The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Robert Tressell
don’t you remember ‘ow good-tempered ‘e was last summer when there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?’ observed Harlow.
‘Yes,’ said Crass with a chuckle. ‘I recollect we ‘ad six children’s funerals to do in one week. Ole Misery was as pleased as Punch, because of course as a rule there ain’t many boxin’-up jobs in the summer. It’s in winter as hundertakers reaps their ‘arvest.’
‘We ain’t ‘ad very many this winter, though, so far,’ said Harlow.
‘Not so many as usual,’ admitted Crass, ‘but still, we can’t grumble: we’ve ‘ad one nearly every week since the beginning of October. That’s not so bad, you know.’
Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of Rushton & Co.’s business. He always had the job of polishing or varnishing the coffin and assisting to take it home and to ‘lift in’ the corpse, besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. This work was more highly paid for than painting.
‘But I don’t think there’s no funeral job in,’ added Crass after a pause. ‘I think it’s because ‘e’s glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh ask me.’
‘Praps that ‘as got something to do with it,’ said Harlow. ‘But all the same I don’t call that a proper way to treat anyone – givin’ a man the push in that way just because ‘e ‘appened to ‘ave a spite against ‘im.’
‘It’s wot I call a bl—dy shame!’ cried Philpot. ‘Owen’s a chap wots always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and ‘e knows ‘is work, although ‘e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when ‘e gets on about Socialism.’
‘I suppose Misery didn’t say nothin’ about ‘im this mornin’?’ inquired Easton.
‘No,’ replied Crass, and added: ‘I only ‘ope Owen don’t think as I ever said anything against ‘im. ‘E looked at me very funny that night after Nimrod went away. Owen needn’t think nothing like that about me, because I’m a chap like this – if I couldn’t do nobody no good, I wouldn’t never do ‘em no ‘arm!’
At this some of the others furtively exchanged significant glances, and Harlow began to smile, but no one said anything.
Philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not helped himself to any tea, called Bert’s attention to the fact and the boy filled Owen’s cup and passed it over to the new hand.
Their conjectures regarding the cause of Hunter’s good humour were all wrong. As the reader knows, Owen had not been discharged at all, and there was nobody dead. The real reason was that, having decided to take on another man. Hunter had experienced no difficulty in getting one at the same reduced rate as that which Newman was working for, there being such numbers of men out of employment. Hitherto the usual rate of pay in Mugsborough had been sevenpence an hour for skilled painters. The reader will remember that Newman consented to accept a job at sixpence halfpenny. So far none of the other workmen knew that Newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure whether he was the only one or not. The man whom Hunter had taken on that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep his own counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out what the others were getting.
Just before half past eight Owen arrived and was immediately assailed with questions as to what had transpired at the office. Crass listened with ill-concealed chagrin to Owen’s account, but most of the others were genuinely pleased.
‘But what a way to speak to anybody!’ observed Harlow, referring to Hunter’s manner on the previous Monday night.
‘You know, I reckon if ole Misery ‘ad four legs, ‘e’d make a very good pig,’ said Philpot, solemnly, ‘and you can’t expect nothin’ from a pig but a grunt.’
During the morning, as Easton and Owen were working together in the drawing-room, the former remarked:
‘Did I tell you I had a room I wanted to let, Frank?’
‘Yes, I think you did.’
‘Well, I’ve let it to Slyme. I think he seems a very decent sort of chap, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose he is,’ replied Owen, hesitatingly. ‘I know nothing against him.’
‘Of course, we’d rather ‘ave the ‘ouse to ourselves if we could afford it, but work is so scarce lately. I’ve been figuring out exactly what my money has averaged for the last twelve months and how much a week do you think it comes to?’
‘God only knows,’ said Owen. ‘How much?’
‘About eighteen bob.’
‘So you see we had to do something,’ continued Easton; ‘and I reckon we’re lucky to get a respectable sort of chap like Slyme, religious and teetotal and all that, you know. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, I suppose you are,’ said Owen, who, although he intensely disliked Slyme, knew nothing definite against him.
They worked in silence for some time, and then Owen said:
‘At the present time there are thousands of people so badly off that, compared with them, we are rich. Their sufferings are so great that compared with them, we may be said to be living in luxury. You know that, don’t you?’
Yes, that’s true enough, mate. We really ought to be very thankful: we ought to consider ourselves lucky to ‘ave a inside job like this when there’s such a lot of chaps walkin’ about doin’ nothing.’
Yes,’ said Owen; ‘we’re lucky! Although we’re in a condition of abject, miserable poverty we must consider ourselves lucky that we’re not actually starving.’
Owen was painting the door; Easton was doing the skirting. This work caused no noise, so they were able to converse without difficulty.
‘Do you think it’s right for us to tamely make up our minds to live for the rest of our lives under such conditions as that?’
‘No; certainly not,’ replied Easton; ‘but things are sure to get better presently. Trade hasn’t always been as bad as it is now. Why, you can remember as well as I can a few years ago there was so much work that we was putting in fourteen and sixteen hours a day. I used to be so done up by the end of the week that I used to stay in bed nearly all day on Sunday.’
‘But don’t you think it’s worth while trying to find out whether it’s possible to so arrange things that we may be able to live like civilized human beings without being alternately worked to death or starved?’
‘I don’t see how we’re goin’ to alter things,’ answered Easton. ‘At the present time, from what I hear, work is scarce everywhere. We can’t make work, can we?’
‘Do you think, then, that the affairs of the world are something like the wind or the weather – altogether beyond our control? And that if they’re bad we can do nothing but just sit down and wait for them to get better?’
‘Well, I don’t see ‘ow we can odds it. If the people wot’s got the money won’t spend it, the likes of me and you can’t make ‘em, can we?’
Owen looked curiously at Easton.
‘I suppose you’re about twenty-six now,’ he said. “That means that you have about another thirty years to live. Of course, if you had proper food and clothes and hadn’t to work more than a reasonable number of hours every day, there is no natural reason why you should not live for another fifty or sixty years: but we’ll say thirty. Do you mean to say that you are able to contemplate with indifference the prospect of living for another thirty years under such conditions as those we endure at present?’
Easton made no reply.
‘If you were to commit some serious breach of the law, and were sentenced next week to ten years’ penal servitude, you’d probably