← catalogue

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell · English · Gutenberg #3608 · 1,408,820 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Author: Robert Tressell


        
Release date: January 1, 2003 [eBook #3608]
                Most recently updated: May 5, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3608

Credits: Iain Tatch


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAGGED TROUSERED PHILANTHROPISTS ***




The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell




CONTENTS

 1 An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves
 2 Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord
 3 The Financiers
 4 The Placard
 5 The Clock-case
 6 It is not My Crime
 7 The Exterminating Machines
 8 The Cap on the Stairs
 9 Who is to Pay?
 10 The Long Hill
 11 Hands and Brains
 12 The Letting of the Room
 13 Penal Servitude and Death
 14 Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence
 15 The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones
 16 True Freedom
 17 The Rev. John Starr
 18 The Lodger
 19 The Filling of the Tank
 20 The Forty Thieves. The Battle: Brigands versus Bandits
 21 The Reign of Terror. The Great Money Trick
 22 The Phrenologist
 23 The “Open-air”
 24 Ruth
 25 The Oblong
 26 The Slaughter
 27 The March of the Imperialists
 28 The Week before Christmas
 29 The Pandorama
 30 The Brigands hold a Council of War
 31 The Deserter
 32 The Veteran
 33 The Soldier’s Children
 34 The Beginning of the End
 35 Facing the “Problem”
 36 The O.B.S.
 37 A Brilliant Epigram
 38 The Brigands’ Cave
 39 The Brigands at Work
 40 Vive la System!
 41 The Easter Offering. The Beano Meeting
 42 June
 43 The Good Old Summer-time
 44 The Beano
 45 The Great Oration
 46 The “Sixty-five”
 47 The Ghouls
 48 The Wise men of the East
 49 The Undesired
 50 Sundered
 51 The Widow’s Son
 52 “It’s a Far, Far Better Thing that I do, than I have Ever Done”
 53 Barrington Finds a Situation
 54 The End




Preface


In writing this book my intention was to present, in the form of an
interesting story, a faithful picture of working-class life—more
especially of those engaged in the Building trades—in a small town in
the south of England.

I wished to describe the relations existing between the workmen and
their employers, the attitude and feelings of these two classes towards
each other; their circumstances when at work and when out of
employment; their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their
religious and political opinions and ideals.

The action of the story covers a period of only a little over twelve
months, but in order that the picture might be complete it was
necessary to describe how the workers are circumstanced at all periods
of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. Therefore the characters
include women and children, a young boy—the apprentice—some improvers,
journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men.

I designed to show the conditions relating from poverty and
unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal with
them and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy,
namely—Socialism. I intended to explain what Socialists understand by
the word “poverty”: to define the Socialist theory of the causes of
poverty, and to explain how Socialists propose to abolish poverty.

It may be objected that, considering the number of books dealing with
these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for.
The answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to
Socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist
is sufficient to show that he does not know what Socialism means. The
same is true of all the anti-socialist writers and the “great
statesmen” who make anti-socialist speeches: unless we believe that
they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own
interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do
not understand Socialism. There is no other possible explanation of the
extraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry out against
is not Socialism but a phantom of their own imagining.

Another answer is that “The Philanthropists” is not a treatise or
essay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story full
of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the
subject of Socialism being treated incidentally.

This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is for
others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at least
one merit—that of being true. I have invented nothing. There are no
scenes or incidents in the story that I have not either witnessed
myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared I let the
characters express themselves in their own sort of language and
consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At the same
time I believe that—because it is true—the book is not without its
humorous side.

The scenes and characters are typical of every town in the South of
England and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. If the
book is published I think it will appeal to a very large number of
readers. Because it is true it will probably be denounced as a libel on
the working classes and their employers, and upon the
religious-professing section of the community. But I believe it will be
acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their
lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that
no attack is made upon sincere religion.




Chapter 1
An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious
Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves


The house was named “The Cave”. It was a large old-fashioned
three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and
situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back
nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means of
a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn
trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many
years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by
the firm of Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators.

There were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there,
carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides
several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the old
ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into
one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder.
Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were
being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and
broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were cut through walls
and doors were being put where no doors had been before. Old broken
chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and
fixed in their places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off the
ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls
preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was
full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the
rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of
the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper.
Besides being full of these the air was heavily laden with dust and
disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had
been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those
employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff Reform
Paradise—they had Plenty of Work.

At twelve o’clock Bob Crass—the painters’ foreman—blew a blast upon a
whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the
apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large
galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By
the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated
tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each man on the
“job” paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar—they did not
have milk—and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at
dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune.

Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about
eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the
fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser,
formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered
with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and
plaster. A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls,
and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner.

As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin
with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them
brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their
laps or placed on the floor beside them.

At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but
the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater
which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed
stick at the fire.

“I don’t think much of this bloody tea,” suddenly remarked Sawkins, one
of the labourers.

“Well it oughter be all right,” retorted Bert; “it’s been bilin’ ever
since ’arf past eleven.”

Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of
age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part
of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that
they had become too small for him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely
reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees
and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with
square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric,
and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too
large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a
pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an
upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his
clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.

“Well then, you can’t have put enough tea in, or else you’ve bin usin’
up wot was left yesterday,” continued Sawkins.

“Why the bloody ’ell don’t you leave the boy alone?” said Harlow,
another painter. “If you don’t like the tea you needn’t drink it. For
my part, I’m sick of listening to you about it every damn day.”

“It’s all very well for you to say I needn’t drink it,” answered
Sawkins, “but I’ve paid my share an’ I’ve got a right to express an
opinion. It’s my belief that ’arf the money we gives him is spent on
penny ’orribles: ’e’s always got one in ’is hand, an’ to make wot tea
’e does buy last, ’e collects all the slops wot’s left and biles it up
day after day.”

“No, I don’t!” said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. “It’s not me
wot buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and ’e
buys them ’imself, so there!”

At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant
glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.

“You’d better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after
this week,” he said, addressing Sawkins, “and then p’raps we’ll ’ave a
little peace at meal-times.”

“An’ you needn’t ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,”
added Bert, tearfully, ’cos I won’t do it.”

Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve
months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a
simple labourer, but since then he had “picked up” a slight knowledge
of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a
white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The others
did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition, but his
wages—fivepence an hour—were twopence an hour less than the standard
rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was
“stood off” when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he was generally
regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the “Bloke”.
Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his new mates
“not to let the b—r Sawkins see anything.”

The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of
the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that
followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.

“How did you get on yesterday?” asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the
plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the _Daily
Obscurer_.

“No luck,” replied Bundy, gloomily. “I had a bob each way on Stockwell,
in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.”

This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two
others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow’s
races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion
of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence
for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned
Captain Kiddem of the _Obscurer_. One of those who did not join the
syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper. He
was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there
must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or
football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and
politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally
admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had
little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about
thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built
that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his
clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an
unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks.

There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his
fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions
on the subjects mentioned.

The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox
opinions. If anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon
discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small
class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of
the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very great
number—in fact the majority of the people—lived on the verge of want;
and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of
semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but
still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by
privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a
period to their misery. And strangest of all—in his opinion—he saw that
people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were
the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or
died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he
thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results
was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and eagerly
read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done.

It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that
his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably
something wrong with his mind.

When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their
contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and
when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the _Obscurer_ that Bundy
had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some
carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection.
Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was
devouring the contents of a paper called _The Chronicles of Crime_. Ned
Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate
or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted
him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his
coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same
intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who
took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who, having
finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back into
his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled,
and proceeded to smoke in silence.

Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy
gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough.
This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was commonly
reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the
latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered amongst the
hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman’s, and
that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his
people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of
currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain
more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the
fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what
he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter’s
labourer at the usual wages—fivepence per hour.

He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the
majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and
slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to
learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved
in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his
workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was
difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the
present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and
unconscious of his surroundings.

Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation
ensued.

“Is the gent what’s bought this ’ouse any relation to Sweater the
draper?” asked Payne, the carpenter’s foreman.

“It’s the same bloke,” replied Crass.

“Didn’t he used to be on the Town Council or something?”

“’E’s bin on the Council for years,” returned Crass. “’E’s on it now.
’E’s mayor this year. ’E’s bin mayor several times before.”

“Let’s see,” said Payne, reflectively, “’e married old Grinder’s
sister, didn’t ’e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.”

“Yes, I believe he did,” said Crass.

“It wasn’t Grinder’s sister,” chimed in old Jack Linden. “It was ’is
niece. I know, because I remember working in their ’ouse just after
they was married, about ten year ago.”

“Oh yes, I remember now,” said Payne. “She used to manage one of
Grinder’s branch shops didn’t she?”

“Yes,” replied Linden. “I remember it very well because there was a lot
of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used to be a
regler ’ot un: no one never thought as he’d ever git married at all:
there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work
for him.”

This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief
silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.

“Funny name to call a ’ouse, ain’t it?” he said. “‘The Cave.’ I wonder
what made ’em give it a name like that.”

“They calls ’em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,” said old Jack
Linden.

“There’s generally some sort of meaning to it, though,” observed Payne.
“For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, ’e might
call ’is ’ouse, ‘Epsom Lodge’ or ‘Newmarket Villa’.”

“Or sometimes there’s a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,”
said another man; “then they calls it ‘Hoak Lodge’ or ‘Cherry
Cottage’.”

“Well, there’s a cave up at the end of this garden,” said Harlow with a
grin, “you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the ’ouse runs into;
praps they called it after that.”

“Talking about the drains,” said old Jack Linden when the laughter
produced by this elegant joke had ceased. “Talking about the drains, I
wonder what they’re going to do about them; the ’ouse ain’t fit to live
in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done
away with.”

“So it is going to be,” replied Crass. “There’s going to be a new set
of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with
the main.”

Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this
matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be
adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige
with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.

“That’s goin’ to cost a good bit,” said Linden.

“Yes, I suppose it will,” replied Crass, “but money ain’t no object to
old Sweater. ’E’s got tons of it; you know ’e’s got a large wholesale
business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the
one ’e’s got ’ere.”

Easton was still reading the Obscurer; he was not about to understand
exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at—probably the
latter never intended that anyone should understand—but he was
conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against
foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he
began to think that it was about time we did something to protect
ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question: to tell the truth,
he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length he said aloud,
addressing himself to Crass:

“Wot do you think of this ’ere fissical policy, Bob?”

“Ain’t thought much about it,” replied Crass. “I don’t never worry my
’ed about politics.”

“Much better left alone,” chimed in old Jack Linden sagely, “argyfying
about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an’ does no good to
nobody.”

At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. Most
of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If two or
three men of similar opinions happened to be together they might
discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed
company it was better left alone. The “Fissical Policy” emanated from
the Tory party. That was the reason why some of them were strongly in
favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. Some
of them were under the delusion that they were Conservatives:
similarly, others imagined themselves to be Liberals. As a matter of
fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public
affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in
the planet of Jupiter.

Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject,
when, looking up from his paper, Owen said:

“Does the fact that you never ‘trouble your heads about politics’
prevent you from voting at election times?”

No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Easton however, in
spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking.

“Well, I don’t go in for politics much, either, but if what’s in this
’ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take some interest in
it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.”

“If you’re going to believe all that’s in that bloody rag you’ll want
some salt,” said Harlow.

The Obscurer was a Tory paper and Harlow was a member of the local
Liberal club. Harlow’s remark roused Crass.

“Wot’s the use of talkin’ like that?” he said; “you know very well that
the country IS being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to buy
something; look round the place an’ you’ll see that more than ’arf the
damn stuff comes from abroad. They’re able to sell their goods ’ere
because they don’t ’ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to put
’eavy dooties on our goods to keep ’em out of their countries; and I
say it’s about time it was stopped.”

“’Ear, ’ear,” said Linden, who always agreed with Crass, because the
latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a
good—or a bad—word for a man to the boss. “’Ear, ’ear! Now that’s wot I
call common sense.”

Several other men, for the same reason as Linden, echoed Crass’s
sentiments, but Owen laughed contemptuously.

“Yes, it’s quite true that we gets a lot of stuff from foreign
countries,” said Harlow, “but they buys more from us than we do from
them.”

“Now you think you know a ’ell of a lot,” said Crass. “’Ow much more
did they buy from us last year, than we did from them?”

Harlow looked foolish: as a matter of fact his knowledge of the subject
was not much wider than Crass’s. He mumbled something about not having
no ’ed for figures, and offered to bring full particulars next day.

“You’re wot I call a bloody windbag,” continued Crass; “you’ve got a
’ell of a lot to say, but wen it comes to the point you don’t know
nothin’.”

“Why, even ’ere in Mugsborough,” chimed in Sawkins—who though still
lying on the dresser had been awakened by the shouting—“We’re overrun
with ’em! Nearly all the waiters and the cook at the Grand Hotel where
we was working last month is foreigners.”

“Yes,” said old Joe Philpot, tragically, “and then thers all them
Hitalian horgin grinders, an’ the blokes wot sells ’ot chestnuts; an’
wen I was goin’ ’ome last night I see a lot of them Frenchies sellin’
hunions, an’ a little wile afterwards I met two more of ’em comin’ up
the street with a bear.”

Notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this intelligence, Owen again
laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it was a
very serious state of affairs. It was a dam’ shame that these people
were allowed to take the bread out of English people’s mouths: they
ought to be driven into the bloody sea.

And so the talk continued, principally carried on by Crass and those
who agreed with him. None of them really understood the subject: not
one of them had ever devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the earnest
investigation of it. The papers they read were filled with vague and
alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported
into this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly arriving,
and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they
committed, and the injury they did to British trade. These were the
seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within
them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. To them the
mysterious thing they variously called the “Friscal Policy”, the
“Fistical Policy”, or the “Fissical Question” was a great Anti-Foreign
Crusade. The country was in a hell of a state, poverty, hunger and
misery in a hundred forms had already invaded thousands of homes and
stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. How came these things to
be? It was the bloody foreigner! Therefore, down with the foreigners
and all their works. Out with them. Drive them b—s into the bloody sea!
The country would be ruined if not protected in some way. This Friscal,
Fistical, Fissical or whatever the hell policy it was called, WAS
Protection, therefore no one but a bloody fool could hesitate to
support it. It was all quite plain—quite simple. One did not need to
think twice about it. It was scarcely necessary to think about it at
all.

This was the conclusion reached by Crass and such of his mates who
thought they were Conservatives—the majority of them could not have
read a dozen sentences aloud without stumbling—it was not necessary to
think or study or investigate anything. It was all as clear as
daylight. The foreigner was the enemy, and the cause of poverty and bad
trade.

When the storm had in some degree subsided,

“Some of you seem to think,” said Owen, sneeringly, “that it was a
great mistake on God’s part to make so many foreigners. You ought to
hold a mass meeting about it: pass a resolution something like this:
‘This meeting of British Christians hereby indignantly protests against
the action of the Supreme Being in having created so many foreigners,
and calls upon him to forthwith rain down fire, brimstone and mighty
rocks upon the heads of all those Philistines, so that they may be
utterly exterminated from the face of the earth, which rightly belongs
to the British people’.”

Crass looked very indignant, but could think of nothing to say in
answer to Owen, who continued:

“A little while ago you made the remark that you never trouble yourself
about what you call politics, and some of the rest agreed with you that
to do so is not worth while. Well, since you never ‘worry’ yourself
about these things, it follows that you know nothing about them; yet
you do not hesitate to express the most decided opinions concerning
matters of which you admittedly know nothing. Presently, when there is
an election, you will go and vote in favour of a policy of which you
know nothing. I say that since you never take the trouble to find out
which side is right or wrong you have no right to express any opinion.
You are not fit to vote. You should not be allowed to vote.”

Crass was by this time very angry.

“I pays my rates and taxes,” he shouted, “an’ I’ve got as much right to
express an opinion as you ’ave. I votes for who the bloody ’ell I
likes. I shan’t arst your leave nor nobody else’s! Wot the ’ell’s it
got do with you who I votes for?”

“It has a great deal to do with me. If you vote for Protection you will
be helping to bring it about, and if you succeed, and if Protection is
the evil that some people say it is, I shall be one of those who will
suffer. I say you have no right to vote for a policy which may bring
suffering upon other people, without taking the trouble to find out
whether you are helping to make things better or worse.”

Owen had risen from his seat and was walking up and down the room
emphasizing his words with excited gestures.

“As for not trying to find out wot side is right,” said Crass, somewhat
overawed by Owen’s manner and by what he thought was the glare of
madness in the latter’s eyes, “I reads the Ananias every week, and I
generally takes the Daily Chloroform, or the Hobscurer, so I ought to
know summat about it.”

