 Chapter 15 Part 2 of the Ragged Trousard Philanthropists. Crass, remembering the cutting from the obscure that he had in his pocket, was secretly very pleased at the turn the conversation was taking. He turned roughly on on. The other day when we was talking about the cause of poverty, you contradicted everybody. Everybody else was wrong, but you yourself couldn't tell us what the cause of poverty, could you? I think I could. Oh, of course, you think you know, sneered crass, and of course you think your opinion is right and everyone else's is wrong. Yes, replied Owen. Several men expressed their abhorrence of this intolerant attitude of Owen's, but the latter rejoined. Of course I think that my opinions are right and that everyone who differs from me is wrong. If I didn't think their opinions were wrong, I wouldn't differ from them, and if I don't think my own opinions right, I wouldn't hold them. But there's no need to keep on arguing about it day after day, said Crass. You've got your opinion, and I've got mine. Let everyone enjoy his own opinion, I say. A murmur of approbation from the crowd greeted these sentiments, but Owen rejoined. But we can't both be right. If your opinions are right, and mine are not, how am I to find out the truth if we're never to talk about them? Well, what do you reckon is the cause of poverty, then? Demand at Easton. Now, the present system, competition, capitalism—it's all very well to talk like that, snarled crass, to whom this statement conveyed no meaning whatever. But how do you make it out? Well, I put it like that for the sake of sharpness, replied Owen. Suppose some people were living in a house. Ha! More supposin'—snared Crass. And suppose they were always ill, and suppose that the house was badly built, the wall so constructed that they drew and retained moisture. The roof broken and leaky, the drains defective, the doors and windows ill-fitting, and the rooms badly shaped and draughty. If you were asked to name in the ward the cause of the ill health of the people who lived there, you would say the house. While the tinkering in the world would not make that house fit to live in, the only thing to do with it would be to pull it down and build another. Well, we're all living in a house called the money system, and as a result most of us are suffering from a disease called poverty. There's so much to matter with the present system that there's no good tinkering at it. Everything about it is wrong, and there's nothing about it that's right. There's only one thing to be done with it, and that's to smash it up and have a different system altogether. We must get out of it. It seems to me that's just what you're trying to do, remarked Harlow sarcastically. You seem to be trying to get out of answering the question what Easton asked you. Yes, cried Crass fiercely. Why don't you answer the bloody question? What's the cause of poverty? What the hell's the matter with that present system, demanded Sarkin's? How's it going to be altered? said Newman. What the bloody hell's sort the system do you tink we ought to have? Shouted the man behind the moat. It can't never be altered, said Philpott. Human nature's human nature, and you can't get away from it. Never mind about human nature, shouted Crass. Stick to the point. What's the cause of poverty? Ha! What got the cause of poverty? Said one of the new hands. Why, that ain't over this bloody row. And he stood up and prepared to go out of the room. This individual had two patches on the seat of his trousers and the bottom of the legs of that garment were frayed and ragged. He had been out of work for about six weeks previous to having been taken on by Rushton and Cole. During most of that time he and his family had been existing in a condition of semi-starvation, on the earnings of his wife as a charwoman, and on the scraps of food she brought home from the houses where she worked. But all the same the question of what is the cause of poverty had no interest for him. There are many causes, answered Owen. But they are all part of and inseparable from the system. In order to do away with poverty we must destroy the causes. To do away with the causes we must destroy the whole system. What are the causes, then? Well, money for one thing. This extraordinary assertion was greeted with a roar of merriment in the midst of which Philpot was heard to say that to listen to Owen was as good as going to a circus. Money was the cause of poverty. I always thought it was the want of it, to demand with the patches on the seat of his trousers as he passed out of the door. Other things, continued Owen, are private ownership of land, and private ownership of railways, tramways, gasworks, waterworks, private ownership of factories, and the other means of producing the necessaries and comforts of life, competition and business. But how do you make it out? demanded crash impatiently. Owen hesitated. To his mind the thing appeared very clear and simple. The causes of poverty were so glaringly evident that he marveled that any rational being should fail to perceive them, but at the same time he found it very difficult to define them himself. He could not think of words that would convey his thoughts clearly to these others, who seemed so hostile and unwilling to understand, and who appeared to have made up their minds to oppose and reject whatever he said. They did not know what were the causes of poverty, and apparently they did not want to know. Well, I'll try to show you one of the causes," he said nervously at last. He picked up a piece of charred wood that had fallen from the fire, and knelt down and began to draw upon the floor. Most of the others regarded him, with looks in which an indulgent, contemptuous kind of interest mingled with an air of superiority and patronage. There was no doubt, they thought, that Owen was a clever sort of chap. His work proved that. But he was certainly a little bit mad. By this time Owen had drawn a circle about two feet in diameter. Inside he had drawn two squares, one much larger than the other. These two squares he filled in solid black with a charcoal. Ha! What's it all about? Asked crass with a sneer. Why can't you see? Said Philpott with a wink. He's going to do some conjuring. In a minute he'll make something pass out of one of them squares into the other one, and no one won't see how it's done. When he had finished drawing Owen remained for a few minutes awkwardly silent, oppressed by the anticipation of ridicule and the sense of his inability to put his thoughts into plain language. He began to wish that he had not undertaken