The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Robert Tressell
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 almost 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 round 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 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.