“Just listen to this,” interrupted Easton, wishing to create a
diversion and beginning to read from the copy of the Obscurer which he
still held in his hand:

“GREAT DISTRESS IN MUGSBOROUGH.
HUNDREDS OUT OF EMPLOYMENT.
WORK OF THE CHARITY SOCIETY.
789 CASES ON THE BOOKS.


“Great as was the distress among the working classes last year,
unfortunately there seems every prospect that before the winter which
has just commenced is over the distress will be even more acute.

Already the Charity Society and kindred associations are relieving more
cases than they did at the corresponding time last year. Applications
to the Board of Guardians have also been much more numerous, and the
Soup Kitchen has had to open its doors on Nov. 7th a fortnight earlier
than usual. The number of men, women and children provided with meals
is three or four times greater than last year.”


Easton stopped: reading was hard work to him.

“There’s a lot more,” he said, “about starting relief works: two
shillings a day for married men and one shilling for single and
something about there’s been 1,572 quarts of soup given to poor
families wot was not even able to pay a penny, and a lot more. And
’ere’s another thing, an advertisement:

“THE SUFFERING POOR

Sir: Distress among the poor is so acute that I earnestly ask you for
aid for The Salvation Army’s great Social work on their behalf. Some
600 are being sheltered nightly. Hundreds are found work daily. Soup
and bread are distributed in the midnight hours to homeless wanderers
in London. Additional workshops for the unemployed have been
established. Our Social Work for men, women and children, for the
characterless and the outcast, is the largest and oldest organized
effort of its kind in the country, and greatly needs help. £10,000 is
required before Christmas Day. Gifts may be made to any specific
section or home, if desired. Can you please send us something to keep
the work going? Please address cheques, crossed Bank of England (Law
Courts Branch), to me at 101, Queen Victoria Street, EC. Balance Sheets
and Reports upon application.


“BRAMWELL BOOTH.”


“Oh, that’s part of the great ’appiness an’ prosperity wot Owen makes
out Free Trade brings,” said Crass with a jeering laugh.

“I never said Free Trade brought happiness or prosperity,” said Owen.

“Well, praps you didn’t say exactly them words, but that’s wot it
amounts to.”

“I never said anything of the kind. We’ve had Free Trade for the last
fifty years and today most people are living in a condition of more or
less abject poverty, and thousands are literally starving. When we had
Protection things were worse still. Other countries have Protection and
yet many of their people are glad to come here and work for starvation
wages. The only difference between Free Trade and Protection is that
under certain circumstances one might be a little worse than the other,
but as remedies for Poverty, neither of them are of any real use
whatever, for the simple reason that they do not deal with the real
causes of Poverty.”

“The greatest cause of poverty is hover-population,” remarked Harlow.

“Yes,” said old Joe Philpot. “If a boss wants two men, twenty goes
after the job: ther’s too many people and not enough work.”

“Over-population!” cried Owen, “when there’s thousands of acres of
uncultivated land in England without a house or human being to be seen.
Is over-population the cause of poverty in France? Is over-population
the cause of poverty in Ireland? Within the last fifty years the
population of Ireland has been reduced by more than half. Four millions
of people have been exterminated by famine or got rid of by emigration,
but they haven’t got rid of poverty. P’raps you think that half the
people in this country ought to be exterminated as well.”

Here Owen was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and resumed his
seat. When the cough had ceased he sat wiping his mouth with his
handkerchief and listening to the talk that ensued.

“Drink is the cause of most of the poverty,” said Slyme.

This young man had been through some strange process that he called
“conversion”. He had had a “change of ’art” and looked down with pious
pity upon those he called “worldly” people. He was not “worldly”, he
did not smoke or drink and never went to the theatre. He had an
extraordinary notion that total abstinence was one of the fundamental
principles of the Christian religion. It never occurred to what he
called his mind, that this doctrine is an insult to the Founder of
Christianity.

“Yes,” said Crass, agreeing with Slyme, “an’ thers plenty of ’em wot’s
too lazy to work when they can get it. Some of the b—s who go about
pleading poverty ’ave never done a fair day’s work in all their bloody
lives. Then thers all this new-fangled machinery,” continued Crass.
“That’s wot’s ruinin’ everything. Even in our trade ther’s them
machines for trimmin’ wallpaper, an’ now they’ve brought out a paintin’
machine. Ther’s a pump an’ a ’ose pipe, an’ they reckon two men can do
as much with this ’ere machine as twenty could without it.”

“Another thing is women,” said Harlow, “there’s thousands of ’em
nowadays doin’ work wot oughter be done by men.”

“In my opinion ther’s too much of this ’ere eddication, nowadays,”
remarked old Linden. “Wot the ’ell’s the good of eddication to the
likes of us?”

“None whatever,” said Crass, “it just puts foolish idears into people’s
’eds and makes ’em too lazy to work.”

Barrington, who took no part in the conversation, still sat silently
smoking. Owen was listening to this pitiable farrago with feelings of
contempt and wonder. Were they all hopelessly stupid? Had their
intelligence never developed beyond the childhood stage? Or was he mad
himself?

“Early marriages is another thing,” said Slyme: “no man oughtn’t to be
allowed to get married unless he’s in a position to keep a family.”

“How can marriage be a cause of poverty?” said Owen, contemptuously. “A
man who is not married is living an unnatural life. Why don’t you
continue your argument a little further and say that the practice of
eating and drinking is the cause of poverty or that if people were to
go barefoot and naked there would be no poverty? The man who is so poor
that he cannot marry is in a condition of poverty already.”

“Wot I mean,” said Slyme, “is that no man oughtn’t to marry till he’s
saved up enough so as to ’ave some money in the bank; an’ another
thing, I reckon a man oughtn’t to get married till ’e’s got an ’ouse of
’is own. It’s easy enough to buy one in a building society if you’re in
reg’lar work.”

At this there was a general laugh.

“Why, you bloody fool,” said Harlow, scornfully, “most of us is walkin’
about ’arf our time. It’s all very well for you to talk; you’ve got
almost a constant job on this firm. If they’re doin’ anything at all
you’re one of the few gets a show in. And another thing,” he added with
a sneer, “we don’t all go to the same chapel as old Misery,”

“Old Misery” was Ruston & Co.’s manager or walking foreman. “Misery”
was only one of the nicknames bestowed upon him by the hands: he was
also known as “Nimrod” and “Pontius Pilate”.

“And even if it’s not possible,” Harlow continued, winking at the
others, “what’s a man to do during the years he’s savin’ up?”

“Well, he must conquer hisself,” said Slyme, getting red.

“Conquer hisself is right!” said Harlow and the others laughed again.

“Of course if a man tried to conquer hisself by his own strength,”
replied Slyme, “’e would be sure to fail, but when you’ve got the Grace
of God in you it’s different.”

“Chuck it, fer Christ’s sake!” said Harlow in a tone of disgust. “We’ve
only just ’ad our dinner!”

“And wot about drink?” demanded old Joe Philpot, suddenly.

“’Ear, ’ear,” cried Harlow. “That’s the bleedin’ talk. I wouldn’t mind
’avin ’arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for it.”

Joe Philpot—or as he was usually called, “Old Joe”—was in the habit of
indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very old, being
only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. He had lost his
wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for his three
children had died in their infancy. Slyme’s reference to drink had
roused Philpot’s indignation; he felt that it was directed against
himself. The muddled condition of his brain did not permit him to take
up the cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that although Owen was a
tee-totaller himself, he disliked Slyme.

“There’s no need for us to talk about drink or laziness,” returned
Owen, impatiently, “because they have nothing to do with the matter.
The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the
majority of those who are not drunkards and who DO work? Why, if all
the drunkards and won’t-works and unskilled or inefficient workers
could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious and
skilled workers tomorrow, it would, under the present conditions, be so
much the worse for us, because there isn’t enough work for all NOW and
those people by increasing the competition for what work there is,
would inevitably cause a reduction of wages and a greater scarcity of
employment. The theories that drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are
the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by
those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present states of
affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from discovering the real
causes of our present condition.”

“Well, if we’re all wrong,” said Crass, with a sneer, “praps you can
tell us what the real cause is?”

“An’ praps you think you know how it’s to be altered,” remarked Harlow,
winking at the others.

“Yes; I do think I know the cause,” declared Owen, “and I do think I
know how it could be altered—”

“It can’t never be haltered,” interrupted old Linden. “I don’t see no
sense in all this ’ere talk. There’s always been rich and poor in the
world, and there always will be.”

“Wot I always say is there ’ere,” remarked Philpot, whose principal
characteristic—apart from thirst—was a desire to see everyone
comfortable, and who hated rows of any kind. “There ain’t no use in the
likes of us trubblin our ’eds or quarrelin about politics. It don’t
make a dam bit of difference who you votes for or who gets in. They’re
hall the same; workin the horicle for their own benefit. You can talk
till you’re black in the face, but you won’t never be able to alter it.
It’s no use worrying. The sensible thing is to try and make the best of
things as we find ’em: enjoy ourselves, and do the best we can for each
other. Life’s too short to quarrel and we’ll hall soon be dead!”

At the end of this lengthy speech, the philosophic Philpot abstractedly
grasped a jam-jar and raised it to his lips; but suddenly remembering
that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again without
drinking.

“Let us begin at the beginning,” continued Owen, taking no notice of
these interruptions. “First of all, what do you mean by Poverty?”

“Why, if you’ve got no money, of course,” said Crass impatiently.

The others laughed disdainfully. It seemed to them such a foolish
question.

“Well, that’s true enough as far as it goes,” returned Owen, “that is,
as things are arranged in the world at present. But money itself is not
wealth: it’s of no use whatever.”

At this there was another outburst of jeering laughter.

“Supposing for example that you and Harlow were shipwrecked on a
desolate island, and YOU had saved nothing from the wreck but a bag
containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a
bottle of water.”

“Make it beer!” cried Harlow appealingly.

“Who would be the richer man, you or Harlow?”

“But then you see we ain’t shipwrecked on no dissolute island at all,”
sneered Crass. “That’s the worst of your arguments. You can’t never get
very far without supposing some bloody ridclus thing or other. Never
mind about supposing things wot ain’t true; let’s ’ave facts and common
sense.”

“’Ear, ’ear,” said old Linden. “That’s wot we want—a little common
sense.”

“What do YOU mean by poverty, then?” asked Easton.

“What I call poverty is when people are not able to secure for
themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries, comforts,
pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres, pictures,
music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good
and pleasant food.”

Everybody laughed. It was so ridiculous. The idea of the likes of THEM
wanting or having such things! Any doubts that any of them had
entertained as to Owen’s sanity disappeared. The man was as mad as a
March hare.

“If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare
necessaries of existence, that man’s family is living in poverty. Since
he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just as well be
a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is
deprived. What we call civilization—the accumulation of knowledge which
has come down to us from our forefathers—is the fruit of thousands of
years of human thought and toil. It is not the result of the labour of
the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and
therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. Every little child
that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or full,
whether he is physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much
he may excel or fall short of his fellows in other respects, in one
thing at least he is their equal—he is one of the heirs of all the ages
that have gone before.”

Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was not sane after all. He
certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this.
It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could
not understand one half of it.

“Why is it,” continued Owen, “that we are not only deprived of our
inheritance—we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of
civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to obtain
even the bare necessaries of existence?”

No one answered.

“All these things,” Owen proceeded, “are produced by those who work. We
do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of
the things that are made by work.”

The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the over-population
theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given
an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense
to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping
machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned
the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such
a fool as Owen?

Sawkins pretended to be asleep.

Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious.

“As things are now,” went on Owen, “instead of enjoying the advantages
of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were
slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always
had food and—”

“Oh, I don’t see that,” roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been
listening with evident anger and impatience. “You can speak for
yourself, but I can tell yer I don’t put MYSELF down as a slave.”

“Nor me neither,” said Crass sturdily. “Let them call their selves
slaves as wants to.”

At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the
kitchen. Old Misery! or perhaps the bloke himself! Crass hurriedly
pulled out his watch.

“Jesus Christ!” he gasped. “It’s four minutes past one!”

Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps and began wandering
about the room with them.

Sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and, snatching a piece of
sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously rubbing down
the scullery door.

Easton threw down the copy of the Obscurer and scrambled hastily to his
feet.

The boy crammed the Chronicles of Crime into his trousers pocket.

Crass rushed over to the bucket and began stirring up the stale
whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was simply
appalling.

Consternation reigned.

They looked like a gang of malefactors suddenly interrupted in the
commission of a crime.

The door opened. It was only Bundy returning from his mission to the
Bookie.




Chapter 2
Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord


Mr Hunter, as he was called to his face and as he was known to his
brethren at the Shining Light Chapel, where he was superintendant of
the Sunday School, or “Misery” or “Nimrod”, as he was named behind his
back by the workmen over whom he tyrannized, was the general or walking
foreman or “manager” of the firm whose card is herewith presented to
the reader:

RUSHTON & CO.
MUGSBOROUGH
————
Builders, Decorators, and General Contractors
FUNERALS FURNISHED
Estimates given for General Repairs to House Property
First-class Work only at Moderate Charges

There were a number of sub-foremen or “coddies”, but Hunter was _the_
foreman.

He was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his
round-shouldered, bony form. His long, thin legs, about which the baggy
trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed and
terminated in large, flat feet. His arms were very long even for such a
tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. When he
removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did to wipe away with a red
handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle riding, it was
seen that his forehead was high, flat and narrow. His nose was a large,
fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep
indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the dropping
moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was
perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workmen his
exhortations to greater exertions. His chin was large and
extraordinarily long. The eyes were pale blue, very small and close
together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible
eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. His
head, covered with thick, coarse brown hair, was very large at the
back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to
make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage it would be found
that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin.

This man had been with Rushton—no one had ever seen the “Co.”—for
fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the latter commenced
business. Rushton had at that period realized the necessity of having a
deputy who could be used to do all the drudgery and running about so
that he himself might be free to attend to the more pleasant or
profitable matters. Hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point
of starting on his own account, when Rushton offered him a constant job
as foreman, two pounds a week, and two and a half per cent of the
profits of all work done. On the face of it this appeared a generous
offer. Hunter closed with it, gave up the idea of starting for himself,
and threw himself heart and mind into the business. When an estimate
was to be prepared it was Hunter who measured up the work and
laboriously figured out the probable cost. When their tenders were
accepted it was he who superintended the work and schemed how to scamp
it, where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where
there ought to have been cement, sheet zinc where they were supposed to
put sheet lead, boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint
where five were paid for. In fact, scamping the work was with this man
a kind of mania. It grieved him to see anything done properly. Even
when it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force
of habit on having it scamped. Then he was almost happy, because he
felt that he was doing someone down. If there were an architect
superintending the work, Misery would square him or bluff him. If it
were not possible to do either, at least he had a try; and in the
intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye
was ever on the look out for fresh jobs. His long red nose was thrust
into every estate agent’s office in the town in the endeavour to smell
out what properties had recently changed hands or been let, in order
that he might interview the new owners and secure the order for
whatever alterations or repairs might be required. He it was who
entered into unholy compacts with numerous charwomen and nurses of the
sick, who in return for a small commission would let him know when some
poor sufferer was passing away and would recommend Rushton & Co. to the
bereaved and distracted relatives. By these means often—after first
carefully inquiring into the financial position of the stricken
family—Misery would contrive to wriggle his unsavoury carcass into the
house of sorrow, seeking, even in the chamber of death, to further the
interests of Rushton & Co. and to earn his miserable two and a half per
cent.

It was to make possible the attainment of this object that Misery
slaved and drove and schemed and cheated. It was for this that the
workers’ wages were cut down to the lowest possible point and their
offspring went ill clad, ill shod and ill fed, and were driven forth to
labour while they were yet children, because their fathers were unable
to earn enough to support their homes.

Fifteen years!

Hunter realized now that Rushton had had considerably the best of the
bargain. In the first place, it will be seen that the latter had bought
over one who might have proved a dangerous competitor, and now, after
fifteen years, the business that had been so laboriously built up,
mainly by Hunter’s energy, industry and unscrupulous cunning, belonged
to Rushton & Co. Hunter was but an employee, liable to dismissal like
any other workman, the only difference being that he was entitled to a
week’s notice instead of an hour’s notice, and was but little better
off financially than when he started for the firm.

Fifteen years!

Hunter knew now that he had been used, but he also knew that it was too
late to turn back. He had not saved enough to make a successful start
on his own account even if he had felt mentally and physically capable
of beginning all over again, and if Rushton were to discharge him right
now he was too old to get a job as a journeyman. Further, in his zeal
for Rushton & Co. and his anxiety to earn his commission, he had often
done things that had roused the animosity of rival firms to such an
extent that it was highly improbable that any of them would employ him,
and even if they would, Misery’s heart failed him at the thought of
having to meet on an equal footing those workmen whom he had tyrannized
over and oppressed. It was for these reasons that Hunter was as
terrified of Rushton as the hands were of himself.

