The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Robert Tressell
before four o’clock that afternoon Bert began to load up the truck with the Venetian blinds, which had been taken down some days previously.
‘I wonder who’ll have the job of paintin’ ’em?’ remarked Philpot to Newman.
‘P’raps’s they’ll take a couple of us away from ‘ere.’
‘I shouldn’t think so. We’re short-’anded ‘ere already. Most likely they’ll put on a couple of fresh ‘ands. There’s a ‘ell of a lot of work in all them blinds, you know: I reckon they’ll ‘ave to ‘ave three or four coats, the state they’re in.’
‘Yes. No doubt that’s what will be done,’ replied Newman, and added with a mirthless laugh:
‘I don’t suppose they’ll have much difficulty in getting a couple of chaps.’
‘No, you’re right, mate. There’s plenty of ‘em walkin’ about as a week’s work would be a Gordsend to.’
‘Come to think of it,’ continued Newman after a pause, ‘I believe the firm used to give all their blind work to old Latham, the Venetian blind maker. Prap’s they’ll give ‘im this lot to do.’
‘Very likely,’ replied Philpot, ‘I should think ‘e can do ‘em cheaper even than us chaps, and that’s all the firm cares about.’
How far their conjectures were fulfilled will appear later.
Shortly after Bert was gone it became so dark that it was necessary to light the candles, and Philpot remarked that although he hated working under such conditions, yet he was always glad when lighting up time came, because then knocking off time was not very far behind.
About five minutes to five, just as they were all putting their things away for the night, Nimrod suddenly appeared in the house. He had come hoping to find some of them ready dressed to go home before the proper time. Having failed in this laudable enterprise, he stood silently by himself for some seconds in the drawing-room. This was a spacious and lofty apartment with a large semicircular bay window. Round the ceiling was a deep cornice. In the semi-darkness the room appeared to be of even greater proportions than it really was. After standing thinking in this room for a little while, Hunter turned and strode out to the kitchen, where the men were preparing to go home. Owen was taking off his blouse and apron as the other entered. Hunter addressed him with a malevolent snarl:
‘You can call at the office tonight as you go home.’
Owen’s heart seemed to stop beating. All the petty annoyances he had endured from Hunter rushed into his memory, together with what Easton had told him that morning. He stood, still and speechless, holding his apron in his hand and staring at the manager.
‘What for?’ he ejaculated at length. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’ll find out what you’re wanted for when you get there,’ returned Hunter as he went out of the room and away from the house.
When he was gone a dead silence prevailed. The hands ceased their preparations for departure and looked at each other and at Owen in astonishment. To stand a man off like that – when the job was not half finished – and for no apparent reason: and of a Monday, too. It was unheard of. There was a general chorus of indignation. Harlow and Philpot especially were very wroth.
‘If it comes to that,’ Harlow shouted, ‘they’ve got no bloody right to do it! We’re intitled to an hour’s notice.’
‘Of course we are!’ cried Philpot, his goggle eyes rolling wildly with wrath. ‘And I should ‘ave it too, if it was me. You take my tip, Frank: Charge up to six o’clock on yer time sheet and get some of your own back.’
Everyone joined in the outburst of indignant protest. Everyone, that is, except Crass and Slyme. But then they were not exactly in the kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, and so it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged significant looks.
Owen had by this time recovered his self-possession. He collected all his tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag with the purpose of taking them with him that night, but on reflection he resolved not to do so. After all, it was not absolutely certain that he was going to be ‘stood off’: possibly they were going to send him to some other job.
They kept all together – some walking on the pavement and some in the road – until they got down town, and then separated. Crass, Sawkins, Bundy and Philpot adjourned to the ‘Cricketers’ for a drink, Newman went on by himself, Slyme accompanied Easton, who had arranged with him to come that night to see the bedroom, and Owen went in the direction of the office.
Rushton & Co.’s premises were situated in one of the principal streets of Mugsborough and consisted of a double-fronted shop with plate glass windows. The shop extended right through to the narrow back street which ran behind it. The front part of the shop was stocked with wall-hangings, mouldings, stands showing patterns of embossed wall and ceiling decorations, cases of brushes, tins of varnish and enamel, and similar things.
The office was at the rear and was separated from the rest of the shop by a partition, glazed with muranese obscured glass. This office had two doors, one in the partition, giving access to the front shop, and the other by the side of the window and opening on to the back street. The glass of the lower sash of the back window consisted of one large pane on which was painted ‘Rushton & Co.’ in black letters on a white ground.
Owen stood outside this window for two or three seconds before knocking. There was a bright light in the office. Then he knocked at the door, which was at once opened from the inside by Hunter, and Owen went in.
Rushton was seated in an armchair at his desk, smoking a cigar and reading one of several letters that were lying before him. At the back was a large unframed photograph of the size known as half-plate of the interior of some building. At another desk, or rather table, at the other side of the office, a young woman was sitting writing in a large ledger. There was a typewriting machine on the table at her side.
Rushton glanced up carelessly as Owen came in, but took no further notice of him.
‘Just wait a minute,’ Hunter said to Owen, and then, after conversing in a low tone with Rushton for a few minutes, the foreman put on his hat and went out of the office through the partition door which led into the front shop.
Owen stood waiting for Rushton to speak. He wondered why Hunter had sneaked off and felt inclined to open the door and call him back. One thing he was determined about: he meant to have some explanation: he would not submit tamely to be dismissed without any just reason.
When he had finished reading the letter, Rushton looked up, and, leaning comfortably back in his chair, he blew a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and said in an affable, indulgent tone, such as one might use to a child:
‘You’re a bit of a hartist, ain’t yer?’
Owen was so surprised at this reception that he was for the moment unable to reply.
‘You know what I mean,’ continued Rushton; ‘decorating work, something like them samples of yours what’s hanging up there.’
He noticed the embarrassment of Owen’s manner, and was gratified. He thought the man was confused at being spoken to by such a superior person as himself.
Mr Rushton was about thirty-five years of age, with light grey eyes, fair hair and moustache, and his complexion was a whitey drab. He was tall – about five feet ten inches – and rather clumsily built; not corpulent, but fat – in good condition. He appeared to be very well fed and well cared for generally. His clothes were well made, of good quality, and fitted him perfectly. He was dressed in a grey Norfolk suit, dark brown boots and knitted woollen stockings reaching to the knee.
He