelling.
Several of them seemed disposed to quarrel with Newman. All sorts of offensive remarks were made at him in his hearing. Once someone ostentatiously knocked his glass of lemonade over, and a little later someone else collided violently with him just as he was in the act of drinking, causing his lemonade to spill all over his clothes. The worst of it was that most of these rowdy ones were his fellow passengers in Crass’s brake, and there was not much chance of getting a seat in either of the other carriages, for they were overcrowded already.
From the remarks he overheard from time to time, Newman guessed the reason of their hostility, and as their manner towards him grew more menacing, he became so nervous that he began to think of quietly sneaking off and walking the remainder of the way home by himself, unless he could get somebody in one of the other brakes to change seats with him.
Whilst these thoughts were agitating his mind, [Dick Wantley suddenly shouted out that he was going to go for the dirty tyke who had offered to work under price last winter.
It was his fault that they were all working for sixpence halfpenny and he was going to wipe the floor with him. Some of his friends eagerly offered to assist, but others interposed, and for a time it looked as if there was going to be a free fight, the aggressors struggling hard to get at their inoffensive victim.
Eventually, however, Newman found a seat in Misery’s brake, squatting on the floor with his back to the horses, thankful enough to be out of reach of the drunken savages, who were now roaring out ribald songs and startling the countryside, as they drove along, with unearthly blasts on the coach horn.
Meantime, although none of them seemed to notice it, the brake was] travelling at a furious rate, and swaying about from side to side in a very erratic manner. It would have been the last carriage, but things had got a bit mixed at the Blue Lion and, instead of bringing up the rear of the procession, it was now second, just behind the small vehicle containing Rushton and his friends.
Crass several times reminded them that the other carriage was so near that Rushton must be able to hear every word that was said, and these repeated admonitions at length enraged the Semi-drunk, who shouted out that they didn’t care a b—r if he could hear. Who the bloody hell was he? To hell with him!
‘Damn Rushton, and you too!’ cried Bill Bates, addressing Crass. ‘You’re only a dirty toe-rag! That’s all you are – a bloody rotter! That’s the only reason you gets put in charge of jobs – ’cos you’re a good nigger-driver! You’re a bloody sight worse than Rushton or Misery either! Who was it started the one-man, one-room dodge, eh? Why, you, yer bleeder!’
‘Knock ’im orf ’is bleedin’ perch,’ suggested Bundy.
Everybody seemed to think this was a very good idea, but when the Semi-drunk attempted to rise for the purpose of carrying it out, he was thrown down by a sudden lurch of the carriage on the top of the prostrate figure of the bugle man and by the time the others had assisted him back to his seat they had forgotten all about their plan of getting rid of Crass.
Meantime the speed of the vehicle had increased to a fearful rate.
Rushton and the other occupants of the little wagonette in front had been for some time shouting to them to moderate the pace of their horses, but as the driver of Crass’s brake was too drunk to understand what they said he took no notice, and they had no alternative but to increase their own speed to avoid being run down. The drunken driver now began to imagine that they were trying to race him, and became fired with the determination to pass them. It was a very narrow road, but there was just about room to do it, and he had sufficient confidence in his own skill with the ribbons to believe that he could get past in safety.
The terrified gesticulations and the shouts of Rushton’s party only served to infuriate him, because he imagined that they were jeering at him for not being able to overtake them. He stood up on the footboard and lashed the horses till they almost flew over the ground, while the carriage swayed and skidded in a fearful manner.
In front, the horses of Rushton’s conveyance were also galloping at top speed, the vehicle bounding and reeling from one side of the road to the other, whilst its terrified occupants, whose faces were blanched with apprehension, sat clinging to their seats and to each other, their eyes projecting from the sockets as they gazed back with terror at their pursuers, some of whom were encouraging the drunken driver with promises of quarts of beer, and urging on the horses with curses and yells.
Crass’s fat face was pallid with fear as he clung trembling to his seat. Another man, very drunk and oblivious of everything, was leaning over the side of the brake, spewing into the road, while the remainder, taking no interest in the race, amused themselves by singing – conducted by the Semi-drunk – as loud as they could roar:
‘Has anyone seen a Germin band,
Germin Band, Germin Band?
I’ve been lookin’ about,
Pom – Pom, Pom, Pom, Pom!
‘I’ve searched every pub, both near and far,
Near and far, near and far,
I want my Fritz,
What plays tiddley bits
On the big trombone!’
The other two brakes had fallen far behind. The one presided over by Hunter contained a mournful crew. Nimrod himself, from the effects of numerous drinks of ginger b
eer with secret dashes of gin in it, had become at length crying drunk, and sat weeping in gloomy silence beside the driver, a picture of lachrymose misery and but dimly conscious of his surroundings, and Slyme, who rode with Hunter because he was a fellow member of the Shining Light Chapel. Then there was another paperhanger – an unhappy wretch who was afflicted with religious mania; he had brought a lot of tracts with him which he had distributed to the other men, to the villagers of Tubberton and to anybody else who would take them.
Most of the other men who rode in Nimrod’s brake were of the ‘religious’ working man type. Ignorant, shallow-pated dolts, without as much intellectuality as an average cat. Attendants at various PSAs and ‘Church Mission Halls’ who went every Sunday afternoon to be lectured on their duty to their betters and to have their minds – save the mark! – addled and stultified by such persons as Rushton, Sweater, Didlum and Grinder, not to mention such mental specialists as the holy reverend Belchers and Boshers, and such persons as John Starr.
At these meetings none of the ‘respectable’ working men were allowed to ask any questions, or to object to, or find fault with anything that was said, or to argue, or discuss, or criticize. They had to sit there like a lot of children while they were lectured and preached at and patronized. Even as sheep before their shearers are dumb, so they were not permitted to open their mouths. For that matter they did not wish to be allowed to ask any questions, or to discuss anything. They would not have been able to. They sat there and listened to what was said, but they had but a very hazy conception of what it was all about.
Most of them belonged to these PSAs merely for the sake of the loaves and fishes. Every now and then they were awarded prizes – Self-help by Smiles, and other books suitable for perusal by persons suffering from almost complete obliteration of the mental faculties. Besides other benefits there was usually a Christmas Club attached to the ‘PSA’ or ‘Mission’ and the things were sold to the members slightly below cost as a reward for their servility.
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists Page 60