this task. At last, with an effort, he began to speak in a halting, nervous way. This circle, or rather the spaces inside the circle, is supposed to represent England. Well, I never know what it was round before, jeered crass. I've heard the world is round. I never said it was the shape. I said it was supposed to represent England. No, I see. I thought we'd very soon begin supposing. The two black squares, continued Owen, represent the people who live in the country. The small square represents a few thousand people. The large square stands for the remainder, about forty millions—that is, the majority. We ain't such bloody fools as to think that the largest number is the minority, interrupted crass. The greater number of the people represented by the large black square work for their living, and in return for their labour they receive money, some more, some less than others. You don't think to be such bloody fools as to work for nothing, do you? said Newman. I suppose you think they all ought to get the same wages, cried Harlow. Do you think it's right that a scavenger should get as much as a painter? I'm not speaking about that at all, replied Owen. I'm trying to show you what I think is one of the causes of poverty. Shut up! Can't you, Harlow? Remonstrated Philpot, who began to feel interested. We can't all talk at once. I know we can't, replied Harlow, in an aggrieved tone, but he takes such an eleve a long time to say what he's got to say. Nobody else can't get a word in edge ways. In order that these people may live, continued Owen, pointing to the large black square, it is first necessary that they shall have a place to live in. Well, we should never have thought of that, exclaimed the man on the pale, pretending to be much impressed. The others laughed, and two or three of them went out of the room, contemptuously remarking to each other in an audible undertone as they went. Bloody rot! One of what he thinks he is, a sort of school-master. Owen's nervousness increased as he continued. Now, they can't live in the air or in the sea. These people are land-animals, therefore they must live on the land. What do you mean by animals? Demanded slime. A human being ain't an animal, said Kras indignantly. Yes, we are, cried Harlow, come into any chemo-shop you like and ask the bloke, and he'll tell you. Ah, blow that, interrupted Philpott, let's hear what Owen's saying. They must live on the land, and that's the beginning of the trouble, because under the present system the majority of the people have really no right to be in the country at all. Under the present system the country belongs to a few, those who are represented by this small black square. People would pay them to do so, and if they felt so disposed, these few people have a perfect right, under the present system, to order everyone else to clear out. But they don't do that, they allow the majority to remain in the land on one condition. That is, they must pay rent to the few for the privilege of being permitted to live in the land of their birth. The amount of rent demanded by those who own this country is so large that in order to pay it, the greater number of the majority have often to deprive themselves of their children, not only of the comforts, but even the necessaries of life. In the case of the working classes the rent absorbs at the lowest possible estimate, about one third of their total earnings, for it must be remembered that the rent is an expense that goes on all the time, whether they are employed or not. If they get into arrears when they're out of work, they have to pay double when they get employment again. The majority work hard and live in poverty in order that the minority may live in luxury without working at all, and as the majority are mostly fools, they not only agree to pass their lives in incessant slavery and want, in order to pay this rent to those who own the country. But they say it is quite right that they should have to do so, and they're very grateful to the minority for allowing them to remain in the country at all. Owen paused, and immediately there arose a great clamour from his listeners. So it is right, ain't it? shouted Crass, if you had a house and let it to someone you'd want your rent, wouldn't you? I suppose, said Slime, with resentment, for he had some shares in a local building society. After a man's been careful and scraping and saving, and going without things he ought to have had all his life, and managed to buy a few houses to support him in his old age, they ought all to be took away from him, as some people he added, ain't got common honesty. Really everyone had something to say in reprobation of the views suggested by Owen. Harlow, in a brief but powerful speech, bristling with numerous sanguinary references to the bottomless pit, protested against any interference with the sacred rites of property. Eastern listened with a puzzled expression, and Philpots, goggle eyes, rolled horribly as he glared silently at the circle and the two squares. By far the greatest part of the land, said Owen when the row had ceased, is held by people who have absolutely no moral right to it. Possession of much of it was obtained by means of murder and theft perpetrated by the ancestors of the present holders. In other cases, when some king or prince wanted to get rid of a mistress of whom he had grown weary, he presented a tract of our country to some noble man, on condition that he would marry the female. Vassist states would also be stowed upon the remote ancestors of the present holders, in return for real or alleged services. Under this, he continued as he took a small newspaper cutting from his pocket-book. Crass looked at a piece of paper dolefully. It reminded him of the one he had in his own pocket, which he was beginning to fear that he would not have an opportunity of producing to-day after all. Ball-Cartridge Rent Day The hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Ball-Cartridge occurred yesterday, and in accordance with custom, the Duke of Ball-Cartridge handed to the authorities the little flag which he annually presents to the State, in virtue of his tenure of the vast tract of this country, which was presented to one of his ancestors, the first Duke, in addition to his salary, for his services at the Battle of Ball-Cartridge. The flag, which is the only rent the Duke has to pay for the greatest State which brings him in several hundreds of thousands of pounds per annum, is a small tricoloured one with his staff surmounted by an eagle. The Duke of Blankmind also presents the State with a little coloured