Ragged Trousered Philanthropists — Chapter 44, Part 1

Chapter 44

The Beano Now and then a transient gleam of sunshine penetrated the gloom in which the lives of the philanthropists were passed.

The cheerless monotony was sometimes enlivened with a little innocent merriment.

Every now and then there was a funeral which took Misery and Crass away for the whole afternoon, and although they always tried to keep the dates secret, the men generally knew when they were gone.

Sometimes the people in whose houses they were working regaled them with tea, bread and butter, cake or other light refreshments, and occasionally even with beer—very different stuff from the petrifying liquid they bought at the Cricketers for twopence a pint.

At other places, where the people of the house were not so generously disposed, the servants made up for it, and entertained them in a similar manner without the knowledge of their masters and mistresses.

Even when the mistresses were too cunning to permit of this, they were seldom able to prevent the men from embracing the domestics, who for their part were quite often willing to be embraced; it was an agreeable episode that helped to vary the monotony of their lives, and there was no harm done.

It was rather hard lines on the philanthropists sometimes when they happened to be working in inhabited houses of the better sort.

They always had to go in and out by the back way, generally through the kitchen, and the crackling and hissing of the poultry and the joints of meat roasting in the ovens, and the odours of fruit pies and tarts, and plum puddings and sage and onions, were simply maddening.

In the back-yards of these houses there were usually huge stacks of empty beer, stout and wine bottles, and others that had contained whisky, brandy or champagne.

The smells of the delicious viands that were being prepared in the kitchen often penetrated into the dismantled rooms that the philanthropists were renovating, sometimes just as they were eating their own wretched fare out of their dinner basket, and washing it down with draughts of the cold tea or the petrifying liquid they sometimes brought with them in bottles.

Sometimes, as has been said, the people of the house used to send up some tea and bread and butter or cakes or other refreshments to the workmen, but whenever Hunter got to know of it being done he used to speak to the people about it and request that it be discontinued, as it caused the men to waste their time.

But the event of the year was the Beano, which took place on the last Saturday in August, after they had been paying in for about four months.

The cost of the outing was to be five shillings a head, so this was the amount each man had to pay in, but it was expected that the total cost—the hire of the brakes and the cost of the dinner—would come out at a trifle less than the amount stated, and in that case the surplus would be shared out after the dinner.

The amount of the share-out would be greater or less according to other circumstances, for it generally happened that apart from the subscriptions of the men, the Beano fund was swelled by charitable donations from several quarters, as will be seen later on.

When the eventful day arrived, the hands, instead of working till one, were paid at twelve o’clock and rushed off home to have a wash and change.

The brakes were to start from the “Cricketers” at one, but it was arranged, for the convenience of those who lived at Windley, that they were to be picked up at the Cross Roads at one-thirty.

There were four brakes altogether—three large ones for the men and one small one for the accommodation of Mr Rushton and a few of his personal friends, Didlum, Grinder, Mr Toonarf, an architect and Mr Lettum, a house and estate Agent.

One of the drivers was accompanied by a friend who carried a long coachman’s horn.

This gentleman was not paid to come, but, being out of work, he thought that the men would be sure to stand him a few drinks and that they would probably make a collection for him in return for his services.

Most of the chaps were smoking twopenny cigars, and had one or two drinks with each other to try to cheer themselves up before they started, but all the same it was a melancholy procession that wended its way up the hill to Windley.

To judge from the mournful expression on the long face of Misery, who sat on the box beside the driver of the first large brake, and the downcast appearance of the majority of the men, one might have thought that it was a funeral rather than a pleasure party, or that they were a contingent of lost souls being conducted to the banks of the Styx.

The man who from time to time sounded the coachman’s horn might have passed as the angel sounding the last trump, and the fumes of the cigars were typical of the smoke of their torment, which ascendeth up for ever and ever.

A brief halt was made at the Cross Roads to pick up several of the men, including Philpot, Harlow, Easton, Ned Dawson, Sawkins, Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk.

The two last-named were now working for Smeariton and Leavit, but as they had been paying in from the first, they had elected to go to the Beano rather than have their money back.