Over the men stood Misery, ever threatening them with dismissal and
their wives and children with hunger. Behind Misery was Rushton, ever
bullying and goading him on to greater excesses and efforts for the
furtherance of the good cause—which was to enable the head of the firm
to accumulate money.

Mr Hunter, at the moment when the reader first makes his acquaintance
on the afternoon of the day when the incidents recorded in the first
chapter took place, was executing a kind of strategic movement in the
direction of the house where Crass and his mates were working. He kept
to one side of the road because by so doing he could not be perceived
by those within the house until the instant of his arrival. When he was
within about a hundred yards of the gate he dismounted from his
bicycle, there being a sharp rise in the road just there, and as he
toiled up, pushing the bicycle in front, his breath showing in white
clouds in the frosty air, he observed a number of men hanging about.
Some of them he knew; they had worked for him at various times, but
were now out of a job. There were five men altogether; three of them
were standing in a group, the other two stood each by himself, being
apparently strangers to each other and the first three. The three men
who stood together were nearest to Hunter and as the latter approached,
one of them advanced to meet him.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Hunter replied by an inarticulate grunt, without stopping; the man
followed.

“Any chance of a job, sir?”

“Full up,” replied Hunter, still without stopping. The man still
followed, like a beggar soliciting charity.

“Be any use calling in a day or so, sir?”

“Don’t think so,” Hunter replied. “Can if you like; but we’re full up.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man, and turned back to his friends.

By this time Hunter was within a few yards of one of the other two men,
who also came to speak to him. This man felt there was no hope of
getting a job; still, there was no harm in asking. Besides, he was
getting desperate. It was over a month now since he had finished up for
his last employer. It had been a very slow summer altogether. Sometimes
a fortnight for one firm; then perhaps a week doing nothing; then three
weeks or a month for another firm, then out again, and so on. And now
it was November. Last winter they had got into debt; that was nothing
unusual, but owing to the bad summer they had not been able, as in
other years, to pay off the debts accumulated in winter. It was
doubtful, too, whether they would be able to get credit again this
winter. In fact this morning when his wife sent their little girl to
the grocer’s for some butter the latter had refused to let the child
have it without the money. So although he felt it to be useless he
accosted Hunter.

This time Hunter stopped: he was winded by his climb up the hill.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Hunter did not return the salutation; he had not
the breath to spare, but the man was not hurt; he was used to being
treated like that.

“Any chance of a job, sir?”

Hunter did not reply at once. He was short of breath and he was
thinking of a plan that was ever recurring to his mind, and which he
had lately been hankering to put into execution. It seemed to him that
the long waited for opportunity had come. Just now Rushton & Co. were
almost the only firm in Mugsborough who had any work. There were dozens
of good workmen out. Yes, this was the time. If this man agreed he
would give him a start. Hunter knew the man was a good workman, he had
worked for Rushton & Co. before. To make room for him old Linden and
some other full-price man could be got rid of; it would not be
difficult to find some excuse.

“Well,” Hunter said at last in a doubtful, hesitating kind of way, “I’m
afraid not, Newman. We’re about full up.”

He ceased speaking and remained waiting for the other to say something
more. He did not look at the man, but stooped down, fidgeting with the
mechanism of the bicycle as if adjusting it.

“Things have been so bad this summer,” Newman went on. “I’ve had rather
a rough time of it. I would be very glad of a job even if it was only
for a week or so.”

There was a pause. After a while, Hunter raised his eyes to the other’s
face, but immediately let them fall again.

“Well,” said he, “I might—perhaps—be able to let you have a day or two.
You can come here to this job,” and he nodded his head in the direction
of the house where the men were working. “Tomorrow at seven. Of course
you know the figure?” he added as Newman was about to thank him. “Six
and a half.”

Hunter spoke as if the reduction were already an accomplished fact. The
man was more likely to agree, if he thought that others were already
working at the reduced rate.

Newman was taken by surprise and hesitated. He had never worked under
price; indeed, he had sometimes gone hungry rather than do so; but now
it seemed that others were doing it. And then he was so awfully hard
up. If he refused this job he was not likely to get another in a hurry.
He thought of his home and his family. Already they owed five weeks’
rent, and last Monday the collector had hinted pretty plainly that the
landlord would not wait much longer. Not only that, but if he did not
get a job how were they to live? This morning he himself had had no
breakfast to speak of, only a cup of tea and some dry bread. These
thoughts crowded upon each other in his mind, but still he hesitated.
Hunter began to move off.

“Well,” he said, “if you like to start you can come here at seven in
the morning.” Then as Newman still hesitated he added impatiently, “Are
you coming or not?”

“Yes, sir,” said Newman.

“All right,” said Hunter, affably. “I’ll tell Crass to have a kit ready
for you.”

He nodded in a friendly way to the man, who went off feeling like a
criminal.

As Hunter resumed his march, well pleased with himself, the fifth man,
who had been waiting all this time, came to meet him. As he approached,
Hunter recognized him as one who had started work for Rushton & Co
early in the summer, but who had left suddenly of his own accord,
having taken offence at some bullying remark of Hunter’s.

Hunter was glad to see this man. He guessed that the fellow must be
very hard pressed to come again and ask for work after what had
happened.

“Any chance of a job, sir?”

Hunter appeared to reflect.

“I believe I have room for one,” he said at length. “But you’re such an
uncertain kind of chap. You don’t seem to care much whether you work or
not. You’re too independent, you know; one can’t say two words to you
but you must needs clear off.”

The man made no answer.

“We can’t tolerate that kind of thing, you know,” Hunter added. “If we
were to encourage men of your stamp we should never know where we are.”

So saying, Hunter moved away and again proceeded on his journey.

When he arrived within about three yards of the gate he noiselessly
laid his machine against the garden fence. The high evergreens that
grew inside still concealed him from the observation of anyone who
might be looking out of the windows of the house. Then he carefully
crept along till he came to the gate post, and bending down, he
cautiously peeped round to see if he could detect anyone idling, or
talking, or smoking. There was no one in sight except old Jack Linden,
who was rubbing down the lobby doors with pumice-stone and water.
Hunter noiselessly opened the gate and crept quietly along the grass
border of the garden path. His idea was to reach the front door without
being seen, so that Linden could not give notice of his approach to
those within. In this he succeeded and passed silently into the house.
He did not speak to Linden; to do so would have proclaimed his presence
to the rest. He crawled stealthily over the house but was disappointed
in his quest, for everyone he saw was hard at work. Upstairs he noticed
that the door of one of the rooms was closed.

Old Joe Philpot had been working in this room all day, washing off the
old whitewash from the ceiling and removing the old papers from the
walls with a broad bladed, square topped knife called a stripper.
Although it was only a small room, Joe had had to tear into the work
pretty hard all the time, for the ceiling seemed to have had two or
three coats of whitewash without ever having been washed off, and there
were several thicknesses of paper on the walls. The difficulty of
removing these papers was increased by the fact that there was a dado
which had been varnished. In order to get this off it had been
necessary to soak it several times with strong soda water, and although
Joe was as careful as possible he had not been able to avoid getting
some of this stuff on his fingers. The result was that his nails were
all burnt and discoloured and the flesh round them cracked and
bleeding. However, he had got it all off at last, and he was not sorry,
for his right arm and shoulder were aching from the prolonged strain
and in the palm of the right hand there was a blister as large as a
shilling, caused by the handle of the stripping knife.

All the old paper being off, Joe washed down the walls with water, and
having swept the paper into a heap in the middle of the floor, he mixed
with a small trowel some cement on a small board and proceeded to stop
up the cracks and holes in the walls and ceiling. After a while,
feeling very tired, it occurred to him that he deserved a spell and a
smoke for five minutes. He closed the door and placed a pair of steps
against it. There were two windows in the room almost opposite each
other; these he opened wide in order that the smoke and smell of his
pipe might be carried away. Having taken these precautions against
surprise, he ascended to the top of the step ladder that he had laid
against the door and sat down at ease. Within easy reach was the top of
a cupboard where he had concealed a pint of beer in a bottle. To this
he now applied himself. Having taken a long pull at the bottle, he
tenderly replaced it on the top of the cupboard and proceeded to
“hinjoy” a quiet smoke, remarking to himself:

“This is where we get some of our own back.”

He held, however, his trowel in one hand, ready for immediate action in
case of interruption.

Philpot was about fifty-five years old. He wore no white jacket, only
an old patched apron; his trousers were old, very soiled with paint and
ragged at the bottoms of the legs where they fell over the
much-patched, broken and down-at-heel boots. The part of his waistcoat
not protected by his apron was covered with spots of dried paint. He
wore a coloured shirt and a “dickey” which was very soiled and covered
with splashes of paint, and one side of it was projecting from the
opening of the waistcoat. His head was covered with an old cap, heavy
and shining with paint. He was very thin and stooped slightly. Although
he was really only fifty-five, he looked much older, for he was
prematurely aged.

He had not been getting his own back for quite five minutes when Hunter
softly turned the handle of the lock. Philpot immediately put out his
pipe and descending from his perch opened the door. When Hunter entered
Philpot closed it again and, mounting the steps, went on stripping the
wall just above. Nimrod looked at him suspiciously, wondering why the
door had been closed. He looked all round the room but could see
nothing to complain of. He sniffed the air to try if he could detect
the odour of tobacco, and if he had not been suffering a cold in the
head there is no doubt that he would have perceived it. However, as it
was he could smell nothing but all the same he was not quite satisfied,
although he remembered that Crass always gave Philpot a good character.

“I don’t like to have men working on a job like this with the door
shut,” he said at length. “It always gives me the idear that the man’s
’avin a mike. You can do what you’re doin’ just as well with the door
open.”

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!




Chapter 3
The Financiers


That night as Easton walked home through the rain he felt very
depressed. It had been a very bad summer for most people and he had not
fared better than the rest. A few weeks with one firm, a few days with
another, then out of a job, then on again for a month perhaps, and so
on.

William Easton was a man of medium height, about twenty-three years
old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. He wore a stand-up
collar with a coloured tie and his clothes, though shabby, were clean
and neat.

He was married: his wife was a young woman whose acquaintance he had
made when he happened to be employed with others painting the outside
of the house where she was a general servant. They had “walked out” for
about fifteen months. Easton had been in no hurry to marry, for he knew
that, taking good times with bad, his wages did no average a pound a
week. At the end of that time, however, he found that he could not
honourably delay longer, so they were married.

That was twelve months ago.

As a single man he had never troubled much if he happened to be out of
work; he always had enough to live on and pocket money besides; but now
that he was married it was different; the fear of being “out” haunted
him all the time.

He had started for Rushton & Co. on the previous Monday after having
been idle for three weeks, and as the house where he was working had to
be done right through he had congratulated himself on having secured a
job that would last till Christmas; but he now began to fear that what
had befallen Jack Linden might also happen to himself at any time. He
would have to be very careful not to offend Crass in any way. He was
afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was. Easton knew
that Crass could get him the sack at any time, and would not scruple to
do so if he wanted to make room for some crony of his own. Crass was
the “coddy” or foreman of the job. Considered as a workman he had no
very unusual abilities; he was if anything inferior to the majority of
his fellow workmen. But although he had but little real ability he
pretended to know everything, and the vague references he was in the
habit of making to “tones”, and “shades”, and “harmony”, had so
impressed Hunter that the latter had a high opinion of him as a
workman. It was by pushing himself forward in this way and by judicious
toadying to Hunter that Crass managed to get himself put in charge of
work.

Although Crass did as little work as possible himself he took care that
the others worked hard. Any man who failed to satisfy him in this
respect he reported to Hunter as being “no good”, or “too slow for a
funeral”. The result was that this man was dispensed with at the end of
the week. The men knew this, and most of them feared the wily Crass
accordingly, though there were a few whose known abilities placed them
to a certain extent above the reach of his malice. Frank Owen was one
of these.

There were others who by the judicious administration of pipefuls of
tobacco and pints of beer, managed to keep in Crass’s good graces and
often retained their employment when better workmen were “stood off”.

As he walked home through the rain thinking of these things, Easton
realized that it was not possible to foresee what a day or even an hour
might bring forth.

By this time he had arrived at his home; it was a small house, one of a
long row of similar ones, and it contained altogether four rooms.

The front door opened into a passage about two feet six inches wide and
ten feet in length, covered with oilcloth. At the end of the passage
was a flight of stairs leading to the upper part of the house. The
first door on the left led into the front sitting-room, an apartment
about nine feet square, with a bay window. This room was very rarely
used and was always very tidy and clean. The mantelpiece was of wood
painted black and ornamented with jagged streaks of red and yellow,
which were supposed to give it the appearance of marble. On the walls
was a paper with a pale terra-cotta ground and a pattern consisting of
large white roses with chocolate coloured leaves and stalks.

There was a small iron fender with fire-irons to match, and on the
mantelshelf stood a clock in a polished wood case, a pair of blue glass
vases, and some photographs in frames. The floor was covered with
oilcloth of a tile pattern in yellow and red. On the walls were two or
three framed coloured prints such as are presented with Christmas
numbers of illustrated papers. There was also a photograph of a group
of Sunday School girls with their teachers with the church for the
background. In the centre of the room was a round deal table about
three feet six inches across, with the legs stained red to look like
mahogany. Against one wall was an old couch covered with faded
cretonne, four chairs to match standing backs to wall in different
parts of the room. The table was covered with a red cloth with a yellow
crewel work design in the centre and in each of the four corners, the
edges being overcast in the same material. On the table were a lamp and
a number of brightly bound books.

Some of these things, as the couch and the chairs, Easton had bought
second-hand and had done up himself. The table, oilcloth, fender,
hearthrug, etc, had been obtained on the hire system and were not yet
paid for. The windows were draped with white lace curtains and in the
bay was a small bamboo table on which reposed a large Holy Bible,
cheaply but showily bound.

If anyone had ever opened this book they would have found that its
pages were as clean as the other things in the room, and on the flyleaf
might have been read the following inscription: “To dear Ruth, from her
loving friend Mrs Starvem with the prayer that God’s word may be her
guide and that Jesus may be her very own Saviour. Oct. 12. 19—”

Mrs Starvem was Ruth’s former mistress, and this had been her parting
gift when Ruth left to get married. It was supposed to be a keepsake,
but as Ruth never opened the book and never willingly allowed her
thoughts to dwell upon the scenes of which it reminded her, she had
forgotten the existence of Mrs Starvem almost as completely as that
well-to-do and pious lady had forgotten hers.

For Ruth, the memory of the time she spent in the house of “her loving
friend” was the reverse of pleasant. It comprised a series of
recollections of petty tyrannies, insults and indignities. Six years of
cruelly excessive work, beginning every morning two or three hours
before the rest of the household were awake and ceasing only when she
went exhausted to bed, late at night.

She had been what is called a “slavey” but if she had been really a
slave her owner would have had some regard for her health and welfare:
her “loving friend” had had none. Mrs Starvem’s only thought had been
to get out of Ruth the greatest possible amount of labour and to give
her as little as possible in return.

When Ruth looked back upon that dreadful time she saw it, as one might
say, surrounded by a halo of religion. She never passed by a chapel or
heard the name of God, or the singing of a hymn, without thinking of
her former mistress. To have looked into this Bible would have reminded
her of Mrs Starvem; that was one of the reasons why the book reposed,
unopened and unread, a mere ornament on the table in the bay window.

The second door in the passage near the foot of the stairs led into the
kitchen or living-room: from here another door led into the scullery.
Upstairs were two bedrooms.

As Easton entered the house, his wife met him in the passage and asked
him not to make a noise as the child had just gone to sleep. They
kissed each other and she helped him to remove his wet overcoat. Then
they both went softly into the kitchen.

This room was about the same size as the sitting-room. At one end was a
small range with an oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece painted
black. On the mantelshelf was a small round alarm clock and some
brightly polished tin canisters. At the other end of the room, facing
the fireplace, was a small dresser on the shelves of which were neatly
arranged a number of plates and dishes. The walls were papered with oak
paper. On one wall, between two coloured almanacks, hung a tin lamp
with a reflector behind the light. In the middle of the room was an
oblong deal table with a white tablecloth upon which the tea things
were set ready. There were four kitchen chairs, two of which were
placed close to the table. Overhead, across the room, about eighteen
inches down from the ceiling, were stretched several cords upon which
were drying a number of linen or calico undergarments, a coloured
shirt, and Easton’s white apron and jacket. On the back of a chair at
one side of the fire more clothes were drying. At the other side on the
floor was a wicker cradle in which a baby was sleeping. Nearby stood a
chair with a towel hung on the back, arranged so as to shade the
infant’s face from the light of the lamp. An air of homely comfort
pervaded the room; the atmosphere was warm, and the fire blazed
cheerfully over the whitened hearth.