silk flag every year in return for being allowed to retain possession of that part of England which was presented, in addition to his salary, to one of his Grace's very remote ancestors, for his services at the Battle of Commissariat in the Netherlands. The Duke of Southert is in another instance continued on. He owns miles of the country we speak of as ours. Much of his part consists of confiscated monastery lands which are stolen from the owners by King Henry VIII and presented to the ancestors of the present Duke. Whether it was right or wrong that these parts of our country should ever have been given to these people, the question whether these ancestors persons were really deserving cases or not, is the thing we need not trouble ourselves about now, but the present holders are certainly not deserving people. They do not even take the trouble to pretend they are. They have done nothing, and they do nothing to justify the possession of these estates as they call them, and in my opinion no man in his right mind can really think it is just that these people should be allowed to pray upon their fellow man as they are doing now, or that it is right that their children should be allowed to continue to pray upon our children forever. The thousands of people on those estates work and live in poverty in order that these three men and their families may enjoy leisure and luxury. Just think of the absurdity of it. Continued on, pointing to the drawings. All those people allowing themselves to be overworked and bullied and starved and robbed by this little crowd here. Observing signs of a renewal of the storm of protests, Owen hurriedly concluded, whether it is right or wrong, you can't deny that the fact that this small minority possesses nearly all of the land in the country is one of the principal causes of the poverty of the majority. Well, that seems true enough. Set east and slowly. The rent's the biggest item a worker man has to pay. When you're out of work and you can't afford other things, he goes without them. But the rent has to be paid whether you're working or not. Yes, that's true enough," said Harlow impatiently, but he gets value for your money. You can't expect to get a house for nothing. Suppose we admit that it's wrong, just for the sake of argument," said Crass in a jeering tone. What then? What about it? What's going to be altered?" Yes," cried Harlow triumphantly. That's the bloody question. How's it going to be altered? It can't be done." There was a general murmur of satisfaction. Nearly everyone seemed very pleased to think that the existing state of things could not possibly be altered. Whether it can be altered or not, whether it's right or wrong, landlordism is one of the causes of poverty, own repeated. Poverty is not caused by men and women getting married. It's not caused by machinery. It's not caused by overproduction. It's not caused by drink or laziness. It's not caused by overpopulation. It's caused by private monopoly. That is, the present system. They have monopolized everything that it is possible to monopolize. They've got the whole earth, the minerals in the earth, and the streams that water the earth. The only reason they have not monopolized the daylight and the air is that it's not possible to do it. If it were possible to construct huge gasometers and to draw together and compress within them the whole of the atmosphere, it would have been done long ago, and we should have been compelled to work for them in order to get money to buy air to breathe. And if that seemingly impossible thing were accomplished tomorrow, you would see thousands of people dying for want of air or the money to buy it, even as now thousands are dying for the want of other necessaries of life. You would see people going about gasping for breath and telling each other that their likes of them could not expect to have the air to breathe unless they had the money to pay for it. Most of you here, for instance, would think and say so, even as you think at present that it's right for so few people to own the earth, the minerals, and the water, which are just as necessary as the air. In exactly the same spirit as you now say it's their land, it's their water, it's their coal, it's their iron, so you would say it's their air. These are their gasometers, and what right have the likes of us to expect them to allow us to breathe for nothing? And even while he's doing this, the air monopolist will be preaching sermons on the brotherhood of man. He'd be dispensing advice on Christian duty in the Sunday magazines. He will give utterance to numerous more or less moral maxims for the guidance of the young. And meantime, all around people would be dying for want of some of the air that he would have bottled up in his gasometers. And when you would all drag in out a miserable existence gasping for breath or dying for want of air, if one of your numbers suggests smashing a hole in the side of one of the gasometers, you will all fall upon him in the name of law and order, and after doing your best to tear him limb for limb, you'll drag him covered with blood in triumph to the nearest police station, and deliver him up to justice, in the hope of being given a few half-pounds of air for your trouble. I suppose you think the landlords ought to let people live in their houses for nothing? said Crass, breaking the silence that followed. Certainly, remarked Harlow, pretending to be suddenly converted to Owen's views, I reckon the landlord ought to pay the rent to the tenant. Of course, landlordism is not the only cause," said Owen, ignoring these remarks. The wonderful system fosters a great many others. Employers of labour, for instance, are as great a cause of poverty as landlords are. But this extraordinary statement was received with astonished silence. Do you mean to say that if I'm able to work on a master gives me a job, that he's doing me an injury?" said Crass at length. No, of course not," replied Owen. Well, what the bloody hell do you mean, then? I mean this. Supposing that the owner of a house wishes to have it repainted, what does he usually do? As a rule he goes to three or four master-painters, and asks them to give him a price for the job. Yes, and those master-painters are so eager to get their work, that they cut the price down to what they think is the lowest possible point," answered Owen, and the lowest usually gets the job. The successful tenderer has usually cut the price so fine that to make it pay he has to scamp the work, pay low wages, and drive and sweat the men whom he employs. He wants them to do two