Ragged Trousered Philanthropists — Chapter 2, Part 2
Philpot, muttering something about it being all the same to him—shut or open—got down from the steps and opened the door.
Hunter went out again without making any further remark and once more began crawling over the house.
Owen was working by himself in a room on the same floor as Philpot.
He was at the window, burning off with a paraffin torch-lamp those parts of the old paintwork that were blistered and cracked.
In this work the flame of the lamp is directed against the old paint, which becomes soft and is removed with a chisel knife, or a scraper called a shavehook.
The door was ajar and he had opened the top sash of the window for the purpose of letting in some fresh air, because the atmosphere of the room was foul with the fumes of the lamp and the smell of the burning paint, besides being heavy with moisture.
The ceiling had only just been water washed and the walls had just been stripped.
The old paper, saturated with water, was piled up in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Presently, as he was working he began to feel conscious of some other presence in the room; he looked round.
The door was open about six inches and in the opening appeared a long, pale face with a huge chin, surmounted by a bowler hat and ornamented with a large red nose, a drooping moustache and two small, glittering eyes set very close together.
For some seconds this apparition regarded Owen intently, then it was silently withdrawn, and he was again alone.
He had been so surprised and startled that he had nearly dropped the lamp, and now that the ghastly countenance was gone, Owen felt the blood surge into his own cheeks.
He trembled with suppressed fury and longed to be able to go out there on the landing and hurl the lamp into Hunter’s face.
Meanwhile, on the landing outside Owen’s door, Hunter stood thinking.
Someone must be got rid of to make room for the cheap man tomorrow.
He had hoped to catch somebody doing something that would have served as an excuse for instant dismissal, but there was now no hope of that happening.
What was to be done?
He would like to get rid of Linden, who was now really too old to be of much use, but as the old man had worked for Rushton on and off for many years, Hunter felt that he could scarcely sack him off hand without some reasonable pretext.
Still, the fellow was really not worth the money he was getting.
Sevenpence an hour was an absurdly large wage for an old man like him.
It was preposterous: he would have to go, excuse or no excuse.
Hunter crawled downstairs again.
Jack Linden was about sixty-seven years old, but like Philpot, and as is usual with working men, he appeared older, because he had had to work very hard all his life, frequently without proper food and clothing.
His life had been passed in the midst of a civilization which he had never been permitted to enjoy the benefits of.
But of course he knew nothing about all this.
He had never expected or wished to be allowed to enjoy such things; he had always been of opinion that they were never intended for the likes of him.
He called himself a Conservative and was very patriotic.
At the time when the Boer War commenced, Linden was an enthusiastic jingo: his enthusiasm had been somewhat damped when his youngest son, a reservist, had to go to the front, where he died of fever and exposure.
When this soldier son went away, he left his wife and two children, aged respectively four and five years at that time, in his father’s care.
After he died they stayed on with the old people.
The young woman earned a little occasionally by doing needlework, but was really dependent on her father-in-law.
Notwithstanding his poverty, he was glad to have them in the house, because of late years his wife had been getting very feeble, and, since the shock occasioned by the news of the death of her son, needed someone constantly with her.
Linden was still working at the vestibule doors when the manager came downstairs.
Misery stood watching him for some minutes without speaking.
At last he said loudly: “How much longer are you going to be messing about those doors?
Why don’t you get them under colour?
You were fooling about there when I was here this morning.
Do you think it’ll pay to have you playing about there hour after hour with a bit of pumice stone?
Get the work done!
Or if you don’t want to, I’ll very soon find someone else who does!
I’ve been noticing your style of doing things for some time past and I want you to understand that you can’t play the fool with me.
There’s plenty of better men than you walking about.
If you can’t do more than you’ve been doing lately you can clear out; we can do without you even when we’re busy.
” Old Jack trembled.
He tried to answer, but was unable to speak.
If he had been a slave and had failed to satisfy his master, the latter might have tied him up somewhere and thrashed him.
Hunter could not do that;
he could only take his food away.
Old Jack was frightened—it was not only HIS food that might be taken away.
At last, with a great effort, for the words seemed to stick in his throat, he said: “I must clean the work down, sir, before I go on painting.
” “I’m not talking about what you’re doing, but the time it takes you to do it!
” shouted Hunter.
“And I don’t want any back answers or argument about it.
You must move yourself a bit quicker or leave it alone altogether.
” Linden did not answer: he went on with his work, his hand trembling to such an extent that he was scarcely able to hold the pumice stone.
Hunter shouted so loud that his voice filled all the house.
Everyone heard and was afraid.
Who would be the next?
they thought.
Finding that Linden made no further answer, Misery again began walking about the house.
As he looked at them the men did their work in a nervous, clumsy, hasty sort of way.
They made all sorts of mistakes and messes.
Payne, the foreman carpenter, was putting some new boards on a part of the drawing-room floor: he was in such a state of panic that, while driving a nail, he accidentally struck the thumb of his left hand a severe blow with his hammer.
Bundy was also working in the drawing-room putting some white-glazed tiles in the fireplace.