They walked softly over and stood by the cradle side looking at the
child; as they looked the baby kept moving uneasily in its sleep. Its
face was very flushed and its eyes were moving under the half-closed
lids. Every now and again its lips were drawn back slightly, showing
part of the gums; presently it began to whimper, drawing up its knees
as if in pain.

“He seems to have something wrong with him,” said Easton.

“I think it’s his teeth,” replied the mother. “He’s been very restless
all day and he was awake nearly all last night.”

“P’r’aps he’s hungry.”

“No, it can’t be that. He had the best part of an egg this morning and
I’ve nursed him several times today. And then at dinner-time he had a
whole saucer full of fried potatoes with little bits of bacon in it.”

Again the infant whimpered and twisted in its sleep, its lips drawn
back showing the gums: its knees pressed closely to its body, the
little fists clenched, and face flushed. Then after a few seconds it
became placid: the mouth resumed its usual shape; the limbs relaxed and
the child slumbered peacefully.

“Don’t you think he’s getting thin?” asked Easton. “It may be fancy,
but he don’t seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago.”

“No, he’s not quite so fat,” admitted Ruth. “It’s his teeth what’s
wearing him out; he don’t hardly get no rest at all with them.”

They continued looking at him a little longer. Ruth thought he was a
very beautiful child: he would be eight months old on Sunday. They were
sorry they could do nothing to ease his pain, but consoled themselves
with the reflection that he would be all right once those teeth were
through.

“Well, let’s have some tea,” said Easton at last.

Whilst he removed his wet boots and socks and placed them in front of
the fire to dry and put on dry socks and a pair of slippers in their
stead, Ruth half filled a tin basin with hot water from the boiler and
gave it to him, and he then went to the scullery, added some cold water
and began to wash the paint off his hands. This done he returned to the
kitchen and sat down at the table.

“I couldn’t think what to give you to eat tonight,” said Ruth as she
poured out the tea. “I hadn’t got no money left and there wasn’t
nothing in the house except bread and butter and that piece of cheese,
so I cut some bread and butter and put some thin slices of cheese on it
and toasted it on a place in front of the fire. I hope you’ll like it:
it was the best I could do.”

“That’s all right: it smells very nice anyway, and I’m very hungry.”

As they were taking their tea Easton told his wife about Linden’s
affair and his apprehensions as to what might befall himself. They were
both very indignant, and sorry for poor old Linden, but their sympathy
for him was soon forgotten in their fears for their own immediate
future.

They remained at the table in silence for some time: then,

“How much rent do we owe now?” asked Easton.

“Four weeks, and I promised the collector the last time he called that
we’d pay two weeks next Monday. He was quite nasty about it.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to pay it, that’s all,” said Easton.

“How much money will you have tomorrow?” asked Ruth.

He began to reckon up his time: he started on Monday and today was
Friday: five days, from seven to five, less half an hour for breakfast
and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day—forty-two hours
and a half. At sevenpence an hour that came to one pound four and
ninepence halfpenny.

“You know I only started on Monday,” he said, “so there’s no back day
to come. Tomorrow goes into next week.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Ruth.

“If we pay the two week’s rent that’ll leave us twelve shillings to
live on.”

“But we won’t be able to keep all of that,” said Ruth, “because there’s
other things to pay.”

“What other things?”

“We owe the baker eight shillings for the bread he let us have while
you were not working, and there’s about twelve shillings owing for
groceries. We’ll have to pay them something on account. Then we want
some more coal; there’s only about a shovelful left, and—”

“Wait a minnit,” said Easton. “The best way is to write out a list of
everything we owe; then we shall know exactly where we are. You get me
a piece of paper and tell me what to write. Then we’ll see what it all
comes to.”

“Do you mean everything we owe, or everything we must pay tomorrow.”

“I think we’d better make a list of all we owe first.”

While they were talking the baby was sleeping restlessly, occasionally
uttering plaintive little cries. The mother now went and knelt at the
side of the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the
infant with the other.

“Except the furniture people, the biggest thing we owe is the rent,”
she said when Easton was ready to begin.

“It seems to me,” said he, as, after having cleared a space on the
table and arranged the paper, he began to sharpen his pencil with a
table-knife, “that you don’t manage things as well as you might. If you
was to make a list of just the things you MUST have before you went out
of a Saturday, you’d find the money would go much farther. Instead of
doing that you just take the money in your hand without knowing exactly
what you’re going to do with it, and when you come back it’s all gone
and next to nothing to show for it.”

His wife made no reply: her head was bent over the child.

“Now, let’s see,” went on her husband. “First of all there’s the rent.
How much did you say we owe?”

“Four weeks. That’s the three weeks you were out and this week.”

“Four sixes is twenty-four; that’s one pound four,” said Easton as he
wrote it down. “Next?”

“Grocer, twelve shillings.”

Easton looked up in astonishment.

“Twelve shillings. Why, didn’t you tell me only the other day that
you’d paid up all we owed for groceries?”

“Don’t you remember we owed thirty-five shillings last spring? Well,
I’ve been paying that bit by bit all the summer. I paid the last of it
the week you finished your last job. Then you were out three weeks—up
till last Friday—and as we had nothing in hand I had to get what we
wanted without paying for it.”

“But do you mean to say it cost us three shillings a week for tea and
sugar and butter?”

“It’s not only them. There’s been bacon and eggs and cheese and other
things.”

The man was beginning to become impatient.

“Well,” he said, “What else?”

“We owe the baker eight shillings. We did owe nearly a pound, but I’ve
been paying it off a little at a time.”

This was added to the list.

“Then there’s the milkman. I’ve not paid him for four weeks. He hasn’t
sent a bill yet, but you can reckon it up; we have two penn’orth every
day.”

“That’s four and eight,” said Easton, writing it down. “Anything else?”

“One and seven to the greengrocer for potatoes, cabbage, and paraffin
oil.”

“Anything else?”

“We owe the butcher two and sevenpence.”

“Why, we haven’t had any meat for a long time,” said Easton. “When was
it?”

“Three weeks ago; don’t you remember? A small leg of mutton,”

“Oh, yes,” and he added the item.

“Then there’s the instalments for the furniture and oilcloth—twelve
shillings. A letter came from them today. And there’s something else.”

She took three letters from the pocket of her dress and handed them to
him.

“They all came today. I didn’t show them to you before as I didn’t want
to upset you before you had your tea.”

Easton drew the first letter from its envelope.

CORPORATION OF MUGSBOROUGH
General District and Special Rates
FINAL NOTICE


MR W. EASTON,

I have to remind you that the amount due from you as under, in respect
of the above Rates, has not been paid, and to request that you will
forward the same within Fourteen Days from this date. You are hereby
informed that after this notice no further call will be made, or
intimation given, before legal proceedings are taken to enforce
payment.

By order of the Council.


JAMES LEAH.
Collector, No. 2 District.


District Rate .......................... £- 13 11
Special Rate ...........................     10  2
                                                ________
                                                £1  4   1


The second communication was dated from the office of the Assistant
Overseer of the Poor. It was also a Final Notice and was worded in
almost exactly the same way as the other, the principal difference
being that it was “By order of the Overseers” instead of “the Council”.
It demanded the sum of £1 1s 5-1/2d for Poor Rate within fourteen days,
and threatened legal proceedings in default.

Easton laid this down and began to read the third letter—

J. DIDLUM & CO LTD.
Complete House Furnishers
QUALITY STREET, MUGSBOROUGH


MR W. EASTON,

SIR: We have to remind you that three monthly payments of four
shillings each (12/- in all) became due on the first of this month, and
we must request you to let us have this amount BY RETURN OF POST.

Under the terms of your agreement you guaranteed that the money should
be paid on the Saturday of every fourth week. To prevent
unpleasantness, we must request you for the future to forward the full
amount punctually upon that day.


Yours truly,
J. DIDLUM & CO. LTD.


He read these communications several times in silence and finally with
an oath threw them down on the table.

“How much do we still owe for the oilcloth and the furniture?” he
asked.

“I don’t know exactly. It was seven pound odd, and we’ve had the things
about six months. We paid one pound down and three or four instalments.
I’ll get the card if you like.”

“No; never mind. Say we’ve paid one pound twelve; so we still owe about
six pound.”

He added this amount to the list.

“I think it’s a great pity we ever had the things at all,” he said,
peevishly. “It would have been better to have gone without until we
could pay cash for them: but you would have your way, of course. Now
we’ll have this bloody debt dragging on us for years, and before the
dam stuff is paid for it’ll be worn out.”

The woman did not reply at once. She was bending down over the cradle
arranging the coverings which the restless movements of the child had
disordered. She was crying silently, unnoticed by her husband.

For months past—in fact ever since the child was born—she had been
existing without sufficient food. If Easton was unemployed they had to
stint themselves so as to avoid getting further into debt than was
absolutely necessary. When he was working they had to go short in order
to pay what they owed; but of what there was Easton himself, without
knowing it, always had the greater share. If he was at work she would
pack into his dinner basket overnight the best there was in the house.
When he was out of work she often pretended, as she gave him his meals,
that she had had hers while he was out. And all the time the baby was
draining her life away and her work was never done.

She felt very weak and weary as she crouched there, crying furtively
and trying not to let him see.

At last she said, without looking round:

“You know quite well that you were just as much in favour of getting
them as I was. If we hadn’t got the oilcloth there would have been
illness in the house because of the way the wind used to come up
between the floorboards. Even now of a windy day the oilcloth moves up
and down.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” said Easton, as he looked alternatively
at the list of debts and the three letters. “I give you nearly every
farthing I earn and I never interfere about anything, because I think
it’s your part to attend to the house, but it seems to me you don’t
manage things properly.”

The woman suddenly burst into a passion of weeping, laying her head on
the seat of the chair that was standing near the cradle.

Easton started up in surprise.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he said.

Then as he looked down upon the quivering form of the sobbing woman, he
was ashamed. He knelt down by her, embracing her and apologizing,
protesting that he had not meant to hurt her like that.

“I always do the best I can with the money,” Ruth sobbed. “I never
spend a farthing on myself, but you don’t seem to understand how hard
it is. I don’t care nothing about having to go without things myself,
but I can’t bear it when you speak to me like you do lately. You seem
to blame me for everything. You usen’t to speak to me like that before
I—before—Oh, I am so tired—I am so tired, I wish I could lie down
somewhere and sleep and never wake up any more.”

She turned away from him, half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, her
arms folded on the seat of the chair, and her head resting upon them.
She was crying in a heartbroken helpless way.

“I’m sorry I spoke to you like that,” said Easton, awkwardly. “I didn’t
mean what I said. It’s all my fault. I leave things too much to you,
and it’s more than you can be expected to manage. I’ll help you to
think things out in future; only forgive me, I’m very sorry. I know you
try your best.”

She suffered him to draw her to him, laying her head on his shoulder as
he kissed and fondled her, protesting that he would rather be poor and
hungry with her than share riches with anyone else.

The child in the cradle—who had been twisting and turning restlessly
all this time—now began to cry loudly. The mother took it from the
cradle and began to hush and soothe it, walking about the room and
rocking it in her arms. The child, however, continued to scream, so she
sat down to nurse it: for a little while the infant refused to drink,
struggling and kicking in its mother’s arms, then for a few minutes it
was quiet, taking the milk in a half-hearted, fretful way. Then it
began to scream and twist and struggle.

They both looked at it in a helpless manner. Whatever could be the
matter with it? It must be those teeth.

Then suddenly as they were soothing and patting him, the child vomited
all over its own and its mother’s clothing a mass of undigested food.
Mingled with the curdled milk were fragments of egg, little bits of
bacon, bread and particles of potato.

Having rid his stomach of this unnatural burden, the unfortunate baby
began to cry afresh, his face very pale, his lips colourless, and his
eyes red-rimmed and running with water.

Easton walked about with him while Ruth cleaned up the mess and got
ready some fresh clothing. They both agreed that it was the coming
teeth that had upset the poor child’s digestion. It would be a good job
when they were through.

This work finished, Easton, who was still convinced in his own mind
that with the aid of a little common sense and judicious management
their affairs might be arranged more satisfactorily, said:

“We may as well make a list of all the things we must pay and buy
tomorrow. The great thing is to think out exactly what you are going to
do before you spend anything; that saves you from getting things you
don’t really need and prevents you forgetting the things you MUST have.
Now, first of all, the rent; two weeks, twelve shillings.”

He took a fresh piece of paper and wrote this item down.

“What else is there that we must pay or buy tomorrow?”

“Well, you know I promised the baker and the grocer that I would begin
to pay them directly you got a job, and if I don’t keep my word they
won’t let us have anything another time, so you’d better put down two
shillings each for them.

“I’ve got that,” said Easton.

“Two and seven for the butcher. We must pay that. I’m ashamed to pass
the shop, because when I got the meat I promised to pay him the next
week, and it’s nearly three weeks ago now.”

“I’ve put that down. What else?”

“A hundred of coal: one and six.”

“Next?”

“The instalment for the furniture and floor-cloth, twelve shillings.”

“Next?”

“We owe the milkman four weeks; we’d better pay one week on account;
that’s one and two.”

“Next?”

“The greengrocer; one shilling on account.”

“Anything else?”

“We shall want a piece of meat of some kind; we’ve had none for nearly
three weeks. You’d better say one and six for that.”

“That’s down.”

“One and nine for bread; that’s one loaf a day.”

“But I’ve got two shillings down for bread already,” said Easton.

“Yes, I know, dear, but that’s to go towards paying off what we owe,
and what you have down for the grocer and milkman’s the same.”

“Well, go on, for Christ’s sake, and let’s get it down,” said Easton,
irritably.

“We can’t say less than three shillings for groceries.”

Easton looked carefully at his list. This time he felt sure that the
item was already down; but finding he was mistaken he said nothing and
added the amount.

“Well, I’ve got that. What else?”

“Milk, one and two.”

“Next?”

“Vegetables, eightpence.”

“Yes.”

“Paraffin oil and firewood, sixpence.”

Again the financier scrutinized the list. He was positive that it was
down already. However, he could not find it, so the sixpence was added
to the column of figures.

“Then there’s your boots; you can’t go about with them old things in
this weather much longer, and they won’t stand mending again. You
remember the old man said they were not worth it when you had that
patch put on a few weeks ago.”

“Yes. I was thinking of buying a new pair tomorrow. My socks was wet
through tonight. If it’s raining some morning when I’m going out and I
have to work all day with wet feet I shall be laid up.”

“At that second-hand shop down in High Street I saw when I was out this
afternoon a very good pair just your size, for two shillings.”

Easton did not reply at once. He did not much fancy wearing the
cast-off boots of some stranger, who for all he knew might have
suffered from some disease, but then remembering that his old ones were
literally falling off his feet he realized that he had practically no
choice.

“If you’re quite sure they’ll fit you’d better get them. It’s better to
do that than for me to catch cold and be laid up for God knows how
long.”

So the two shillings were added to the list.

“Is there anything else?”

“How much does it all come to now?” asked Ruth.

Easton added it all up. When he had finished he remained staring at the
figures in consternation for a long time without speaking.

“Jesus Christ!” he ejaculated at last.

“What’s it come to?” asked Ruth.

“Forty-four and tenpence.”

“I knew we wouldn’t have enough,” said Ruth, wearily. “Now if you think
I manage so badly, p’raps you can tell me which of these things we
ought to leave out.”

“We’d be all right if it wasn’t for the debts,” said Easton, doggedly.

“When you’re not working, we must either get into debt or starve.”

Easton made no answer.

“What’ll we do about the rates?” asked Ruth.

“I’m sure I don’t know: there’s nothing left to pawn except my black
coat and vest. You might get something on that.”

“It’ll have to be paid somehow,” said Ruth, “or you’ll be taken off to
jail for a month, the same as Mrs Newman’s husband was last winter.”

“Well, you’d better take the coat and vest and see what you can get on
’em tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Ruth; “and there’s that brown silk dress of mine—you know,
the one I wore when we was married—I might get something on that,
because we won’t get enough on the coat and vest. I don’t like parting
with the dress, although I never wear it; but we’ll be sure to be able
to get it out again, won’t we?”

“Of course,” said Easton.

They remained silent for some time, Easton staring at the list of debts
and the letters. She was wondering if he still thought she managed
badly, and what he would do about it. She knew she had always done her
best. At last she said, wistfully, trying to speak plainly for there
seemed to be a lump in her throat: “And what about tomorrow? Would you
like to spend the money yourself, or shall I manage as I’ve done
before, or will you tell me what to do?”

“I don’t know, dear,” said Easton, sheepishly. “I think you’d better do
as you think best.”

“Oh, I’ll manage all right, dear, you’ll see,” replied Ruth, who seemed
to think it a sort of honour to be allowed to starve herself and wear
shabby clothes.