days' work for one day's pay. The result is that the job which, if it were done properly, would employ say twenty men for two months, is rushed and scamped in half the time with half that number of men. This means that, in one such case as this, ten men are deprived of one month's employment, and ten other men are deprived of two months' employment, all because the employers have been cutting each other's throats to get the work. "'And we can't help ourselves. You nor me, either,' said Harlow. "'Suppose on one of us on this job was to make up his mind not to tear into the work like we do, but just keep on steady and do a fair day's work. What would happen?' No one answered, but the same thought was in everyone's mind. Such a one would be quickly marked by Hunter, and even as the latter failed to notice it would not be long before Crass reported his conduct. "'We can't help ourselves,' said Easton gloomily. "'If one man won't do it, there's twenty others ready to take his place. We could help ourselves to a certain extent if we would stand by each other, if, for instance, we all belong to the society,' said Owen. "'I don't believe in the society,' observed Crass. "'I can't see, as it's right, that an inferior man should have the same wages as me.' "'There are drunken lot of beer-swillers,' remarked Slime. "'That's what he always has at meetings in public houses.'" Harlow made no comment on this question. He had at one time belonged to the Union, and he was rather ashamed of having fallen away from it. "'What good is the society if I don't hear?' said Easton. "'None that I ever heard of.' "'It might be able to do some good if most of us belong to it. But after all, that's another matter. Whether we should help ourselves or not, the fact remains that we don't. But you must admit that this competition of the employers is one of the causes of unemployment and poverty, because it's not only in our line exactly the same thing happens in every other trade and industry, competing employers at the upper and nether millstones which grind the workers between them.' "'I suppose you think there ought to be no employers at all,' sneered Crass. "'Or perhaps you think the masses ought to do all the bloody work themselves, and give us no money?' "'I don't see how it's going to be altered,' remarked Harlow. "'There must be masters, and someone has to take charge of the work and do the thinking.' "'Whether it can be altered or not,' said Owen, landlordism and competing employers are two of the causes of poverty, but of course they're only a small part of the system which produces luxury, refinement, and culture for a few, and condemns the majority to a lifelong struggle with adversity, and many thousands to degradation, hunger, and rags. This is the system you all uphold and defend, although you don't mind admitting that it has made the world into a hell.' Crass slowly drew the obscure a cutting from his waistcoat pocket, but after a moment's thought he replaced it, deciding to defer its production, till a more suitable occasion. "'But you haven't told us yet how you make out the money causes of poverty,' cried Harlow, winking at the others. "'That's what I'm anxious to hear about.' "'So am I,' remarked the man behind the moat. "'I was just wondering whether I'd better tell old misery that I don't want no wages this week.' "'I think I'll tell him on Saturday to keep my money and get himself a few drinks with it,' said Philpott. "'And we cheer him up a bit and make him a little more sociable and friendly-like.' "'Money is the principle cause of poverty,' said Owen. "'How do you make it out?' cried Sarkins. "'But our curiosity had to remain unsatisfied for the time being, because Crass announced that it was just on it.' End of Chapter 15 Part 2 True Freedom About three o'clock that afternoon, Rushden suddenly appeared and began walking silently about the house, and listening outside the doors of the rooms where the hands were working. He did not succeed in catching anyone idling or smoking or talking. The nearest approach to what the men called a capture that he made was, as he stood outside the door of one of the upper rooms in which Philpott and Harlow were working, he heard them singing one of Sanky's hymns, Work for the Night is Coming. He listened to two verses and several repetitions of the chorus. Being a Christian he could scarcely object to this, especially as by peeping through the partly open door he could see that they were suiting the action to the word. When he went into the room they glanced round to see who it was and stopped singing. Rushden did not speak, but stood in the middle of the floor silently watching them, as they worked, for about a quarter of an hour. Then, without having uttered his syllable, he turned and went out. They heard him softly descend the stairs, and Harlow turning to Philpott said in a hoarse whisper, What do you think of the booger? Standing there watching us like that, as if we were a couple of bloody convicts. If it wasn't that I'd got someone else besides myself to think of, I would have slushed a bloody sod in the mouth with this pound brush. Yes, it does make you feel like that mate, replied Philpott, but of course we mustn't give way to it. Several times continued Harlow, who was livid with anger. I was on the point of turning round and saying to him, What a bloody hell do you mean by standing there and watching me, a bloody Sam singing swine? It took me all my time to keep it in, I can tell you. Meanwhile Rushden was still going about the house, occasionally standing and watching the other men in the same manner as he had watched Philpott and Harlow. None of the men looked round from their work or spoke either to Rushden or to each other. The only sounds heard were the noises made by the saws and hammers of the carpenters, who were fixing the freeze rails and dado rails or repairing parts of the woodwork in some of the rooms. Crass placed himself in Rushden's way several times, with the hope of being spoken to, but beyond curtly acknowledging the form and servile. Good afternoon, sir. The master took no notice of him. After about an hour spent in this manner Rushden went away, but as no one saw him go, it was not until some considerable time after his departure that he knew he was gone. Owen was secretly very disappointed. I thought he had come to tell me about the drawing-room, he said to himself, but I suppose it's not decided yet. Just as the hands were beginning to breathe freely again, misery arrived, carrying some rolled-up papers in his hand, he also flitted silently from one room to