The Semi-drunk and one or two other habitual boozers were very shabby and down at heel, but the majority of the men were decently dressed.

Some had taken their Sunday clothes out of pawn especially for the occasion.

Others were arrayed in new suits which they were going to pay for at the rate of a shilling a week.

Some had bought themselves second-hand suits, one or two were wearing their working clothes brushed and cleaned up, and some were wearing Sunday clothes that had not been taken out of pawn for the simple reason that the pawnbrokers would not take them in.

These garments were in what might be called a transition stage—old-fashioned and shiny with wear, but yet too good to take for working in, even if their owners had been in a position to buy some others to take their place for best.

Crass, Slyme and one or two of the single men, however, were howling swells, sporting stand-up collars and bowler hats of the latest type, in contradistinction to some of the others, who were wearing hats of antique patterns, and collars of various shapes with jagged edges.

Harlow had on an old straw hat that his wife had cleaned up with oxalic acid, and Easton had carefully dyed the faded binding of his black bowler with ink.

Their boots were the worst part of their attire: without counting Rushton and his friends, there were thirty-seven men altogether, including Nimrod, and there were not half a dozen pairs of really good boots amongst the whole crowd.

When all were seated a fresh start was made.

The small brake, with Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and two or three other members of the Band, led the way.

Next came the largest brake with Misery on the box.

Beside the driver of the third brake was Payne, the foreman carpenter.

Crass occupied a similar position of honour on the fourth brake, on the back step of which was perched the man with the coachman’s horn.

Crass—who had engaged the brakes—had arranged with the drivers that the cortege should pass through the street where he and Easton lived, and as they went by Mrs Crass was standing at the door with the two young men lodgers, who waved their handkerchiefs and shouted greetings.

A

little further on Mrs Linden and Easton’s wife were standing at the door to see them go by.

In fact, the notes of the coachman’s horn alarmed most of the inhabitants, who crowded to their windows and doors to gaze upon the dismal procession as it passed.

The mean streets of Windley were soon left far behind and they found themselves journeying along a sunlit, winding road, bordered with hedges of hawthorn, holly and briar, past rich, brown fields of standing corn, shimmering with gleams of gold, past apple-orchards where bending boughs were heavily loaded with mellow fruits exhaling fragrant odours, through the cool shades of lofty avenues of venerable oaks, whose overarched and interlacing branches formed a roof of green, gilt and illuminated with quivering spots and shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trembling leaves; over old mossy stone bridges, spanning limpid streams that duplicated the blue sky and the fleecy clouds; and then again, stretching away to the horizon on every side over more fields, some rich with harvest, others filled with drowsing cattle or with flocks of timid sheep that scampered away at the sound of the passing carriages.

Several times they saw merry little companies of rabbits frisking gaily in and out of the hedges or in the fields beside the sheep and cattle.

At intervals, away in the distance, nestling in the hollows or amid sheltering trees, groups of farm buildings and stacks of hay; and further on, the square ivy-clad tower of an ancient church, or perhaps a solitary windmill with its revolving sails alternately flashing and darkening in the rays of the sun.

Past thatched wayside cottages whose inhabitants came out to wave their hands in friendly greeting.

Past groups of sunburnt, golden-haired children who climbed on fences and five-barred gates, and waved their hats and cheered, or ran behind the brakes for the pennies the men threw down to them.

From time to time the men in the brakes made half-hearted attempts at singing, but it never came to much, because most of them were too hungry and miserable.

They had not had time to take any dinner and would not have taken any even if they had the time, for they wished to reserve their appetites for the banquet at the Queen Elizabeth, which they expected to reach about half past three.

However, they cheered up a little after the first halt—at the Blue Lion, where most of them got down and had a drink.

Some of them, including the Semi-drunk, Ned Dawson, Bill Bates and Joe Philpot—had two or three drinks, and felt so much happier for them that, shortly after they started off again, sounds of melody were heard from the brake the three first named rode in—the one presided over by Crass—but it was not very successful, and even after the second halt—about five miles further on—at the Warrior’s Head, they found it impossible to sing with any heartiness.