The baby, who had been for some time quietly sitting upon his mother’s
lap, looking wonderingly at the fire—his teeth appeared to trouble him
less since he got rid of the eggs and bacon and potatoes—now began to
nod and doze, which Easton perceiving, suggested that the infant should
not be allowed to go to sleep with an empty stomach, because it would
probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night. He therefore woke
him up as much as possible and mashed a little of the bread and toasted
cheese with a little warm milk. Then taking the baby from Ruth he began
to try to induce it to eat. As soon, however, as the child understood
his object, it began to scream at the top of its voice, closing its
lips firmly and turning its head rapidly from side to side every time
the spoon approached its mouth. It made such a dreadful noise that
Easton at last gave in. He began to walk about the room with it, and
presently the child sobbed itself to sleep. After putting the baby into
its cradle Ruth set about preparing Easton’s breakfast and packing it
into his basket. This did not take very long, there being only bread
and butter—or, to be more correct, margarine.

Then she poured what tea was left in the tea-pot into a small saucepan
and placed it on the top of the oven, but away from the fire, cut two
more slices of bread and spread on them all the margarine that was
left; then put them on a plate on the table, covering them with a
saucer to prevent them getting hard and dry during the night. Near the
plate she placed a clean cup and saucer and the milk and sugar.

In the morning Easton would light the fire and warm up the tea in the
saucepan so as to have a cup of tea before going out. If Ruth was awake
and he was not pressed for time, he generally took a cup of tea to her
in bed.

Nothing now remained to be done but to put some coal and wood ready in
the fender so that there would be no unnecessary delay in the morning.

The baby was still sleeping and Ruth did not like to wake him up yet to
dress him for the night. Easton was sitting by the fire smoking, so
everything being done, Ruth sat down at the table and began sewing.
Presently she spoke:

“I wish you’d let me try to let that back room upstairs: the woman next
door has got hers let unfurnished to an elderly woman and her husband
for two shillings a week. If we could get someone like that it would be
better than having an empty room in the house.”

“And we’d always have them messing about down here, cooking and washing
and one thing and another,” objected Easton; “they’d be more trouble
than they was worth.”

“Well, we might try and furnish it. There’s Mrs Crass across the road
has got two lodgers in one room. They pay her twelve shillings a week
each; board, lodging and washing. That’s one pound four she has coming
in reglar every week. If we could do the same we’d very soon be out of
debt.”

“What’s the good of talking? You’d never be able to do the work even if
we had the furniture.”

“Oh, the work’s nothing,” replied Ruth, “and as for the furniture,
we’ve got plenty of spare bedclothes, and we could easily manage
without a washstand in our room for a bit, so the only thing we really
want is a small bedstead and mattress; we could get them very cheap
second-hand.”

“There ought to be a chest of drawers,” said Easton doubtfully.

“I don’t think so,” replied Ruth. “There’s a cupboard in the room and
whoever took it would be sure to have a box.”

“Well, if you think you can do the work I’ve no objection,” said
Easton. “It’ll be a nuisance having a stranger in the way all the time,
but I suppose we must do something of the sort or else we’ll have to
give up the house and take a couple of rooms somewhere. That would be
worse than having lodgers ourselves.

“Let’s go and have a look at the room,” he added, getting up and taking
the lamp from the wall.

They had to go up two flights of stairs before arriving at the top
landing, where there were two doors, one leading into the front
room—their bedroom—and the other into the empty back room. These two
doors were at right angles to each other. The wallpaper in the back
room was damaged and soiled in several places.

“There’s nearly a whole roll of this paper on the top of the cupboard,”
said Ruth. “You could easily mend all those places. We could hang up a
few almanacks on the walls; our washstand could go there by the window;
a chair just there, and the bed along that wall behind the door. It’s
only a small window, so I could easily manage to make a curtain out of
something. I’m sure I could make the room look quite nice without
spending hardly anything.”

Easton reached down the roll of paper. It was the same pattern as that
on the wall. The latter was a good deal faded, of course, but it would
not matter much if the patches showed a little. They returned to the
kitchen.

“Do you think you know anyone who would take it?” asked Ruth. Easton
smoked thoughtfully.

“No,” he said at length. “But I’ll mention it to one or two of the
chaps on the job; they might know of someone.”

“And I’ll get Mrs Crass to ask her lodgers: p’raps they might have a
friend what would like to live near them.”

So it was settled; and as the fire was nearly out and it was getting
late, they prepared to retire for the night. The baby was still
sleeping so Easton lifted it, cradle and all, and carried it up the
narrow staircase into the front bedroom, Ruth leading the way, carrying
the lamp and some clothes for the child. So that the infant might be
within easy reach of its mother during the night, two chairs were
arranged close to her side of the bed and the cradle placed on them.

“Now we’ve forgot the clock,” said Easton, pausing. He was half
undressed and had already removed his slippers.

“I’ll slip down and get it,” said Ruth.

“Never mind, I’ll go,” said Easton, beginning to put his slippers on
again.

“No, you get into bed. I’ve not started undressing yet. I’ll get it,”
replied Ruth who was already on her way down.

“I don’t know as it was worth the trouble of going down,” said Ruth
when she returned with the clock. “It stopped three or four times
today.”

“Well, I hope it don’t stop in the night,” Easton said. “It would be a
bit of all right not knowing what time it was in the morning. I suppose
the next thing will be that we’ll have to buy a new clock.”

He woke several times during the night and struck a match to see if it
was yet time to get up. At half past two the clock was still going and
he again fell asleep. The next time he work up the ticking had ceased.
He wondered what time it was? It was still very dark, but that was
nothing to go by, because it was always dark at six now. He was wide
awake: it must be nearly time to get up. It would never do to be late;
he might get the sack.

He got up and dressed himself. Ruth was asleep, so he crept quietly
downstairs, lit the fire and heated the tea. When it was ready he went
softly upstairs again. Ruth was still sleeping, so he decided not to
disturb her. Returning to the kitchen, he poured out and drank a cup of
tea, put on his boots, overcoat and hat and taking his basket went out
of the house.

The rain was still falling and it was very cold and dark. There was no
one else in the street. Easton shivered as he walked along wondering
what time it could be. He remembered there was a clock over the front
of a jeweller’s shop a little way down the main road. When he arrived
at this place he found that the clock being so high up he could not see
the figures on the face distinctly, because it was still very dark. He
stood staring for a few minutes vainly trying to see what time it was
when suddenly the light of a bull’s-eye lantern was flashed into his
eyes.

“You’re about very early,” said a voice, the owner of which Easton
could not see. The light blinded him.

“What time is it?” said Easton. “I’ve got to get to work at seven and
our clock stopped during the night.”

“Where are you working?”

“At ‘The Cave’ in Elmore Road. You know, near the old toll gate.”

“What are you doing there and who are you working for?” the policeman
demanded.

Easton explained.

“Well,” said the constable, “it’s very strange that you should be
wandering about at this hour. It’s only about three-quarters of an
hour’s walk from here to Elmore Road. You say you’ve got to get there
at seven, and it’s only a quarter to four now. Where do you live?
What’s your name?” Easton gave his name and address and began repeating
the story about the clock having stopped.

“What you say may be all right or it may not,” interrupted the
policeman. “I’m not sure but that I ought to take you to the station.
All I know about you is that I find you loitering outside this shop.
What have you got in that basket?”

“Only my breakfast,” Easton said, opening the basket and displaying its
contents.

“I’m inclined to believe what you say,” said the policeman, after a
pause. “But to make quite sure I’ll go home with you. It’s on my beat,
and I don’t want to run you in if you’re what you say you are, but I
should advise you to buy a decent clock, or you’ll be getting yourself
into trouble.”

When they arrived at the house Easton opened the door, and after making
some entries in his note-book the officer went away, much to the relief
of Easton, who went upstairs, set the hands of the clock right and
started it going again. He then removed his overcoat and lay down on
the bed in his clothes, covering himself with the quilt. After a while
he fell asleep, and when he awoke the clock was still ticking.

The time was exactly seven o’clock.




Chapter 4
The Placard


Frank Owen was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of
consumption when the boy was only five years old. After that his mother
earned a scanty living as a needle-woman. When Frank was thirteen he
went to work for a master decorator who was a man of a type that has
now almost disappeared, being not merely an employer but a craftsman of
a high order.

He was an old man when Frank Owen went to work for him. At one time he
had had a good business in the town, and used to boast that he had
always done good work, had found pleasure in doing it and had been well
paid for it. But of late years the number of his customers had dwindled
considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which cared nothing
about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness and profit.
From this man and by laborious study and practice in his spare time,
aided by a certain measure of natural ability, the boy acquired a
knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining and
signwriting.

Frank’s mother died when he was twenty-four, and a year afterwards he
married the daughter of a fellow workman. In those days trade was
fairly good and although there was not much demand for the more
artistic kinds of work, still the fact that he was capable of doing
them, if required, made it comparatively easy for him to obtain
employment. Owen and his wife were very happy. They had one child—a
boy—and for some years all went well. But gradually this state of
things altered: broadly speaking, the change came slowly and
imperceptibly, although there were occasional sudden fluctuations.

Even in summer he could not always find work: and in winter it was
almost impossible to get a job of any sort. At last, about twelve
months before the date that this story opens, he determined to leave
his wife and child at home and go to try his fortune in London. When he
got employment he would send for them.

It was a vain hope. He found London, if anything, worse than his native
town. Wherever he went he was confronted with the legend: “No hands
wanted”. He walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold all his
clothes save those he stood in, and stayed in London for six months,
sometimes starving and only occasionally obtaining a few days or weeks
work.

At the end of that time he was forced to give in. The privations he had
endured, the strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the city
combined to defeat him. Symptoms of the disease that had killed his
father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated
entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of
his former self.

That was six months ago, and since then he had worked for Rushton & Co.
Occasionally when they had no work in hand, he was “stood off” until
something came in.

Ever since his return from London, Owen had been gradually abandoning
himself to hopelessness. Every day he felt that the disease he suffered
from was obtaining a stronger grip on him. The doctor told him to “take
plenty of nourishing food”, and prescribed costly medicines which Owen
had not the money to buy.

Then there was his wife. Naturally delicate, she needed many things
that he was unable to procure for her. And the boy—what hope was there
for him? Often as Owen moodily thought of their circumstances and
prospects he told himself that it would be far better if they could all
three die now, together.

He was tired of suffering himself, tired of impotently watching the
sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought of what was in
store for the child.

Of this nature were his reflections as he walked homewards on the
evening of the day when old Linden was dismissed. There was no reason
to believe or hope that the existing state of things would be altered
for a long time to come.

Thousands of people like himself dragged out a wretched existence on
the very verge of starvation, and for the greater number of people life
was one long struggle against poverty. Yet practically none of these
people knew or even troubled themselves to inquire why they were in
that condition; and for anyone else to try to explain to them was a
ridiculous waste of time, for they did not want to know.

The remedy was so simple, the evil so great and so glaringly evident
that the only possible explanation of its continued existence was that
the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of
reasoning. If these people were not mentally deficient they would of
their own accord have swept this silly system away long ago. It would
not have been necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong.

Why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that
they would not eventually die of want. In every workhouse might be
found people who had at one time occupied good positions; and their
downfall was not in every case their own fault.

No matter how prosperous a man might be, he could not be certain that
his children would never want for bread. There were thousands living in
misery on starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people.

As Owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled with these thoughts, he
was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet through to the skin.
He was without an overcoat, it was pawned in London, and he had not yet
been able to redeem it. His boots were leaky and sodden with mud and
rain.

He was nearly home now. At the corner of the street in which he lived
there was a newsagent’s shop and on a board outside the door was
displayed a placard:

TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
DOUBLE MURDER AND SUICIDE

He went in to buy a copy of the paper. He was a frequent customer here,
and as he entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name.

“Dreadful weather,” he remarked as he handed Owen the paper. “It makes
things pretty bad in your line, I suppose?”

“Yes,” responded Owen, “there’s a lot of men idle, but fortunately I
happen to be working inside.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones, then,” said the other. “You know,
there’ll be a job here for some of ’em as soon as the weather gets a
little better. All the outside of this block is going to be done up.
That’s a pretty big job, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” returned Owen. “Who’s going to do it?”

“Makehaste and Sloggit. You know, they’ve got a place over at Windley.”

“Yes, I know the firm,” said Owen, grimly. He had worked for them once
or twice himself.

“The foreman was in here today,” the shopkeeper went on. “He said
they’re going to make a start Monday morning if it’s fine.”

“Well, I hope it will be,” said Owen, “because things are very quiet
just now.”

Wishing the other “Good night”, Owen again proceeded homewards.

Half-way down the street he paused irresolutely: he was thinking of the
news he had just heard and of Jack Linden.

As soon as it became generally known that this work was about to be
started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it would be a case of
first come, first served. If he saw Jack tonight the old man might be
in time to secure a job.

Owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a long way to Linden’s
place, nearly twenty minutes’ walk. Still, he would like to let him
know, because unless he was one of the first to apply, Linden would not
stand such a good chance as a younger man. Owen said to himself that if
he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching cold. Standing
about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one kept moving
it was all right.

He turned back and set off in the direction of Linden’s house: although
he was but a few yards from his own home, he decided not to go in
because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go out
again.

As he hurried along he presently noticed a small dark object on the
doorstep of an untenanted house. He stopped to examine it more closely
and perceived that it was a small black kitten. The tiny creature came
towards him and began walking about his feet, looking into his face and
crying piteously. He stooped down and stroked it, shuddering as his
hands came in contact with its emaciated body. Its fur was saturated
with rain and every joint of its backbone was distinctly perceptible to
the touch. As he caressed it, the starving creature mewed pathetically.

Owen decided to take it home to the boy, and as he picked it up and put
it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr.

This incident served to turn his thoughts into another channel. If, as
so many people pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving
God, how was it that this helpless creature that He had made was
condemned to suffer? It had never done any harm, and was in no sense
responsible for the fact that it existed. Was God unaware of the
miseries of His creatures? If so, then He was not all-knowing. Was God
aware of their sufferings, but unable to help them? Then He was not
all-powerful. Had He the power but not the will to make His creatures
happy? Then He was not good. No; it was impossible to believe in the
existence of an individual, infinite God. In fact, no one did so
believe; and least of all those who pretended for various reasons to be
the disciples and followers of Christ. The anti-Christs who went about
singing hymns, making long prayers and crying Lord, Lord, but never
doing the things which He said, who were known by their words to be
unbelievers and infidels, unfaithful to the Master they pretended to
serve, their lives being passed in deliberate and systematic disregard
of His teachings and Commandments. It was not necessary to call in the
evidence of science, or to refer to the supposed inconsistencies,
impossibilities, contradictions and absurdities contained in the Bible,
in order to prove there was no truth in the Christian religion. All
that was necessary was to look at the conduct of the individuals who
were its votaries.




Chapter 5
The Clock-case


Jack Linden lived in a small cottage in Windley. He had occupied this
house ever since his marriage, over thirty years ago.

His home and garden were his hobby: he was always doing something;
painting, whitewashing, papering and so forth. The result was that
although the house itself was not of much account he had managed to get
it into very good order, and as a result it was very clean and
comfortable.

Another result of his industry was that—seeing the improved appearance
of the place—the landlord had on two occasions raised the rent. When
Linden first took the house the rent was six shillings a week. Five
years after, it was raised to seven shillings, and after the lapse of
another five years it had been increased to eight shillings.

During the thirty years of his tenancy he had paid altogether nearly
six hundred pounds in rent, more than double the amount of the present
value of the house. Jack did not complain of this—in fact he was very
well satisfied. He often said that Mr Sweater was a very good landlord,
because on several occasions when, being out of work, he had been a few
weeks behind with his rent the agent acting for the benevolent Mr
Sweater had allowed Linden to pay off the arrears by instalments. As
old Jack was in the habit of remarking, many a landlord would have sold
up their furniture and turned them into the street.

As the reader is already aware, Linden’s household consisted of his
wife, his two grandchildren and his daughter-in-law, the widow and
children of his youngest son, a reservist, who died while serving in
the South African War. This man had been a plasterer, and just before
the war he was working for Rushton & Co.

They had just finished their tea when Owen knocked at their front door.
The young woman went to see who was there.

“Is Mr Linden in?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“My name’s Owen.”

Old Jack, however, had already recognized Owen’s voice, and came to the
door, wondering what he wanted.

“As I was going home I heard that Makehaste and Sloggit are going to
start a large job on Monday, so I thought I’d run over and let you
know.”

“Are they?” said Linden. “I’ll go and see them in the morning. But I’m
afraid I won’t stand much chance, because a lot of their regular hands
are waiting for a job; but I’ll go and see ’em all the same.”

“Well, you know, it’s a big job. All the outside of that block at the
corner of Kerk Street and Lord Street. They’re almost sure to want a
few extra hands.”

“Yes, there’s something in that,” said Linden. “Anyhow, I’m much
obliged to you for letting me know; but come in out of the rain. You
must be wet through.”

“No; I won’t stay,” responded Owen. “I don’t want to stand about any
longer than I can help in these wet clothes.”