another, peering round corners and listening at doors in the hope of seeing or hearing something which would give him an excuse for making an example of someone. Disappointed in this, he presently crawled upstairs to the room where Owen was working, and handing him the roll of papers he had been carrying said, Mr. Sweater has decided to have the work done. You can start on it as soon as you like. It is impossible to describe without appearing to exaggerate the emotions experienced by Owen as he heard this announcement. For one thing it meant that the work at this house would last longer than it otherwise would have done. It also meant that he would be paid for the extra time he had spent on the drawings, besides having his wages increased, for he was always paid an extra penny an hour when engaged on special work, such as graining, or sign-writing, or work of the present kind. But these considerations did not occur to him at the moment at all, for to him it meant much more. Since his first conversation on the subject was rushed in, he had thought of little else than this work. In a sense he had been doing it ever since. He had thought and planned and altered the details of the work repeatedly. The colours for the different parts had been selected and rejected and reselected over and over again. A keen desire to do the work had grown within him, but he had scarcely allowed himself to hope that it would be done at all. His face flushed slightly as he took the drawings from Hunter. You can make a start on it tomorrow morning, continued that gentleman. I'll tell Crass to send someone else up here to finish this room. We shall be able to commence tomorrow, because the ceiling and walls have to be painted first. Yes, I know. You and Easton can do that. One coat tomorrow, another on Friday, and the third on Saturday. That is, unless you can make it do with two coats. Even if it has to be the three, you be able to go on with your decorating on Monday. Well, I won't be able to start on Monday, because I shall have to make some work in drawings first. Work and drawings? Ejaculated misery with a puzzled expression. What work and drawings? You've got them, ain't you? Pointing to the role of papers. Yes, but as the same ornaments are repeated several times, I shall have to make a number of full-sized drawings, with perforated outlines, to transfer the designs to the walls, said Owen, and he proceeded to laboriously explain the process. Nimrod looked at them suspiciously. It's all that really necessary, he asked. Couldn't you just copy it on the wall, freehand? No, that wouldn't do. It would take much longer that way. This consideration appealed to misery. Ah, well, he sighed. I suppose you'll have to do it the way you said, but for goodness sake, don't spend too much time over it, because we took it very cheap. We only took it on so as you could have a job, not that we expect to make any profit out of it. And I shall have to cut some stencils, so I shall need several sheets of cartridge paper. Upon hearing of this additional expense, misery's long visit appeared to become several inches longer, but after a moment's thought, he brightened up. I'll tell you what, he exclaimed with a cunning layer. There's lots of odd rolls of wallpaper down at the shop. Couldn't you manage with some of that? Well, I'm afraid that wouldn't do, replied Owen doubtfully. But I'll have a look at it, and if possible I'll use it. Yes, still, said misery, pleased at the thought of saving something. Call at the shop on your way home tonight, and we'll see what we can find. How long do you think it'll take you to make the drawings and the stencils? Well, today's Thursday. If you let someone else help Easton to get the room ready, I think I can get them done in time to bring them with me on Monday morning. What do you mean, bring them with you? demanded Nimrod. We shall have to do them at home, you know. Do them at home? Why can't you do them here? Well, there's no table for one thing. Probably we could soon fit you out with a table. You can have a pair of paper hangers, trestles, and boards, for that matter. Though you have a lot of sketches and things at home that I couldn't very well bring here, said Owen. Misery argued about it for a long time, insisting that the drawing should be made either on the job or at the paint shop down at the yard. How he asked was he to know at what our own commenced are left off working, if the latter did them at home? I shan't charge any more time than I really work, replied Owen. I can't possibly do them here or at the paint shop. I know I should only make a mess of them under such conditions. Well, I suppose you'll have to have it your own way, said Misery dolefully. I'll let Harlow help Easton paint out the room, so as you can get your stenses and things ready. But for God's sake, get them done as quick as you can. If he can manage to get them done by Friday and come down and help Easton on Saturday, it will be so much the better. And when you do get a start on the decorating, I shouldn't take too much care over it, you know, if I was you, because we had to take the job for next to nothing, or Mr. Sweater would never have had it done at all. Nimrod now began to crawl about the house, snarling and grumbling at everyone. Now they knew chaps. Rouse yourselves! he bellowed. You seem to think this is an hospital. If some of you don't make a better show than this, I'll have to have an alteration. There's plenty of chaps walking about and doing nothing. It'll be only too glad of a job. He went to the scullery where Crass was mixing some colour. Look here, Crass, he said. I'm not at all satisfied with the way you're getting on with the work. You must push the chaps a bit more than you're doing. There's not enough being done by a long way. We should lose money over this job before we're finished. Crass, whose fat face had turned a ghastly green with fright, mumbled something about getting on with it as fast as he could. Well, you'll have to make a move a bit quicker than this. Misery howled. Or there'll have to be an alteration. By an alteration Crass understood that he might get the sack, or that someone else might be put in charge of the job. And that would, of course, reduce him to the ranks and do away with his chance of being kept on longer than the others. He determined to try to ingratiate himself with Hunter, and appeases Roth by sacrificing someone else. He glanced cautiously into the kitchen and up the passage. And then, lowering his voice, he said, They all shaped pretty well except Newman. I would have told you about him before, but