Whilst cutting one of these in half in order to fit it into its place, he inflicted a deep gash on one of his fingers.
He was afraid to leave off to bind it up while Hunter was there, and consequently as he worked the white tiles became all smeared and spattered with blood.
Easton, who was working with Harlow on a plank, washing off the old distemper from the hall ceiling, was so upset that he was scarcely able to stand on the plank, and presently the brush fell from his trembling hand with a crash upon the floor.
Everyone was afraid.
They knew that it was impossible to get a job for any other firm.
They knew that this man had the power to deprive them of the means of earning a living; that he possessed the power to deprive their children of bread.
Owen, listening to Hunter over the banisters upstairs, felt that he would like to take him by the throat with one hand and smash his face in with the other.
And then?
Why then he would be sent to gaol, or at the best he would lose his employment: his food and that of his family would be taken away.
That was why he only ground his teeth and cursed and beat the wall with his clenched fist.
So!
and so!
and so!
If it were not for them!
Owen’s imagination ran riot.
First he would seize him by the collar with his left hand, dig his knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall and then, with his right fist, smash!
smash!
smash!
until Hunter’s face was all cut and covered with blood.
But then, what about those at home?
Was it not braver and more manly to endure in silence?
Owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, panting and exhausted.
Downstairs, Misery was still going to and fro in the house and walking up and down in it.
Presently he stopped to look at Sawkins’ work.
This man was painting the woodwork of the back staircase.
Although the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, Misery had given orders that it was not to be cleaned before being painted.
“Just dust it down and slobber the colour on,” he had said.
Consequently, when Crass made the paint, he had put into it an extra large quantity of dryers.
To a certain extent this destroyed the “body” of the colour: it did not cover well; it would require two coats.
When Hunter perceived this he was furious.
He was sure it could be made to do with one coat with a little care; he believed Sawkins was doing it like this on purpose.
Really, these men seemed to have no conscience.
Two coats!
and he had estimated for only three.
“Crass!
” “Yes, sir.
” “Come here!
” “Yes, sir.
” Crass came hurrying along.
“What’s the meaning of this?
Didn’t I tell you to make this do with one coat?
Look at it!
” “It’s like this, sir,” said Crass.
“If it had been washed down—” “Washed down be damned,” shouted Hunter.
“The reason is that the colour ain’t thick enough.
Take the paint and put a little more body in it and we’ll soon see whether it can be done or not.
I can make it cover if you can’t. ” Crass took the paint, and, superintended by Hunter, made it thicker.
Misery then seized the brush and prepared to demonstrate the possibility of finishing the work with one coat.
Crass and Sawkins looked on in silence.
Just as Misery was about to commence he fancied he heard someone whispering somewhere.
He laid down the brush and crawled stealthily upstairs to see who it was.
Directly his back was turned Crass seized a bottle of oil that was standing near and, tipping about half a pint of it into the paint, stirred it up quickly.
Misery returned almost immediately: he had not caught anyone; it must have been fancy.
He took up the brush and began to paint.
The result was worse than Sawkins!
He messed and fooled about for some time, but could not make it come right.
At last he gave it up.
“I suppose it’ll have to have two coats after all,” he said, mournfully.
“But it’s a thousand pities.
” He almost wept.
The firm would be ruined if things went on like this.
“You’d better go on with it,” he said as he laid down the brush.
He began to walk about the house again.
He wanted to go away now, but he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away.
No one saw him go.
For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked.
The musical ringing of Bundy’s trowel, the noise of the carpenters’ hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pair of steps.
No one dared to speak.
At last Philpot could stand it no longer.
He was very thirsty.
He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived.
He listened intently.
He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room.
Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention.
Owen looked round and Philpot began to make signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while.
This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed.
He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know.
Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly.
“Was it gorn or not?
” he wondered.
He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen’s room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer.
“Do you think it’s gorn?
” he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen’s door.
“I don’t know,” replied Owen in a low tone.
Philpot wondered.
He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not.
At last an idea came.
He would go downstairs to get some more cement.
Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again.
“Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?
” he asked in a loud voice.
“No,” replied Owen.
“I’m not using it.
” “Then I suppose I’ll have to go down and get some.
Is there anything I can bring up for you?
” “No, thanks,” replied Owen.
Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized as a paint-shop.
Crass was there mixing some colour.
“I want a bit of stopping,” Philpot said as he helped himself to some.
“Is the b—r gorn?
” whispered Crass.
“I don’t know,” replied Philpot.
“Where’s his bike?
” “’E always leaves it outside the gate, so’s we can’t see it,” replied Crass.
“Tell you what,” whispered Philpot, after a pause.
“Give the boy a hempty bottle and let ’im go to the gate and look to the bikes there.
If Misery sees him ’e can pretend to be goin’ to the shop for some hoil.
” This was done.
Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately: the bike was gone.
As the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth.
“Thank Gord!
” said one.
“Hope the b—r falls orf and breaks ’is bloody neck,” said another.
“These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any good yet,” cried a third.
Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him.
Then they again went on working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that Misery’s presence inspired, they made better progress.
A few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked.
One of these was old Jack Linden.
He was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves.
As a rule he did not smoke when working; it was contrary to orders.
As Philpot was returning to work again he paused for a moment to whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him upstairs.
On reaching Philpot’s room the latter placed the step-ladder near the cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed it to Linden with the remark, “Get some of that acrost yer, matey; it’ll put yer right.
” While Linden was taking a hasty drink, Joe kept watch on the landing outside in case Hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear.
When Linden was gone downstairs again, Philpot, having finished what remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up the chimney, resumed the work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls.
He must make a bit of a show tonight or there would be a hell of a row when Misery came in the morning.
Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way.
He felt like a beaten dog.
He was more indignant on poor old Linden’s account than on his own, and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation.
All his life it had been the same: incessant work under similar more or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being just able to avoid starvation.
And the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past;
darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough, when he would be unable to work any more.
He thought of his child.
Was he to be a slave and a drudge all his life also?
It would be better for the boy to die now.
As Owen thought of his child’s future there sprung up within him a feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fellow workmen.
_They were the enemy_.
Those who not only quietly submitted like so many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and opposed and ridiculed any suggestion to alter it.
_They were the real oppressors_—the men who spoke of themselves as “The likes of us,” who, having lived in poverty and degradation all their lives considered that what had been good enough for them was good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into existence.
He hated and despised them because they calmly saw their children condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberately refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than those they had themselves.
It was because they were indifferent to the fate of THEIR children that he would be unable to secure a natural and human life for HIS.
It was their apathy or active opposition that made it impossible to establish a better system of society under which those who did their fair share of the world’s work would be honoured and rewarded.
Instead of helping to do this, they abased themselves, and grovelled before their oppressors, and compelled and taught their children to do the same.
THEY were the people who were really responsible for the continuance of the present system.
Owen laughed bitterly to himself.
What a very comical system it was.
Those who worked were looked upon with contempt, and subjected to every possible indignity.
Nearly everything they produced was taken away from them and enjoyed by the people who did nothing.
And then the workers bowed down and grovelled before those who had robbed them of the fruits of their labour and were childishly grateful to them for leaving anything at all.
No wonder the rich despised them and looked upon them as dirt.
They WERE despicable.
They WERE dirt.
They admitted it and gloried in it.
While these thoughts were seething in Owen’s mind, his fellow workmen were still patiently toiling on downstairs.
Most of them had by this time dismissed Hunter from their thoughts.
They did not take things so seriously as Owen.
They flattered themselves that they had more sense than that.
It could not be altered.
Grin and bear it.
After all, it was only for life!
Make the best of things, and get your own back whenever you get a chance.
Presently Harlow began to sing.
He had a good voice and it was a good song, but his mates just then did not appreciate either one or the other.
His singing was the signal for an outburst of exclamations and catcalls.
“Shut it, for Christ’s sake!
” “That’s enough of that bloody row!
” And so on.
Harlow stopped.
“How’s the enemy?
” asked Easton presently, addressing no one in particular.
“Don’t know,” replied Bundy.
“It must be about half past four.
Ask Slyme; he’s got a watch.
” It was a quarter past four.
“It gets dark very early now,” said Easton.
“Yes,” replied Bundy.
“It’s been very dull all day.
I think it’s goin’ to rain.
Listen to the wind.
” “I ’ope not,” replied Easton.
“That means a wet shirt goin’ ’ome.
” He called out to old Jack Linden, who was still working at the front doors: “Is it raining, Jack?
” Old Jack, his pipe still in his mouth, turned to look at the weather.
It was raining, but Linden did not see the large drops which splashed heavily upon the ground.
He saw only Hunter, who was standing at the gate, watching him.
For a few seconds the two men looked at each other in silence.
Linden was paralysed with fear.
Recovering himself, he hastily removed his pipe, but it was too late.
Misery strode up.
“I don’t pay you for smoking,” he said, loudly.
“Make out your time sheet, take it to the office and get your money.
I’ve had enough of you!
” Jack made no attempt to defend himself: he knew it was of no use.
He silently put aside the things he had been using, went into the room where he had left his tool-bag and coat, removed his apron and white jacket, folded them up and put them into his tool-bag along with the tools he had been using—a chisel-knife and a shavehook—put on his coat, and, with the tool-bag slung over his shoulder, went away from the house.
Without speaking to anyone else, Hunter then hastily walked over the place, noting what progress had been made by each man during his absence.
He then rode away, as he wanted to get to the office in time to give Linden his money.
It was now very cold and dark within the house, and as the gas was not yet laid on, Crass distributed a number of candles to the men, who worked silently, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts.
Who would be the next?
Outside, sombre masses of lead-coloured clouds gathered ominously in the tempestuous sky.
The gale roared loudly round the old-fashioned house and the windows rattled discordantly.
Rain fell in torrents.
They said it meant getting wet through going home, but all the same, Thank God it was nearly five o’clock!