“But it won’t take you a minit to drink a cup of tea,” Linden insisted.
“I won’t ask you to stop longer than that.”

Owen entered; the old man closed the door and led the way into the
kitchen. At one side of the fire, Linden’s wife, a frail-looking old
lady with white hair, was seated in a large armchair, knitting. Linden
sat down in a similar chair on the other side. The two grandchildren, a
boy and girl about seven and eight years, respectively, were still
seated at the table.

Standing by the side of the dresser at one end of the room was a
treadle sewing machine, and on one end of the dresser was a a pile of
sewing: ladies’ blouses in process of making. This was another instance
of the goodness of Mr Sweater, from whom Linden’s daughter-in-law
obtained the work. It was not much, because she was only able to do it
in her spare time, but then, as she often remarked, every little
helped.

The floor was covered with linoleum: there were a number of framed
pictures on the walls, and on the high mantelshelf were a number of
brightly polished tins and copper utensils. The room had that
indescribably homelike, cosy air that is found only in those houses in
which the inhabitants have dwelt for a very long time.

The younger woman was already pouring out a cup of tea.

Old Mrs Linden, who had never seen Owen before, although she had heard
of him, belonged to the Church of England and was intensely religious.
She looked curiously at the Atheist as he entered the room. He had
taken off his hat and she was surprised to find that he was not
repulsive to look at, rather the contrary. But then she remembered that
Satan often appears as an angel of light. Appearances are deceitful.
She wished that John had not asked him into the house and hoped that no
evil consequences would follow. As she looked at him, she was horrified
to perceive a small black head with a pair of glistening green eyes
peeping out of the breast of his coat, and immediately afterwards the
kitten, catching sight of the cups and saucers on the table, began to
mew frantically and scrambled suddenly out of its shelter, inflicting a
severe scratch on Owen’s restraining hands as it jumped to the floor.

It clambered up the tablecloth and began rushing all over the table,
darting madly from one plate to another, seeking something to eat.

The children screamed with delight. Their grandmother was filled with a
feeling of superstitious alarm. Linden and the young woman stood
staring with astonishment at the unexpected visitor.

Before the kitten had time to do any damage, Owen caught hold of it
and, despite its struggles, lifted it off the table.

“I found it in the street as I was coming along,” he said. “It seems to
be starving.”

“Poor little thing. I’ll give it something,” exclaimed the young woman.

She put some milk and bread into a saucer for it and the kitten ate
ravenously, almost upsetting the saucer in its eagerness, much to the
amusement of the two children, who stood by watching it admiringly.

Their mother now handed Owen a cup of tea. Linden insisted on his
sitting down and then began to talk about Hunter.

“You know I _had_ to spend some time on them doors to make ’em look
anything at all; but it wasn’t the time I took, or even the smoking
what made ’im go on like that. He knows very well the time it takes.
The real reason is that he thinks I was gettin’ too much money. Work is
done so rough nowadays that chaps like Sawkins is good enough for most
of it. Hunter shoved me off just because I was getting the top money,
and you’ll see I won’t be the only one.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” returned Owen. “Did you see Rushton when you
went for your money?”

“Yes,” replied Linden. “I hurried up as fast as I could, but Hunter was
there first. He passed me on his bike before I got half-way, so I
suppose he told his tale before I came. Anyway, when I started to speak
to Mr Rushton he wouldn’t listen. Said he couldn’t interfere between Mr
Hunter and the men.”

“Ah! They’re a bad lot, them two,” said the old woman, shaking her head
sagely. “But it’ll all come ’ome to ’em, you’ll see. They’ll never
prosper. The Lord will punish them.”

Owen did not feel very confident of that. Most of the people he knew
who had prospered were very similar in character to the two worthies in
question. However, he did not want to argue with this poor old woman.

“When Tom was called up to go to the war,” said the young woman,
bitterly, “Mr Rushton shook hands with him and promised to give him a
job when he came back. But now that poor Tom’s gone and they know that
me and the children’s got no one to look to but Father, they do THIS.”

Although at the mention of her dead son’s name old Mrs Linden was
evidently distressed, she was still mindful of the Atheist’s presence,
and hastened to rebuke her daughter-in-law.

“You shouldn’t say we’ve got no one to look to, Mary,” she said. “We’re
not as them who are without God and without hope in the world. The Lord
is our shepherd. He careth for the widow and the fatherless.”

Owen was very doubtful about this also. He had seen so many badly
cared-for children about the streets lately, and what he remembered of
his own sorrowful childhood was all evidence to the contrary.

An awkward silence succeeded. Owen did not wish to continue this
conversation: he was afraid that he might say something that would hurt
the old woman. Besides, he was anxious to get away; he began to feel
cold in his wet clothes.

As he put his empty cup on the table he said:

“Well, I must be going. They’ll be thinking I’m lost, at home.”

The kitten had finished all the bread and milk and was gravely washing
its face with one of its forepaws, to the great admiration of the two
children, who were sitting on the floor beside it. It was an
artful-looking kitten, all black, with a very large head and a very
small body. It reminded Owen of a tadpole.

“Do you like cats?” he asked, addressing the children.

“Yes,” said the boy. “Give it to us, will you, mister?”

“Oh, do leave it ’ere, mister,” exclaimed the little girl. “I’ll look
after it.”

“So will I,” said the boy.

“But haven’t you one of your own?” asked Owen.

“Yes; we’ve got a big one.”

“Well, if you have one already and I give you this, then you’d have two
cats, and I’d have none. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“Well, you can ’ave a lend of our cat for a little while if you give us
this kitten,” said the boy, after a moment’s thought.

“Why would you rather have the kitten?”

“Because it would play: our cat don’t want to play, it’s too old.”

“Perhaps you’re too rough with it,” returned Owen.

“No, it ain’t that; it’s just because it’s old.”

“You know cats is just the same as people,” explained the little girl,
wisely. “When they’re grown up I suppose they’ve got their troubles to
think about.”

Owen wondered how long it would be before her troubles commenced. As he
gazed at these two little orphans he thought of his own child, and of
the rough and thorny way they would all three have to travel if they
were so unfortunate as to outlive their childhood.

“Can we ’ave it, mister?” repeated the boy.

Owen would have liked to grant the children’s request, but he wanted
the kitten himself. Therefore he was relieved when their grandmother
exclaimed:

“We don’t want no more cats ’ere: we’ve got one already; that’s quite
enough.”

She was not yet quite satisfied in her mind that the creature was not
an incarnation of the Devil, but whether it was or not she did not want
it, or anything else of Owen’s, in this house. She wished he would go,
and take his kitten or his familiar or whatever it was, with him. No
good could come of his being there. Was it not written in the Word: “If
any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema
Maran-atha.” She did not know exactly what Anathema Maran-atha meant,
but there could be no doubt that it was something very unpleasant. It
was a terrible thing that this blasphemer who—as she had heard—did not
believe there was a Hell and said that the Bible was not the Word of
God, should be here in the house sitting on one of their chairs,
drinking from one of their cups, and talking to their children.

The children stood by wistfully when Owen put the kitten under his coat
and rose to go away.

As Linden prepared to accompany him to the front door, Owen, happening
to notice a timepiece standing on a small table in the recess at one
side of the fireplace, exclaimed:

“That’s a very nice clock.”

“Yes, it’s all right, ain’t it?” said old Jack, with a touch of pride.
“Poor Tom made that: not the clock itself, but just the case.”

It was the case that had attracted Owen’s attention. It stood about two
feet high and was made of fretwork in the form of an Indian mosque,
with a pointed dome and pinnacles. It was a very beautiful thing and
must have cost many hours of patient labour.

“Yes,” said the old woman, in a trembling, broken voice, and looking at
Owen with a pathetic expression. “Months and months he worked at it,
and no one ever guessed who it were for. And then, when my birthday
came round, the very first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning
were the clock standing on a chair by the bed with a card:

“To dear mother, from her loving son, Tom.
Wishing her many happy birthdays.”

“But he never had another birthday himself, because just five months
afterwards he were sent out to Africa, and he’d only been there five
weeks when he died. Five years ago, come the fifteenth of next month.”

Owen, inwardly regretting that he had unintentionally broached so
painful a subject, tried to think of some suitable reply, but had to
content himself with murmuring some words of admiration of the work.

As he wished her good night, the old woman, looking at him, could not
help observing that he appeared very frail and ill: his face was very
thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

Possibly the Lord in His infinite loving kindness and mercy was
chastening this unhappy castaway in order that He might bring him to
Himself. After all, he was not altogether bad: it was certainly very
thoughtful of him to come all this way to let John know about that job.
She observed that he had no overcoat, and the storm was still raging
fiercely outside, furious gusts of wind frequently striking the house
and shaking it to its very foundations.

The natural kindliness of her character asserted itself; her better
feelings were aroused, triumphing momentarily over the bigotry of her
religious opinions.

“Why, you ain’t got no overcoat!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be soaked
goin’ ’ome in this rain.” Then, turning to her husband, she continued:
“There’s that old one of yours; you might lend him that; it would be
better than nothing.”

But Owen would not hear of this: he thought, as he became very
conscious of the clammy feel of his saturated clothing, that he could
not get much wetter than he already was. Linden accompanied him as far
as the front door, and Owen once more set out on his way homeward
through the storm that howled around like a wild beast hungry for its
prey.




Chapter 6
It is not My Crime


Owen and his family occupied the top floor of a house that had once
been a large private dwelling but which had been transformed into a
series of flats. It was situated in Lord Street, almost in the centre
of the town.

At one time this had been a most aristocratic locality, but most of the
former residents had migrated to the newer suburb at the west of the
town. Notwithstanding this fact, Lord Street was still a most
respectable neighbourhood, the inhabitants generally being of a very
superior type: shop-walkers, shop assistants, barber’s clerks, boarding
house keepers, a coal merchant, and even two retired jerry-builders.

There were four other flats in the house in which Owen lived. No. 1
(the basement) was occupied by an estate agent’s clerk. No. 2—on a
level with the street—was the habitat of the family of Mr Trafaim, a
cadaverous-looking gentleman who wore a top hat, boasted of his French
descent, and was a shop-walker at Sweater’s Emporium. No. 3 was
tenanted by an insurance agent, and in No. 4 dwelt a tallyman’s
traveller.

Lord Street—like most other similar neighbourhoods—supplied a striking
answer to those futile theorists who prate of the equality of mankind,
for the inhabitants instinctively formed themselves into groups, the
more superior types drawing together, separating themselves from the
inferior, and rising naturally to the top, while the others gathered
themselves into distinct classes, grading downwards, or else isolated
themselves altogether; being refused admission to the circles they
desired to enter, and in their turn refusing to associate with their
inferiors.

The most exclusive set consisted of the families of the coal merchant,
the two retired jerry-builders and Mr Trafaim, whose superiority was
demonstrated by the fact that, to say nothing of his French extraction,
he wore—in addition to the top hat aforesaid—a frock coat and a pair of
lavender trousers every day. The coal merchant and the jerry builders
also wore top hats, lavender trousers and frock coats, but only on
Sundays and other special occasions. The estate agent’s clerk and the
insurance agent, though excluded from the higher circle, belonged to
another select coterie from which they excluded in their turn all
persons of inferior rank, such as shop assistants or barbers.

The only individual who was received with equal cordiality by all
ranks, was the tallyman’s traveller. But whatever differences existed
amongst them regarding each other’s social standing they were unanimous
on one point at least: they were indignant at Owen’s presumption in
coming to live in such a refined locality.

This low fellow, this common workman, with his paint-bespattered
clothing, his broken boots, and his generally shabby appearance, was a
disgrace to the street; and as for his wife she was not much better,
because although whenever she came out she was always neatly dressed,
yet most of the neighbours knew perfectly well that she had been
wearing the same white straw hat all the time she had been there. In
fact, the only tolerable one of the family was the boy, and they were
forced to admit that he was always very well dressed; so well indeed as
to occasion some surprise, until they found out that all the boy’s
clothes were home-made. Then their surprise was changed into a somewhat
grudging admiration of the skill displayed, mingled with contempt for
the poverty which made its exercise necessary.

The indignation of the neighbours was increased when it became known
that Owen and his wife were not Christians: then indeed everyone agreed
that the landlord ought to be ashamed of himself for letting the top
flat to such people.

But although the hearts of these disciples of the meek and lowly Jewish
carpenter were filled with uncharitableness, they were powerless to do
much harm. The landlord regarded their opinion with indifference. All
he cared about was the money: although he also was a sincere Christian,
he would not have hesitated to let the top flat to Satan himself,
provided he was certain of receiving the rent regularly.

The only one upon whom the Christians were able to inflict any
suffering was the child. At first when he used to go out into the
street to play, the other children, acting on their parents’
instructions, refused to associate with him, or taunted him with his
parents’ poverty. Occasionally he came home heartbroken and in tears
because he had been excluded from some game.

At first, sometimes the mothers of some of the better-class children
used to come out with a comical assumption of superiority and dignity
and compel their children to leave off playing with Frankie and some
other poorly dressed children who used to play in that street. These
females were usually overdressed and wore a lot of jewellery. Most of
them fancied they were ladies, and if they had only had the sense to
keep their mouths shut, other people might possibly have shared the
same delusion.

But this was now a rare occurrence, because the parents of the other
children found it a matter of considerable difficulty to prevent their
youngsters from associating with those of inferior rank, for when left
to themselves the children disregarded all such distinctions.
Frequently in that street was to be seen the appalling spectacle of the
ten-year-old son of the refined and fashionable Trafaim dragging along
a cart constructed of a sugar box and an old pair of perambulator
wheels with no tyres, in which reposed the plebeian Frankie Owen, armed
with a whip, and the dowdy daughter of a barber’s clerk: while the
nine-year-old heir of the coal merchant rushed up behind...

Owen’s wife and little son were waiting for him in the living room.
This room was about twelve feet square and the ceiling—which was low
and irregularly shaped, showing in places the formation of the roof—had
been decorated by Owen with painted ornaments.

There were three or four chairs, and an oblong table, covered with a
clean white tablecloth, set ready for tea. In the recess at the right
of the fireplace—an ordinary open grate—were a number of shelves filled
with a miscellaneous collection of books, most of which had been bought
second-hand.

There were also a number of new books, mostly cheap editions in paper
covers.

Over the back of a chair at one side of the fire, was hanging an old
suit of Owen’s, and some underclothing, which his wife had placed there
to air, knowing that he would be wet through by the time he arrived
home...

The woman was half-sitting, half lying, on a couch by the other side of
the fire. She was very thin, and her pale face bore the traces of much
physical and mental suffering. She was sewing, a task which her
reclining position rendered somewhat difficult. Although she was really
only twenty-eight years of age, she appeared older.

The boy, who was sitting on the hearthrug playing with some toys, bore
a strong resemblance to his mother. He also, appeared very fragile and
in his childish face was reproduced much of the delicate prettiness
which she had once possessed. His feminine appearance was increased by
the fact that his yellow hair hung in long curls on his shoulders. The
pride with which his mother regarded this long hair was by no means
shared by Frankie himself, for he was always entreating her to cut it
off.

Presently the boy stood up and walking gravely over to the window,
looked down into the street, scanning the pavement for as far as he
could see: he had been doing this at intervals for the last hour.

“I wonder wherever he’s got to,” he said, as he returned to the fire.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned his mother. “Perhaps he’s had to work
overtime.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking lately,” observed Frankie, after a pause,
“that it’s a great mistake for Dad to go out working at all. I believe
that’s the very reason why we’re so poor.”

“Nearly everyone who works is more or less poor, dear, but if Dad
didn’t go out to work we’d be even poorer than we are now. We should
have nothing to eat.”

“But Dad says that the people who do nothing get lots of everything.”

“Yes, and it’s quite true that most of the people who never do any work
get lots of everything, but where do they get it from? And how do they
get it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Frankie, shaking his head in a puzzled
fashion.

“Supposing Dad didn’t go to work, or that he had no work to go to, or
that he was ill and not able to do any work, then we’d have no money to
buy anything. How should we get on then?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” repeated Frankie, looking round the room in a
thoughtful manner, “The chairs that’s left aren’t good enough to sell,
and we can’t sell the beds, or your sofa, but you might pawn my velvet
suit.”

“But even if all the things were good enough to sell, the money we’d
get for them wouldn’t last very long, and what should we do then?”

“Well, I suppose we’d have to go without, that’s all, the same as we
did when Dad was in London.”

“But how do the people who never do any work manage to get lots of
money then?” added Frankie.

“Oh, there’s lots of different ways. For instance, you remember when
Dad was in London, and we had no food in the house, I had to sell the
easy chair.”

Frankie nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I remember you wrote a note and I took
it to the shop, and afterwards old Didlum came up here and bought it,
and then his cart came and a man took it away.”

“And do you remember how much he gave us for it?”