I thought I'd give him a fair chance. I spoke to him several times myself about not doing enough, but it don't seem to make no difference. I've had me eye on him myself for some time, replied Nimrod, in the same tone. Anybody would think the work was going to be sent to an exhibition, the way he messes about with it, loving it with glass, paper, and stopping up every little crack. I can't understand where he gets all the glass, paper from. He brings it himself, said Crass Horsley. I know for a fact that he bought two apiny sheets of it last week, out of his own money. Ah, did he, did he, snarled misery. I'll give him glass, paper. I'll have an alteration. He went into the hall, where he remained alone for a considerable time, brooding, at last with a manner of one who was resolved on a certain course of action. He turned and entered the room where Philpot and Harlow were working. You won't get seven pence an hour, don't you? he said. They both replied in the affirmative. I've never worked under price yet, added Harlow. Not me neither, observed Philpot. Well, of course you can please yourselves, Hunter continued. But after this week we decided not to pay more than six and a half. Things is cut so fine nowadays that we can't afford to go on paying seven pence any longer. You can walk up till tomorrow night on the old terms, but if you're not willing to accept six and a half, you needn't come on Saturday morning. Please yourselves, take it or leave it. Harlow and Philpot were both too much astonished to say anything in reply to this cheerful announcement, and Hunter, with a final remark, you can take it over, left them and went to deliver the same ultimatum to all the other full-priced men who took it in the same way as Philpot and Harlow had done. Crass and Owen were the only two whose wages were not reduced. It will be remembered that Newman was one of those who were already working for the reduced rate. Misery found him alone in one of the upper rooms, to which he was giving the final coat. He was at his old tricks. The woodwork of the cupboard he was doing was in a rather damaged condition, and he was facing up the dense with white-lead putty before painting it. He knew quite well that Hunter objected to any but the very large holes or cracks being stopped, and yet somehow or other he could not scamp the work to the extent that he was being ordered to, and so, almost by stealth, he was in the habit of doing it. Not properly, but as well as he dared. He even went to the length of occasionally buying a few sheets of glass paper with his own money, as Crass had told Hunter. When the latter came into the room he stood with a sneer on his face, watching Newman for about five minutes before he spoke. The workman became very nervous and awkward under his scrutiny. You can make out your time sheet and come to the office for your money at five o'clock, said Nimrod at last. We shall not require your valuable services no more after tonight. Newman went white. Why, what's wrong? he said. What have I done? Oh, it's not what you've done, replied Misery. It's what you've not done. That's what's wrong. You've not done enough. That's all. And without further apparely he turned and went out. Newman stood in the darkening room, feeling as if his heart had turned to lead. There was before his mind the picture of his home and family. He could see them as they were at this very moment. The wife probably just beginning to prepare the evening meal, and the children setting the cups and saucers, and other things on the kitchen table. A noisy work enlivened with many a frolic and childish dispute. Even the two-year-old baby insisted on helping, although she always put everything in the wrong place, and made all sorts of funny mistakes. They had all been so happy lately, because they knew that he had worked that would last till nearly Christmas, if not longer. And now this had happened, to plunge them back into the abyss of wretchedness, from which they had so recently escaped. They still owed several weeks rent, and were already so much in debt to the baker and the grocer that it was hopeless to expect any further credit. My God! said Newman, realising the almost utter hopelessness of the chance of obtaining another job, and unconsciously speaking aloud. My God! How can I tell them? What will become of us? Having accomplished the objects of his visit, Hunter shortly afterwards departed, possibly congratulating himself that he had not been hiding his light under a bushel, and that he had set it upon a candlestick, and given light unto all that were within the house. As soon as they knew he was gone, the men began to gather into little groups, but in a little while they nearly all found themselves in the kitchen, discussing the reduction. Sorkins and the other light-weights remained at their work. Some of them only got fourpence-hapenny. Sorkins was paid fivepence, so none of these were affected by the change. The other two fresh hands, the journeymen, joined the crowd in the kitchen, being anxious to conceal the fact that they had agreed to accept the reduced rate before being taken on. Owen was also there, having heard the news from Philpot. There was a lot of furious talk. At first several of them spoke of chucking up at once, but others were more prudent, for they knew that if they did leave there were dozens of others who would be eager to take their places. After all, you know, said Slime, who had stowed away somewhere at the back of his head an idea of presently starting business on his own account, he was only waiting until he had saved enough money. After all, there's something more under-says. It's very hard to get a fair price for work nowadays. Things is cut very fine. Yes, we know all about that, shouted Harlow, and who the bloody hell is it, cuts him? Why, such boogers as Hunter and Rushton! If this firm hadn't cut this job so fine, some other firm would have had it for more money. Rushton's cutting a fine didn't make this job, did it? It would have been done just the same if they hadn't tended for it at all. The only difference is that we should have been working for some other master. I don't believe the bloody jobs cut fine at all, said Philpot. Rushton is a pile of sweaters, and they're both members of the town council. That may be, replied Slime. But all the same, I believe Sweater got several other prices beside Rushton's friend or no friend. And you can't blame him, it's only business. But perhaps Rushton got the preference. Sweater may have told him the other prices. Yeah, and a bloody fine lot of prices there was, too, if