Fitful bursts of song arose from time to time from each of the brakes in turn, only to die mournfully away.

It is not easy to sing on an empty stomach even if one has got a little beer in it; and so it was with most of them.

They were not in a mood to sing, or to properly appreciate the scenes through which they were passing.

They wanted their dinners, and that was the reason why this long ride, instead of being a pleasure, became after a while, a weary journey that seemed as if it were never coming to an end.

The next stop was at the Bird in Hand, a wayside public house that stood all by itself in a lonely hollow.

The landlord was a fat, jolly-looking man, and there were several customers in the bar—men who looked like farm-labourers, but there were no other houses to be seen anywhere.

This extraordinary circumstance exercised the minds of our travellers and formed the principal topic of conversation until they arrived at the Dew Drop Inn, about half an hour afterwards.

The first brake, containing Rushton and his friends, passed on without stopping here.

The occupants of the second brake, which was only a little way behind the first, were divided in opinion whether to stop or go on.

Some shouted out to the driver to pull up, others ordered him to proceed, and more were undecided which course to pursue—a state of mind that was not shared by the coachman, who, knowing that if they stopped somebody or other would be sure to stand him a drink, had no difficulty whatever in coming to a decision, but drew rein at the inn, an example that was followed by both the other carriages as they drove up.

It was a very brief halt, not more than half the men getting down at all, and those who remained in the brakes grumbled so much at the delay that the others drank their beer as quickly as possible and the journey was resumed once more, almost in silence.

No attempts at singing, no noisy laughter; they scarcely spoke to each other, but sat gloomily gazing out over the surrounding country.

Instructions had been given to the drivers not to stop again till they reached the Queen Elizabeth, and they therefore drove past the World Turned Upside Down without stopping, much to the chagrin of the landlord of that house, who stood at the door with a sickly smile upon his face.

Some of those who knew him shouted out that they would give him a call on their way back, and with this he had to be content.

They reached the long-desired Queen Elizabeth at twenty minutes to four, and were immediately ushered into a large room where a round table and two long ones were set for dinner—and they were set in a manner worthy of the reputation of the house.

The cloths that covered the tables and the serviettes, arranged fanwise in the drinking glasses, were literally as white as snow, and about a dozen knives and forks and spoons were laid for each person.

Down the centre of the table glasses of delicious yellow custard and cut-glass dishes of glistening red and golden jelly alternated with vases of sweet-smelling flowers.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with oilcloth—red flowers on a pale yellow ground; the pattern was worn off in places, but it was all very clean and shining.

Whether one looked at the walls with the old-fashioned varnished oak paper, or at the glossy piano standing across the corner near the white-curtained window, at the shining oak chairs or through the open casement doors that led into the shady garden beyond, the dominating impression one received was that everything was exquisitely clean.

The landlord announced that dinner would be served in ten minutes, and while they were waiting some of them indulged in a drink at the bar—just as an appetizer—whilst the others strolled in the garden or, by the landlord’s invitation, looked over the house.

Amongst other places, they glanced into the kitchen, where the landlady was superintending the preparation of the feast, and in this place, with its whitewashed walls and red-tiled floor, as in every other part of the house, the same absolute cleanliness reigned supreme.

“It’s a bit differint from the Royal Caff, where we got the sack, ain’t it?

” remarked the Semi-drunk to Bill Bates as they made their way to the dining-room in response to the announcement that dinner was ready.

“Not arf!

” replied Bill.

Rushton, with Didlum and Grinder and his other friends, sat at the round table near the piano.

Hunter took the head of the longer of the other two tables and Crass the foot, and on either side of Crass were Bundy and Slyme, who had acted with him as the Committee who had arranged the Beano.

Payne, the foreman carpenter, occupied the head of the other table.

The dinner was all that could be desired; it was almost as good as the kind of dinner that is enjoyed every day by those persons who are too lazy to work but are cunning enough to make others work for them.