“Five shillings,” replied Frankie, promptly. He was well acquainted
with the details of the transaction, having often heard his father and
mother discuss it.

“And when we saw it in his shop window a little while afterwards, what
price was marked on it?”

“Fifteen shillings.”

“Well, that’s one way of getting money without working.”

Frankie played with his toys in silence for some minutes. At last he
said:

“What other ways?”

“Some people who have some money already get more in this way: they
find some people who have no money and say to them, ‘Come and work for
us.’ Then the people who have the money pay the workers just enough
wages to keep them alive whilst they are at work. Then, when the things
that the working people have been making are finished, the workers are
sent away, and as they still have no money, they are soon starving. In
the meantime the people who had the money take all the things that the
workers have made and sell them for a great deal more money than they
gave to the workers for making them. That’s another way of getting lots
of money without doing any useful work.”

“But is there no way to get rich without doing such things as that?”

“It’s not possible for anyone to become rich without cheating other
people.”

“What about our schoolmaster then? He doesn’t do any work.”

“Don’t you think it’s useful and necessary and also very hard work
teaching all those boys every day? I don’t think I should like to have
to do it.”

“Yes, I suppose what he does is some use,” said Frankie thoughtfully.
“And it must be rather hard too, I should think. I’ve noticed he looks
a bit worried sometimes, and sometimes he gets into a fine old wax when
the boys don’t pay proper attention.”

The child again went over to the window, and pulling back the edge of
the blind looked down the deserted rain washed street.

“What about the vicar?” he remarked as he returned.

Although Frankie did not go to church or Sunday School, the day school
that he had attended was that attached to the parish church, and the
vicar was in the habit of looking in occasionally.

“Ah, he really is one of those who live without doing any necessary
work, and of all the people who do nothing, the vicar is one of the
very worst.”

Frankie looked up at his mother with some surprise, not because he
entertained any very high opinion of clergymen in general, for, having
been an attentive listener to many conversations between his parents,
he had of course assimilated their opinions as far as his infant
understanding permitted, but because at the school the scholars were
taught to regard the gentleman in question with the most profound
reverence and respect.

“Why, Mum?” he asked.

“For this reason, dearie. You know that all the beautiful things which
the people who do nothing have are made by the people who work, don’t
you?”

“Yes.”

“And you know that those who work have to eat the very worst food, and
wear the very worst clothes, and live in the very worst homes.”

“Yes,” said Frankie.

“And sometimes they have nothing to eat at all, and no clothes to wear
except rags, and even no homes to live in.”

“Yes,” repeated the child.

“Well, the vicar goes about telling the Idlers that it’s quite right
for them to do nothing, and that God meant them to have nearly
everything that is made by those who work. In fact, he tells them that
God made the poor for the use of the rich. Then he goes to the workers
and tells them that God meant them to work very hard and to give all
the good things they make to those who do nothing, and that they should
be very thankful to God and to the idlers for being allowed to have
even the very worst food to eat and the rags, and broken boots to wear.
He also tells them that they mustn’t grumble, or be discontented
because they’re poor in this world, but that they must wait till
they’re dead, and then God will reward them by letting them go to a
place called Heaven.”

Frankie laughed.

“And what about the Idlers?” he asked.

“The vicar says that if they believe everything he tells them and give
him some of the money they make out of the workers, then God will let
them into heaven also.”

“Well, that’s not fair doos, is it, Mum?” said Frankie with some
indignation.

“It wouldn’t be if it were true, but then you see it’s not true, it
can’t be true.”

“Why can’t it, Mum?”

“Oh, for many reasons: to begin with, the vicar doesn’t believe it
himself: he only pretends to. For instance, he pretends to believe the
Bible, but if we read the Bible we find that Jesus said that God is our
father and that all the people in the world are His children, all
brothers and sisters. But the vicar says that although Jesus said
‘brothers and sisters’ He really ought to have said ‘masters and
servants’. Again, Jesus said that His disciples should not think of
tomorrow, or save up a lot of money for themselves, but they should be
unselfish and help those who are in need. Jesus said that His disciples
must not think about their own future needs at all, because God will
provide for them if they only do as He commands. But the vicar says
that is all nonsense.

“Jesus also said that if anyone tried to do His disciples harm, they
must never resist, but forgive those who injured them and pray God to
forgive them also. But the vicar says this is all nonsense too. He says
that the world would never be able to go on if we did as Jesus taught.
The vicar teaches that the way to deal with those that injure us is to
have them put into prison, or—if they belong to some other country—to
take guns and knives and murder them, and burn their houses. So you see
the vicar doesn’t really believe or do any of the things that Jesus
said: he only pretends.”

“But why does he pretend, and go about talking like that, Mum? What
does he do it for?”

“Because he wishes to live without working himself, dear.”

“And don’t the people know he’s only pretending?”

“Some of them do. Most of the idlers know that what the vicar says is
not true, but they pretend to believe it, and give him money for saying
it, because they want him to go on telling it to the workers so that
they will go on working and keep quiet and be afraid to think for
themselves.”

“And what about the workers? Do they believe it?

“Most of them do, because when they were little children like you,
their mothers taught them to believe, without thinking, whatever the
vicar said, and that God made them for the use of the idlers. When they
went to school, they were taught the same thing: and now that they’re
grown up they really believe it, and they go to work and give nearly
everything they make to the idlers, and have next to nothing left for
themselves and their children. That’s the reason why the workers’
children have very bad clothes to wear and sometimes no food to eat;
and that’s how it is that the idlers and their children have more
clothes than they need and more food than they can eat. Some of them
have so much food that they are not able to eat it. They just waste it
or throw it away.”

“When I’m grown up into a man,” said Frankie, with a flushed face, “I’m
going to be one of the workers, and when we’ve made a lot of things, I
shall stand up and tell the others what to do. If any of the idlers
come to take our things away, they’ll get something they won’t like.”

In a state of suppressed excitement and scarcely conscious of what he
was doing, the boy began gathering up the toys and throwing them
violently one by one into the box.

“I’ll teach ’em to come taking our things away,” he exclaimed,
relapsing momentarily into his street style of speaking.

“First of all we’ll all stand quietly on one side. Then when the idlers
come in and start touching our things, we’ll go up to ’em and say,
‘’Ere, watcher doin’ of? Just you put it down, will yer?’ And if they
don’t put it down at once, it’ll be the worse for ’em, I can tell you.”

All the toys being collected, Frankie picked up the box and placed it
noisily in its accustomed corner of the room.

“I should think the workers will be jolly glad when they see me coming
to tell them what to do, shouldn’t you, Mum?”

“I don’t know dear; you see so many people have tried to tell them, but
they won’t listen, they don’t want to hear. They think it’s quite right
that they should work very hard all their lives, and quite right that
most of the things they help to make should be taken away from them by
the people who do nothing. The workers think that their children are
not as good as the children of the idlers, and they teach their
children that as soon as ever they are old enough they must be
satisfied to work very hard and to have only very bad food and clothes
and homes.”

“Then I should think the workers ought to be jolly ashamed of
themselves, Mum, don’t you?”

“Well, in one sense they ought, but you must remember that that’s what
they’ve always been taught themselves. First, their mothers and fathers
told them so; then, their schoolteachers told them so; and then, when
they went to church, the vicar and the Sunday School teacher told them
the same thing. So you can’t be surprised that they now really believe
that God made them and their children to make things for the use of the
people who do nothing.”

“But you’d think their own sense would tell them! How can it be right
for the people who do nothing to have the very best and most of
everything that’s made, and the very ones who make everything to have
hardly any. Why even I know better than that, and I’m only six and a
half years old.”

“But then you’re different, dearie, you’ve been taught to think about
it, and Dad and I have explained it to you, often.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Frankie confidently. “But even if you’d never
taught me, I’m sure I should have tumbled to it all right by myself;
I’m not such a juggins as you think I am.”

“So you might, but you wouldn’t if you’d been brought up in the same
way as most of the workers. They’ve been taught that it’s very wicked
to use their own judgement, or to think. And their children are being
taught so now. Do you remember what you told me the other day, when you
came home from school, about the Scripture lesson?”

“About St Thomas?”

“Yes. What did the teacher say St Thomas was?”

“She said he was a bad example; and she said I was worse than him
because I asked too many foolish questions. She always gets in a wax if
I talk too much.”

“Well, why did she call St Thomas a bad example?”

“Because he wouldn’t believe what he was told.”

“Exactly: well, when you told Dad about it what did he say?”

“Dad told me that really St Thomas was the only sensible man in the
whole crowd of Apostles. That is,” added Frankie, correcting himself,
“if there ever was such a man at all.”

“But did Dad say that there never was such a man?”

“No; he said HE didn’t believe there ever was, but he told me to just
listen to what the teacher said about such things, and then to think
about it in my own mind, and wait till I’m grown up and then I can use
my own judgement.”

“Well, now, that’s what YOU were told, but all the other children’s
mothers and fathers tell them to believe, without thinking, whatever
the teacher says. So it will be no wonder if those children are not
able to think for themselves when they’re grown up, will it?”

“Don’t you think it will be any use, then, for me to tell them what to
do to the Idlers?” asked Frankie, dejectedly.

“Hark!” said his mother, holding up her finger.

“Dad!” cried Frankie, rushing to the door and flinging it open. He ran
along the passage and opened the staircase door before Owen reached the
top of the last flight of stairs.

“Why ever do you come up at such a rate,” reproachfully exclaimed
Owen’s wife as he came into the room exhausted from the climb upstairs
and sank panting into the nearest chair.

“I al-ways-for-get,” he replied, when he had in some degree recovered.
As he lay back in the chair, his face haggard and of a ghastly
whiteness, and with the water dripping from his saturated clothing,
Owen presented a terrible appearance.

Frankie noticed with childish terror the extreme alarm with which his
mother looked at his father.

“You’re always doing it,” he said with a whimper. “How many more times
will Mother have to tell you about it before you take any notice?”

“It’s all right, old chap,” said Owen, drawing the child nearer to him
and kissing the curly head. “Listen, and see if you can guess what I’ve
got for you under my coat.”

In the silence the purring of the kitten was distinctly audible.

“A kitten!” cried the boy, taking it out of its hiding-place. “All
black, and I believe it’s half a Persian. Just the very thing I
wanted.”

While Frankie amused himself playing with the kitten, which had been
provided with another saucer of bread and milk, Owen went into the
bedroom to put on the dry clothes, and then, those that he had taken
off having been placed with his boots near the fire to dry, he
explained as they were taking tea the reason of his late homecoming.

“I’m afraid he won’t find it very easy to get another job,” he
remarked, referring to Linden. “Even in the summer nobody will be
inclined to take him on. He’s too old.”

“It’s a dreadful prospect for the two children,” answered his wife.

“Yes,” replied Owen bitterly. “It’s the children who will suffer most.
As for Linden and his wife, although of course one can’t help feeling
sorry for them, at the same time there’s no getting away from the fact
that they deserve to suffer. All their lives they’ve been working like
brutes and living in poverty. Although they have done more than their
fair share of the work, they have never enjoyed anything like a fair
share of the things they have helped to produce. And yet, all their
lives they have supported and defended the system that robbed them, and
have resisted and ridiculed every proposal to alter it. It’s wrong to
feel sorry for such people; they deserve to suffer.”

After tea, as he watched his wife clearing away the tea things and
rearranging the drying clothing by the fire, Owen for the first time
noticed that she looked unusually ill.

“You don’t look well tonight, Nora,” he said, crossing over to her and
putting his arm around her.

“I don’t feel well,” she replied, resting her head wearily against his
shoulder. “I’ve been very bad all day and I had to lie down nearly all
the afternoon. I don’t know how I should have managed to get the tea
ready if it had not been for Frankie.”

“I set the table for you, didn’t I, Mum?” said Frankie with pride; “and
tidied up the room as well.”

“Yes, darling, you helped me a lot,” she answered, and Frankie went
over to her and kissed her hand.

“Well, you’d better go to bed at once,” said Owen. “I can put Frankie
to bed presently and do whatever else is necessary.”

“But there are so many things to attend to. I want to see that your
clothes are properly dry and to put something ready for you to take in
the morning before you go out, and then there’s your breakfast to pack
up—”

“I can manage all that.”

“I didn’t want to give way to it like this,” the woman said, “because I
know you must be tired out yourself, but I really do feel quite done up
now.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” replied Owen, who was really so fatigued that he
was scarcely able to stand. “I’ll go and draw the blinds down and light
the other lamp; so say good night to Frankie and come at once.”

“I won’t say good night properly, now, Mum,” remarked the boy, “because
Dad can carry me into your room before he puts me into bed.”

A little later, as Owen was undressing Frankie, the latter remarked as
he looked affectionately at the kitten, which was sitting on the
hearthrug watching the child’s every movement under the impression that
it was part of some game:

“What name do you think we ought to call it, Dad?”

“You may give him any name you like,” replied Owen, absently.

“I know a dog that lives down the road,” said the boy, “his name is
Major. How would that do? Or we might call him Sergeant.”

The kitten, observing that he was the subject of their conversation,
purred loudly and winked as if to intimate that he did not care what
rank was conferred upon him so long as the commisariat department was
properly attended to.

“I don’t know, though,” continued Frankie, thoughtfully. “They’re all
right names for dogs, but I think they’re too big for a kitten, don’t
you, Dad?”

“Yes, p’raps they are,” said Owen.

“Most cats are called Tom or Kitty, but I don’t want a COMMON name for
him.”

“Well, can’t you call him after someone you know?”

“I know; I’ll call him after a little girl that comes to our school; a
fine name, Maud! That’ll be a good one, won’t it Dad?”

“Yes,” said Owen.

“I say, Dad,” said Frankie, suddenly realizing the awful fact that he
was being put to bed. “You’re forgetting all about my story, and you
promised that you’d have a game of trains with me tonight.”

“I hadn’t forgotten, but I was hoping that you had, because I’m very
tired and it’s very late, long past your usual bedtime, you know. You
can take the kitten to bed with you tonight and I’ll tell you two
stories tomorrow, because it’s Saturday.”

“All right, then,” said the boy, contentedly; “and I’ll get the railway
station built and I’ll have the lines chalked on the floor, and the
signals put up before you come home, so that there’ll be no time
wasted. And I’ll put one chair at one end of the room and another chair
at the other end, and tie some string across for telegraph wires.
That’ll be a very good idea, won’t it, Dad?” and Owen agreed.

“But of course I’ll come to meet you just the same as other Saturdays,
because I’m going to buy a ha’porth of milk for the kitten out of my
penny.”

After the child was in bed, Owen sat alone by the table in the draughty
sitting-room, thinking. Although there was a bright fire, the room was
very cold, being so close to the roof. The wind roared loudly round the
gables, shaking the house in a way that threatened every moment to hurl
it to the ground. The lamp on the table had a green glass reservoir
which was half full of oil. Owen watched this with unconscious
fascination. Every time a gust of wind struck the house the oil in the
lamp was agitated and rippled against the glass like the waves of a
miniature sea. Staring abstractedly at the lamp, he thought of the
future.

A few years ago the future had seemed a region of wonderful and
mysterious possibilities of good, but tonight the thought brought no
such illusions, for he knew that the story of the future was to be much
the same as the story of the past.

The story of the past would continue to repeat itself for a few years
longer. He would continue to work and they would all three continue to
do without most of the necessaries of life. When there was no work they
would starve.

For himself he did not care much because he knew that at the best—or
worst—it would only be a very few years. Even if he were to have proper
food and clothing and be able to take reasonable care of himself, he
could not live much longer; but when that time came, what was to become
of THEM?

There would be some hope for the boy if he were more robust and if his
character were less gentle and more selfish. Under the present system
it was impossible for anyone to succeed in life without injuring other
people and treating them and making use of them as one would not like
to be treated and made use of oneself.

In order to succeed in the world it was necessary to be brutal, selfish
and unfeeling: to push others aside and to take advantage of their
misfortunes: to undersell and crush out one’s competitors by fair means
or foul: to consider one’s own interests first in every case,
absolutely regardless of the wellbeing of others.

That was the ideal character. Owen knew that Frankie’s character did
not come up to this lofty ideal. Then there was Nora, how would she
fare?

Owen stood up and began walking about the room, oppressed with a kind
of terror. Presently he returned to the fire and began rearranging the
clothes that were drying. He found that the boots, having been placed
too near the fire, had dried too quickly and consequently the sole of
one of them had begun to split away from the upper: he remedied this as
well as he was able and then turned the wetter parts of the clothing to
the fire. Whilst doing this he noticed the newspaper, which he had
forgotten, in the coat pocket. He drew it out with an exclamation of
pleasure. Here was something to distract his thoughts: if not
instructive or comforting, it would at any rate be interesting and even
amusing to read the reports of the self-satisfied, futile talk of the
profound statesmen who with comical gravity presided over the working
of the Great System which their combined wisdom pronounced to be the
best that could possibly be devised. But tonight Owen was not to read
of those things, for as soon as he opened the paper his attention was
riveted by the staring headline of one of the principal columns:

TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
Wife And Two Children Killed
Suicide of the Murderer

It was one of the ordinary poverty crimes. The man had been without
employment for many weeks and they had been living by pawning or
selling their furniture and other possessions. But even this resource
must have failed at last, and when one day the neighbours noticed that
the blinds remained down and that there was a strange silence about the
house, no one coming out or going in, suspicions that something was
wrong were quickly aroused. When the police entered the house, they
found, in one of the upper rooms, the dead bodies of the woman and the
two children, with their throats severed, laid out side by side upon
the bed, which was saturated with their blood.