the truth was known, said Bundy. There were six other firms after this job, to my knowledge. Push them and slog them, bluff them and do them down, dodger and scamp it, snatch them and grab all, smear it on and leave it, make haste and slog it, and God only knows how many more. At this moment Newman came into the room. He looked so white and upset that the others involuntarily paused in their conversation. Well, what do you think of it? asked Harlow. Think of what? said Newman. Well, he didn't understand you, cried several voices, whose owners looked suspiciously at him. They thought if Hunter had not spoken to Newman, it must be because he was already working under price. There had been a rumour going about the last few days to that effect. Didn't misery tell you? They're not going to pay more than six and a half after this week. That's not what he said to me. He just told me to knock off, said I didn't do enough for him. Jesus Christ! exclaimed Crass pretending to be overcome with surprise. Newman's account of what had transpired was listened to in a gloomy silence. Those who, a few minutes previously, had been talking loudly of chucking up the job, became filled with apprehension that they might be served in the same manner as he had been. Crass was one of the loudest in his expression of astonishment and indignation, but he rather overdid it and only succeeded in confirming the secret suspicion of the others that he had had something to do with Hunter's action. The result of the discussion was that he decided to submit to misery's terms for the time being, until they could see a chance of getting work elsewhere. As Owen had to go to the office to see the wallpaper spoken of by Hunter, he accompanied Newman when the latter went to get his wages. Nimrod was waiting for them, and had the money ready in an envelope which he handed to Newman, who took it without speaking and went away. Misery had been rummaging amongst the old wallpapers, and had got out a great heap of odd rolls which he now submitted to Owen. But after examining them, the latter said that they were unsuitable for the purpose. So after some argument, Misery was compelled to sign an order for some proper cartridge paper, which Owen obtained at the stationers on his way home. The next morning, when Misery went to the cave, he was in a fearful rage, and he kicked up a terrible row with Crass. He said that Mr. Rushton had been complaining of the lack of discipline on the job, and he told Crass to tell all the hands that for the future, singing and working hours was strictly forbidden, and anyone caught breaking this rule would be instantly dismissed. Several times during the following days Nimrod called at Owen's flat to see how the work was progressing, and to impress upon him the necessity of not taking too much trouble over it. THE REVERENT JOHN STAR What time is it now, Mom? asked Frankie as soon as he had finished dinner on the following Sunday. Two o'clock. Hooray! Only one more hour, and Charlie will be here. Oh, I wish it was three o'clock now, don't you, Mother? No, dear, I don't. You're not dressed yet, you know. Frankie made a grimace. Surely you're not going to make me wear my velvets, are you, Mom? Can't I just go as I am in my old clothes? The velvets was a brown suit of that material that Nora had made out of the least worn parts of an old costume of her own. Of course not. If you went as you are now, you'd have everyone staring at you. Well, I suppose I'll have to put up with it, said Frankie, resignedly. And I think you'd better begin to dress me now, don't you? Oh, there's plenty of time for that. You'd only make yourself untidy, and then I should have the trouble all over again. Play with your toys a little while, and when I've done the washing up, I'll get you ready. Frankie obeyed, and for about ten minutes his mother heard him in the next room, rummaging in the box where he stored his collection of things. At the end of that time, however, he returned to the kitchen. Is it time to dress me yet, Mom? No, dear, not yet. You needn't be afraid. You'll be ready in plenty of time. But I can't help being afraid. You might forget. Oh, I shan't forget. There's lots of time. Well, you know, I should be much easier in my mind if you would dress me now, because perhaps our clock is wrong, or perhaps when you begin dressing me, you'll find some buttons off or something, and then there'll be a lot of time wasted sewing them on, or perhaps you won't be able to find my clean stockings or something, and then, when you're looking for it, Charlie might come, and if he sees I'm not ready, he mightn't wait for me. Oh, dear! said Nora, pretending to be alarmed at his appalling list of possibilities. I suppose it will be safer to dress you at once. It's very evident you won't let me have much peace until it's done. But mind, when you're dressed, you'll have to sit down quietly and wait till he comes, because I don't want the trouble of dressing it twice. Oh, I don't mind sitting still. Returned Frankie laughily. That's very easy. I don't mind having to take care of my clothes, said Frankie as his mother, having washed and dressed him, was putting the finishing touches to his hair, brushing and combing and curling the long yellow locks into ringlets round her fingers. The only thing I don't like is having my hair done. You know, all these curls are quite unnecessary. I'm sure it would save you a lot of trouble if you wouldn't mind cutting them off. Nora did not answer. Somehow or other she was unwilling to comply with this off and repeat it in treaty. It seemed to her that when this hair was cut off, the child would become a different individual, more separate and independent. If you don't want to cut it off for your own sake, you might do it for my sake, because I think it's the reason some of the big boys don't want to play with me, and some of them shout after me and say I'm a girl, and sometimes they sneak up behind me and pull it. Only yesterday I had to have a fight with a boy for doing it. And even Charlie Linden laughed at me, and he's my best friend, except you and Dad, of course. Why don't you cut it off, Mum? I am going to cut it off, as I promised you, after your next birthday. Then I shall be jolly glad when it comes, won't you? Why, what's the matter, Mum? What are you crying for? Frankie was so concerned that he began to cry also, wondering if he had done or said something wrong. He kissed her repeatedly, stroking her face with his hand. What's the matter, Mother? I was thinking that when you're over seven and you've had your hair cut short, you