There was soup, several entrees, roast beef, boiled mutton, roast turkey, roast goose, ham, cabbage, peas, beans and sweets galore, plum pudding, custard, jelly, fruit tarts, bread and cheese and as much beer or lemonade as they liked to pay for, the drinks being an extra; and afterwards the waiters brought in cups of coffee for those who desired it.

Everything was up to the knocker, and although they were somewhat bewildered by the multitude of knives and forks, they all, with one or two exceptions, rose to the occasion and enjoyed themselves famously.

The excellent decorum observed being marred only by one or two regrettable incidents.

The first of these occurred almost as soon as they sat down, when Ned Dawson who, although a big strong fellow, was not able to stand much beer, not being used to it, was taken ill and had to be escorted from the room by his mate Bundy and another man.

They left him somewhere outside and he came back again about ten minutes afterwards, much better but looking rather pale, and took his seat with the others.

The turkeys, the roast beef and the boiled mutton, the peas and beans and the cabbage, disappeared with astonishing rapidity, which was not to be wondered at, for they were all very hungry from the long drive, and nearly everyone made a point of having at least one helping of everything there was to be had.

Some of them went in for two lots of soup.

Then for the next course, boiled mutton and ham or turkey: then some roast beef and goose.

Then a little more boiled mutton with a little roast beef.

Each of the three boys devoured several times his own weight of everything, to say nothing of numerous bottles of lemonade and champagne ginger beer.

Crass frequently paused to mop the perspiration from his face and neck with his serviette.

In fact everybody had a good time.

There was enough and to spare of everything to eat, the beer was of the best, and all the time, amid the rattle of the crockery and the knives and forks, the proceedings were enlivened by many jests and flashes of wit that continuously kept the table in a roar.

“Chuck us over another dollop of that there white stuff, Bob,” shouted the Semi-drunk to Crass, indicating the blancmange.

Crass reached out his hand and took hold of the dish containing the “white stuff”, but instead of passing it to the Semi-drunk, he proceeded to demolish it himself, gobbling it up quickly directly from the dish with a spoon.

“Why, you’re eating it all yerself, yer bleeder,” cried the Semi-drunk indignantly, as soon as he realized what was happening.

“That’s all right, matey,” replied Crass affably as he deposited the empty dish on the table.

“It don’t matter, there’s plenty more where it come from.

Tell the landlord to bring in another lot.

” Upon being applied to, the landlord, who was assisted by his daughter, two other young women and two young men, brought in several more lots and so the Semi-drunk was appeased.

As for the plum-pudding—it was a fair knock-out; just like Christmas: but as Ned Dawson and Bill Bates had drunk all the sauce before the pudding was served, they all had to have their first helping without any.

However, as the landlord brought in another lot shortly afterwards, that didn’t matter either.

As soon as dinner was over, Crass rose to make his statement as secretary.

Thirty-seven men had paid five shillings each: that made nine pounds five shillings.

The committee had decided that the three boys—the painters’ boy, the carpenters’ boy and the front shop boy—should be allowed to come half-price: that made it nine pounds twelve and six.

In addition to paying the ordinary five-shilling subscription, Mr Rushton had given one pound ten towards the expenses.

(Loud cheers.

) And several other gentlemen had also given something towards it.

Mr Sweater, of the Cave, one pound.

(Applause.

) Mr Grinder, ten shillings in addition to the five-shilling subscription.

(Applause.

) Mr Lettum, ten shillings, as well as the five-shilling subscription.

(Applause.

) Mr Didlum, ten shillings in addition to the five shillings.

(Cheers.

) Mr Toonarf, ten shillings as well as the five-shilling subscription.

They had also written to some of the manufacturers who supplied the firm with materials, and asked them to give something: some of ’em had sent half a crown, some five shillings, some hadn’t answered at all, and two of ’em had written back to say that as things is cut so fine nowadays, they didn’t hardly get no profit on their stuff, so they couldn’t afford to give nothing; but out of all the firms they wrote to they managed to get thirty-two and sixpence altogether, making a grand total of seventeen pounds.

As for the expenses, the dinner was two and six a head, and there was forty-five of them there, so that came to five pounds twelve and six.