There was no bedstead and no furniture in the room except the straw
mattress and the ragged clothes and blankets which formed the bed upon
the floor.

The man’s body was found in the kitchen, lying with outstretched arms
face downwards on the floor, surrounded by the blood that had poured
from the wound in his throat which had evidently been inflicted by the
razor that was grasped in his right hand.

No particle of food was found in the house, and on a nail in the wall
in the kitchen was hung a piece of blood-smeared paper on which was
written in pencil:

“This is not my crime, but society’s.”

The report went on to explain that the deed must have been perpetrated
during a fit of temporary insanity brought on by the sufferings the man
had endured.

“Insanity!” muttered Owen, as he read this glib theory. “Insanity! It
seems to me that he would have been insane if he had NOT killed them.”

Surely it was wiser and better and kinder to send them all to sleep,
than to let them continue to suffer.

At the same time he thought it very strange that the man should have
chosen to do it that way, when there were so many other cleaner, easier
and more painless ways of accomplishing the same object. He wondered
why it was that most of these killings were done in more or less the
same crude, cruel messy way. No; HE would set about it in a different
fashion. He would get some charcoal, then he would paste strips of
paper over the joinings of the door and windows of the room and close
the register of the grate. Then he would kindle the charcoal on a tray
or something in the middle of the room, and then they would all three
just lie down together and sleep; and that would be the end of
everything. There would be no pain, no blood, and no mess.

Or one could take poison. Of course, there was a certain amount of
difficulty in procuring it, but it would not be impossible to find some
pretext for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small
quantities at different shops until one had sufficient. Then he
remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the
colours he frequently had to use in his work, was one of the most
deadly poisons: and there was some other stuff that photographers used,
which was very easy to procure. Of course, one would have to be very
careful about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a lot
of pain. It would be necessary to find out exactly how the stuff acted
before using it. It would not be very difficult to do so. Then he
remembered that among his books was one that probably contained some
information about this subject. He went over to the book-shelf and
presently found the volume; it was called The Cyclopedia of Practical
Medicine, rather an old book, a little out of date, perhaps, but still
it might contain the information he wanted. Opening it, he turned to
the table of contents. Many different subjects were mentioned there and
presently he found the one he sought:

Poisons: chemically, physiologically and
pathologically considered.
Corrosive Poisons.
Narcotic Poisons.
Slow Poisons.
Consecutive Poisons.
Accumulative Poisons.


He turned to the chapter indicated and, reading it, he was astonished
to find what a number of poisons there were within easy reach of
whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied upon
to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. Why, it was not
even necessary to buy them: one could gather them from the hedges by
the road side and in the fields.

The more he thought of it the stranger it seemed that such a clumsy
method as a razor should be so popular. Why almost any other way would
be better and easier than that. Strangulation or even hanging, though
the latter method could scarcely be adopted in that house, because
there were no beams or rafters or anything from which it would be
possible to suspend a cord. Still, he could drive some large nails or
hooks into one of the walls. For that matter, there were already some
clothes-hooks on some of the doors. He began to think that this would
be an even more excellent way than poison or charcoal; he could easily
pretend to Frankie that he was going to show him some new kind of play.

He could arrange the cord on the hook on one of the doors and then
under pretence of play, it would be done. The boy would offer no
resistance, and in a few minutes it would all be over.

He threw down the book and pressed his hands over his ears: he fancied
he could hear the boy’s hands and feet beating against the panels of
the door as he struggled in his death agony.

Then, as his arms fell nervelessly by his side again, he thought that
he heard Frankie’s voice calling.

“Dad! Dad!”

Owen hastily opened the door.

“Are you calling, Frankie?”

“Yes. I’ve been calling you quite a long time.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to come here. I want to tell you something.”

“Well, what is it dear? I thought you were asleep a long time ago,”
said Owen as he came into the room.

“That’s just what I want to speak to you about: the kitten’s gone to
sleep all right, but I can’t go. I’ve tried all different ways,
counting and all, but it’s no use, so I thought I’d ask you if you’d
mind coming and staying with me, and letting me hold your hand for a
little while and then p’raps I could go.”

The boy twined his arms round Owen’s neck and hugged him very tightly.

“Oh, Dad, I love you so much!” he said. “I love you so much, I could
squeeze you to death.”

“I’m afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tightly as that.”

The boy laughed softly as he relaxed his hold. “That WOULD be a funny
way of showing you how much I love you, wouldn’t it, Dad? Squeezing you
to death!”

“Yes, I suppose it would,” replied Owen huskily, as he tucked the
bedclothes round the child’s shoulders. “But don’t talk any more, dear;
just hold my hand and try to sleep.”

“All right,” said Frankie.

Lying there very quietly, holding his father’s hand and occasionally
kissing it, the child presently fell asleep. Then Owen got up very
gently and, having taken the kitten out of the bed again and arranged
the bedclothes, he softly kissed the boy’s forehead and returned to the
other room.

Looking about for a suitable place for the kitten to sleep in, he
noticed Frankie’s toy box, and having emptied the toys on to the floor
in a corner of the room, he made a bed in the box with some rags and
placed it on its side on the hearthrug, facing the fire, and with some
difficulty persuaded the kitten to lie in it. Then, having placed the
chairs on which his clothes were drying at a safe distance from the
fire, he went into the bedroom. Nora was still awake.

“Are you feeling any better, dear?” he said.

“Yes, I’m ever so much better since I’ve been in bed, but I can’t help
worrying about your clothes. I’m afraid they’ll never be dry enough for
you to put on the first thing in the morning. Couldn’t you stay at home
till after breakfast, just for once?”

“No; I mustn’t do that. If I did Hunter would probably tell me to stay
away altogether. I believe he would be glad of an excuse to get rid of
another full-price man just now.”

“But if it’s raining like this in the morning, you’ll be wet through
before you get there.”

“It’s no good worrying about that dear: besides, I can wear this old
coat that I have on now, over the other.”

“And if you wrap your old shoes in some paper, and take them with you,
you can take off your wet boots as soon as you get to the place.”

“Yes, all right,” responded Owen. “Besides,” he added, reassuringly,
“even if I do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you know.”

“Well, I hope the weather will be a little better than this in the
morning,” said Nora. “Isn’t it a dreadful night! I keep feeling afraid
that the house is going to be blown down.”

Long after Nora was asleep, Owen lay listening to the howling of the
wind and the noise of the rain as it poured heavily on the roof...




Chapter 7
The Exterminating Machines


“Come on, Saturday!” shouted Philpot, just after seven o’clock one
Monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work.

It was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by
the flickering light of two candles which Crass had lighted and stuck
on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve
out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men.

“Yes, it do seem a ’ell of a long week, don’t it?” remarked Harlow as
he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and
blouse. “I’ve ’ad bloody near enough of it already.”

“Wish to Christ it was breakfast-time,” growled the more easily
satisfied Easton.

Extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their
work: they did not “love” it. They had no conception of that lofty
ideal of “work for work’s sake”, which is so popular with the people
who do nothing. On the contrary, when the workers arrived in the
morning they wished it was breakfast-time. When they resumed work after
breakfast they wished it was dinner-time. After dinner they wished it
was one o’clock on Saturday.

So they went on, day after day, year after year, wishing their time was
over and, without realizing it, really wishing that they were dead.

How extraordinary this must appear to those idealists who believe in
“work for work’s sake”, but who themselves do nothing but devour or use
and enjoy or waste the things that are produced by the labour of those
others who are not themselves permitted to enjoy a fair share of the
good things they help to create?

Crass poured several lots of colour into several pots.

“Harlow,” he said, “you and Sawkins, when he comes, can go up and do
the top bedrooms out with this colour. You’ll find a couple of candles
up there. It’s only goin’ to ’ave one coat, so see that you make it
cover all right, and just look after Sawkins a bit so as ’e doesn’t
make a bloody mess of it. You do the doors and windows, and let ’im do
the cupboards and skirtings.”

“That’s a bit of all right, I must say,” Harlow said, addressing the
company generally. “We’ve got to teach a b—r like ’im so as ’e can do
us out of a job presently by working under price.”

“Well, I can’t ’elp it,” growled Crass. “You know ’ow it is: ’Unter
sends ’im ’ere to do paintin’, and I’ve got to put ’im on it. There
ain’t nothing else for ’im to do.”

Further discussion on this subject was prevented by Sawkins’ arrival,
nearly a quarter of an hour late.

“Oh, you ’ave come, then,” sneered Crass. “Thought p’raps you’d gorn
for a ’oliday.”

Sawkins muttered something about oversleeping himself, and having
hastily put on his apron, he went upstairs with Harlow.

“Now, let’s see,” Crass said, addressing Philpot. “You and Newman ’ad
better go and make a start on the second floor: this is the colour, and
’ere’s a couple of candles. You’d better not both go in one room or
’Unter will growl about it. You take one of the front and let Newman
take one of the back rooms. Take a bit of stoppin’ with you: they’re
goin’ to ’ave two coats, but you’d better putty up the ’oles as well as
you can, this time.”

“Only two coats!” said Philpot. “Them rooms will never look nothing
with two coats—a light colour like this.”

“It’s only goin’ to get two, anyway,” returned Crass, testily. “’Unter
said so, so you’ll ’ave to do the best you can with ’em, and get ’em
smeared over middlin’ sudden, too.”

Crass did not think it necessary to mention that according to the copy
of the specification of the work which he had in his pocket the rooms
in question were supposed to have four coats.

Crass now turned to Owen.

“There’s that drorin’-room,” he said. “I don’t know what’s goin’ to be
done with that yet. I don’t think they’ve decided about it. Whatever’s
to be done to it will be an extra, because all that’s said about it in
the contract is to face it up with putty and give it one coat of white.
So you and Easton ’ad better get on with it.”

Slyme was busy softening some putty by rubbing and squeezing it between
his hands.

“I suppose I’d better finish the room I started on on Saturday?” he
asked.

“All right,” replied Crass. “Have you got enough colour?”

“Yes,” said Slyme.

As he passed through the kitchen on the way to his work, Slyme accosted
Bert, the boy, who was engaged in lighting, with some pieces of wood, a
fire to boil the water to make the tea for breakfast at eight o’clock.

“There’s a bloater I want’s cooked,” he said.

“All right,” replied Bert. “Put it over there on the dresser along of
Philpot’s and mine.”

Slyme took the bloater from his food basket, but as he was about to put
it in the place indicated, he observed that his was rather a larger one
than either of the other two. This was an important matter. After they
were cooked it would not be easy to say which was which: he might
possibly be given one of the smaller ones instead of his own. He took
out his pocket knife and cut off the tail of the large bloater.

“’Ere it is, then,” he said to Bert. “I’ve cut the tail of mine so as
you’ll know which it is.”

It was now about twenty minutes past seven and all the other men having
been started at work, Crass washed his hands under the tap. Then he
went into the kitchen and having rigged up a seat by taking two of the
drawers out of the dresser and placing them on the floor about six feet
apart and laying a plank across, he sat down in front of the fire,
which was now burning brightly under the pail, and, lighting his pipe,
began to smoke. The boy went into the scullery and began washing up the
cups and jars for the men to drink out of.

Bert was a lean, undersized boy about fifteen years of age and about
four feet nine inches in height. He had light brown hair and hazel grey
eyes, and his clothes were of many colours, being thickly encrusted
with paint, the result of the unskillful manner in which he did his
work, for he had only been at the trade about a year. Some of the men
had nicknamed him “the walking paint-shop”, a title which Bert accepted
good-humouredly.

This boy was an orphan. His father had been a railway porter who had
worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for many
years, with the usual result, namely, that he and his family lived in a
condition of perpetual poverty. Bert, who was their only child and not
very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so when his father
died a little over a year ago, his mother readily assented when the boy
said that he wished to become a decorator. It was a nice light trade,
and she thought that a really good painter, such as she was sure he
would become, was at least always able to earn a good living. Resolving
to give the boy the best possible chance, she decided if possible to
place him at Rushton’s, that being one of the leading firms in the
town. At first Mr Rushton demanded ten pounds as a premium, the boy to
be bound for five years, no wages the first year, two shillings a week
the second, and a rise of one shilling every year for the remainder of
the term. Afterwards, as a special favour—a matter of charity, in fact,
as she was a very poor woman—he agreed to accept five pounds.

This sum represented the thrifty savings of years, but the poor woman
parted with it willingly in order that the boy should become a skilled
workman. So Bert was apprenticed—bound for five years—to Rushton & Co.

For the first few months his life had been spent in the paint-shop at
the yard, a place that was something between a cellar and a stable.
There, surrounded by the poisonous pigments and materials of the trade,
the youthful artisan worked, generally alone, cleaning the dirty
paint-pots brought in by the workmen from finished “jobs” outside, and
occasionally mixing paint according to the instructions of Mr Hunter,
or one of the sub-foremen.

Sometimes he was sent out to carry materials to the places where the
men were working—heavy loads of paint or white lead—sometimes pails of
whitewash that his slender arms had been too feeble to carry more than
a few yards at a time.

Often his fragile, childish figure was seen staggering manfully along,
bending beneath the weight of a pair of steps or a heavy plank.

He could manage a good many parcels at once: some in each hand and some
tied together with string and slung over his shoulders. Occasionally,
however, there were more than he could carry; then they were put into a
handcart which he pushed or dragged after him to the distant jobs.

That first winter the boy’s days were chiefly spent in the damp,
evil-smelling, stone-flagged paint-shop, without even a fire to warm
the clammy atmosphere.

But in all this he had seen no hardship. With the unconsciousness of
boyhood, he worked hard and cheerfully. As time went on, the goal of
his childish ambition was reached—he was sent out to work with the men!
And he carried the same spirit with him, always doing his best to
oblige those with whom he was working.

He tried hard to learn, and to be a good boy, and he succeeded, fairly
well.

He soon became a favourite with Owen, for whom he conceived a great
respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any
special work of any kind to be done it was Owen who did it. On such
occasions, Bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to
assist Owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy
might be allowed to work with him.

Bert’s regard for Owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of
Crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy’s aspirations.
“There’ll be plenty of time for you to think about doin’ fancy work
after you’ve learnt to do plain painting,” he would say.

This morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, Bert
returned with them to the kitchen.

“Now let’s see,” said Crass, thoughtfully, “You’ve put the tea in the
pail, I s’pose.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want a job, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied the boy.

“Well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and
wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and
walls.”

“All right,” said Bert. When he got as far as the door leading into the
scullery he looked round and said:

“I’ve got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.”

“Never mind about that,” said Crass. “I’ll do them.”

Bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a
pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the
bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded to
carry out Crass’s instructions.

It was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle
only made it seem more so. Bert shivered: he would like to have put his
jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this. He
lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing up on
to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a square
yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush.

He was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down over
the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm,
wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt. When he had scrubbed it
sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and
then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and,
taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of
the ceiling that he had washed. Then he dropped it back into the pail,
and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation. Then he peeped
into the kitchen, where Crass was still seated by the fire, smoking and
toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed stick. Bert wished
he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he himself might go and have
a warm at the fire.

“’E might just as well ’ave let me do them bloaters,” he muttered to
himself, regarding Crass malignantly through the crack of the door.
“This is a fine job to give to anybody—a cold mornin’ like this.”

He shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went
on with the work.

A little later, Crass, still sitting by the fire, heard footsteps
approaching along the passage. He started up guiltily and, thrusting
the hand holding his pipe into his apron pocket, retreated hastily into
the scullery. He thought it might be Hunter, who was in the habit of
turning up at all sorts of unlikely times, but it was only Easton.

“I’ve got a bit of bacon I want the young ’un to toast for me,” he said
as Crass came back.

“You can do it yourself if you like,” replied Crass affably, looking at
his watch. “It’s about ten to eight.”

Easton had been working for Rushton & Co. for a fortnight, and had been
wise enough to stand Crass a drink on several occasions: he was
consequently in that gentleman’s good books for the time being.

“How are you getting on in there?” Crass asked, alluding to the work
Easton and Owen were doing in the drawing-room. “You ain’t fell out
with your mate yet, I s’pose?”

“No; ’e ain’t got much to say this morning; ’is cough’s pretty bad. I
can generally manage to get on orl right wit

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/3608