Then there was the hire of the brakes, also two and six a head, five pound twelve and six, which left a surplus of five pound fifteen to be shared out (applause), which came to three shillings each for the thirty-seven men, and one and fourpence for each of the boys.

(Loud and prolonged cheers.

) Crass, Slyme and Bundy now walked round the tables distributing the share-out, which was very welcome to everybody, especially those who had spent nearly all their money during the journey from Mugsborough, and when this ceremony was completed, Philpot moved a hearty vote of thanks to the committee for the manner in which they had carried out their duties, which was agreed to with acclamation.

Then they made a collection for the waiters, and the three waitresses, which amounted to eleven shillings, for which the host returned thanks on behalf of the recipients, who were all smiles.

Then Mr Rushton requested the landlord to serve drinks and cigars all round.

Some had cigarettes and the teetotallers had lemonade or ginger beer.

Those who did not smoke themselves took the cigar all the same and gave it to someone else who did.

When all were supplied there suddenly arose loud cries of “Order!

” and it was seen that Hunter was upon his feet.

As soon as silence was obtained, Misery said that he believed that everyone there present would agree with him, when he said that they should not let the occasion pass without drinking the ’ealth of their esteemed and respected employer, Mr Rushton.

(Hear, hear.

) Some of them had worked for Mr Rushton on and off for many years, and as far as THEY was concerned it was not necessary for him (Hunter) to say much in praise of Mr Rushton.

(Hear, hear.

) They knew Mr Rushton as well as he did himself and to know him was to esteem him.

(Cheers.

) As for the new hands, although they did not know Mr Rushton as well as the old hands did, he felt sure that they would agree that as no one could wish for a better master.

(Loud applause.

) He had much pleasure in asking them to drink Mr Rushton’s health.

Everyone rose.

“Musical honours, chaps,” shouted Crass, waving his glass and leading off the singing which was immediately joined in with great enthusiasm by most of the men, the Semi-drunk conducting the music with a table knife: For he’s a jolly good fellow, For he’s a jolly good fellow, For he’s a jolly good fel-ell-O, And so say all of us, So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!

So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!

For he’s a jolly good fellow, For ’e’s a jolly good fellow For ’e’s a jolly good fel-ell-O, And so say all of us.

“Now three cheers!

” shouted Crass, leading off.

Hip, hip, hip, hooray!

Hip, hip, hip, hooray!

Hip, hip, hip, hooray!

Everyone present drank Rushton’s health, or at any rate went through the motions of doing so, but during the roar of cheering and singing that preceded it several of the men stood with expressions of contempt or uneasiness upon their faces, silently watching the enthusiasts or looking at the ceiling or on the floor.

“I will say this much,” remarked the Semi-drunk as they all resumed their seats—he had had several drinks during dinner, besides those he had taken on the journey—“I will say this much, although I did have a little misunderstanding with Mr Hunter when I was workin’ at the Royal Caff, I must admit that this is the best firm that’s ever worked under me.

” This statement caused a shout of laughter, which, however, died away as Mr Rushton rose to acknowledge the toast to his health.

He said that he had now been in business for nearly sixteen years and this was—he believed—the eleventh outing he had had the pleasure of attending.

During all that time the business had steadily progressed and had increased in volume from year to year, and he hoped and believed that the progress made in the past would be continued in the future.

(Hear, hear.

) Of course, he realized that the success of the business depended very largely upon the men as well as upon himself; he did his best in trying to get work for them, and it was necessary—if the business was to go on and prosper—that they should also do their best to get the work done when he had secured it for them.

(Hear, hear.

) The masters could not do without the men, and the men could not live without the masters.

(Hear, hear.

) It was a matter of division of labour: the men worked with their hands and the masters worked with their brains, and one was no use without the other.

He hoped the good feeling which had hitherto existed between himself and his workmen would always continue, and he thanked them for the way in which they had responded to the toast of his health.

Loud cheers greeted the conclusion of this speech, and then Crass stood up and said that he begged to propose the health of Mr ’Unter.

(Hear, hear.

) He wasn’t going to make a long speech as he wasn’t much of a speaker.

(Cries of “You’re all right,” “Go on,” etc. ) But he felt sure as they would all hagree with him when he said that—next to Mr Rushton—there wasn’t no one the men had more respect and liking for than Mr ’Unter.

(Cheers.

) A few weeks ago when Mr ’Unter was laid up, many of them began to be afraid as they was going to lose ’im.

He was sure that all the ’ands was glad to ’ave this hoppertunity of congratulating him on his recovery (Hear, hear) and of wishing him the best of ’ealth in the future and hoping as he would be spared to come to a good many more Beanos.

Loud applause greeted the conclusion of Crass’s remarks, and once more the meeting burst into song: For he’s a jolly good fellow For he’s a jolly good fellow.

For he’s a jolly good fellow, And so say all of us.

So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!

So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!

When they had done cheering, Nimrod rose.

His voice trembled a little as he thanked them for their kindness, and said that he hoped he deserved their goodwill.

He could only say that as he was sure as he always tried to be fair and considerate to everyone.

(Cheers.

) He would now request the landlord to replenish their glasses.

(Hear, hear.

) As soon as the drinks were served, Nimrod again rose and said he wished to propose the healths of their visitors who had so kindly contributed to their expenses—Mr Lettum, Mr Didlum, Mr Toonarf and Mr Grinder.

(Cheers.

) They were very pleased and proud to see them there (Hear, hear), and he was sure the men would agree with him when he said that Messrs Lettum, Didlum, Toonarf and Grinder were jolly good fellows.

To judge from the manner in which they sang the chorus and cheered, it was quite evident that most of the hands did agree.

When they left off, Grinder rose to reply on behalf of those included in the toast.

He said that it gave them much pleasure to be there and take part in such pleasant proceedings and they were glad to think that they had been able to help to bring it about.

It was very gratifying to see the good feeling that existed between Mr Rushton and his workmen, which was as it should be, because masters and men was really fellow workers—the masters did the brain work, the men the ’and work.

They was both workers, and their interests was the same.

He liked to see men doing their best for their master and knowing that their master was doing his best for them, that he was not only a master, but a friend.

That was what he (Grinder) liked to see—master and men pulling together—doing their best, and realizing that their interests was identical.

(Cheers.

) If only all masters and men would do this they would find that everything would go on all right, there would be more work and less poverty.

Let the men do their best for their masters, and the masters do their best for their men, and they would find that that was the true solution of the social problem, and not the silly nonsense that was talked by people what went about with red flags.

(Cheers and laughter.

) Most of those fellows were chaps who was too lazy to work for their livin’.

(Hear, hear.

) They could take it from him that, if ever the Socialists got the upper hand there would just be a few of the hartful dodgers who would get all the cream, and there would be nothing left but ’ard work for the rest.

(Hear.

hear.

) That’s wot hall those hagitators was after: they wanted them (his hearers) to work and keep ’em in idleness.

(Hear, hear.

) On behalf of Mr Didlum, Mr Toonarf, Mr Lettum and himself, he thanked them for their good wishes, and hoped to be with them on a sim’ler occasion in the future.

Loud cheers greeted the termination of his speech, but it was obvious from some of the men’s faces that they resented Grinder’s remarks.

These men ridiculed Socialism and regularly voted for the continuance of capitalism, and yet they were disgusted and angry with Grinder!

There was also a small number of Socialists—not more than half a dozen altogether—who did not join in the applause.

These men were all sitting at the end of the long table presided over by Payne.

None of them had joined in the applause that greeted the speeches, and so far neither had they made any protest.

Some of them turned very red as they listened to the concluding sentences of Grinder’s oration, and others laughed, but none of them said anything.

They knew before they came that there was sure to be a lot of “Jolly good fellow” business and speechmaking, and they had agreed together beforehand to take no part one way or the other, and to refrain from openly dissenting from anything that might be said, but they had not anticipated anything quite so strong as this.

When Grinder sat down some of those who had applauded him began to jeer at the Socialists.

“What have you got to say to that?

” they shouted.

“That’s up against yer!

” “They ain’t got nothing to say now.

”