won't be my baby any more. Why, I'm not a baby now, am I? Look at this. He strode over to the wall, and dragging out two chairs he placed him in the middle of the room, back to back, about fifteen inches apart. And before his mother realised what he was doing, he had climbed up and stood with one leg on the back of each chair. I should like to see a baby who could do this. He cried with his face wet with tears. You needn't lift me down. I can get down by myself. Babies can't do tricks like these, or even wipe up the spoons and forks or sweep the passage. But you needn't cut it off if you don't want to. I'll bear it as long as you like. Only don't cry any more, because it makes me miserable. If I cry when I fall down, or when you pull my hair when you're combing it, you always tell me to bear it like a man, and not be a baby. And now you're crying yourself, just because I'm not a baby. You ought to be jolly glad that I'm nearly grown up into a man, because, you know, I've promised to build you a house with the money I earn, and then you needn't do no more work. We have a servant the same as the people downstairs, and Dad can stop at home and sit by the fire and read the paper, or play with me and Maude, and have pillow fights and tell stories, and— It's all right, dearie, said Nora, kissing him. I'm not crying now, and you mustn't either, or your eyes will be all red, and you won't be able to go with Charlie at all. When she had finished dressing him, Frankie sat for some time in silence, apparently lost and thought. At last he said, Why don't you get a baby-mother? You could nurse it, and I could have it to play with instead of going out into the street. We can't afford a baby, dear. You know, even as it is, sometimes we have to go without things we want, because we haven't the money to buy them. Babies need things that cost lots of money. When I build our house when I'm a man, I'll take jolly good care not to have a gas stove in it. That's what runs away with all the money. We're always putting pennies in the slot. And that reminds me, Charlie says I'll have to take a hapeny to put in the missionary box. Oh, dear, I'm tired of sitting still. I wish he'd come. What time is it now, mother? Before she could answer, both Frankie's anxiety and the painful ordeal of sitting were terminated, by the loud peal of the bell announcing Charlie's arrival, and Frankie, without troubling to observe the usual formality of looking out of the window, to see if it was a runaway ring, had clattered halfway down the stairs, before he heard his mother calling him back for the hapeny. Then he clattered up again and then down again, at such a rate and with so much noise as to rouse the indignation of all the respectable people in the house. When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he remembered that he had omitted to say goodbye, and as it was too far to go up again, he rang the bell, and then went into the middle of the road and looked up at the window that Nora opened. Goodbye, mother! he shouted. Tell Dad I forgot to say it before I came down. The school was not conducted in the chapel itself, but in a large lecture hall under it. At one end was a small platform raised about six inches from the floor, on this was a chair and a small table. A number of groups of chairs and benches were arranged at intervals round the sides and in the centre of the room, each group of seats accommodating a separate class. On the walls which were painted a pale green were a number of coloured pictures, Moses striking the rock, the Israelites dancing round the golden calf, and so on. As the readers aware Frankie had never been to a Sunday school of any kind before, and he stood for a moment, looking in at the door and half afraid to enter. The lessons had already commenced, but the scholars had not yet settled down to their work. The scene was one of some disorder, some of the children talking, laughing or playing, and the teachers alternately threatening and coaxing them. The girls and the very young children's classes were presided over by ladies, the boys' teachers were men. The reader already had some slight knowledge of a few of these people. There was Mr. Didlam, Mr. Sweater, Mr. Rushton and Mr. Hunter, and Mrs. Starvam, Ruth Easton's former mistress. On this occasion, in addition to the teachers and other officials of the Sunday school, there were also present a considerable number of prettily dressed ladies and a few gentlemen who had come in the hope of meeting the reverent John Star, the young clergyman who was to be their minister for the next few weeks during the absence of their regular shepherd, Mr. Belcher, who was going away for a holiday for the benefit of his health. Mr. Belcher was not suffering from any particular malady, but was merely run down, and Rumour had it that this condition had been brought about by the rigorous asceticism of his life and the intense devotion to the arduous labours of his holy calling. Mr. Star had conducted the service in the shining-light chapel that morning, and a great sensation had been produced by the young minister's earnest and eloquent address, which was of a very different style from that of their regular minister. Although perhaps they had not quite grasped the real significance of all that he had said, most of them had been favourably impressed by the young clergyman's appearance and manner in the morning. But that might have arisen from prepossession and force of habit, for they were accustomed, as a matter of course, to think well of any minister. There were, however, one or two members of the congregation who were not without some misgivings and doubts as to the soundness of his doctrines. Mr. Star had promised that he would look in some time during the afternoon to say a few words to the Sunday school children, and consequently on this particular afternoon all the grown-ups were looking forward so eagerly to hearing him again that not much was done in the way of lessons. Every time a late arrival entered all eyes were directed towards the door in the hope and expectation that it was he. When Frankie, standing at the door, saw all the people looking at him, he drew back timidly. Come on, man! said Charlie. You need me afraid. It's not like a weekday school. They can't do nothing to us, not even if we don't behave ourselves. There's our class over in that corner, and that's our teacher, Mr. Hunter. You can sit next to me. Come on. Thus encouraged Frankie followed Charlie over to the class and both sat down. The teacher was so kind and spoke so gently to the children that in a few minutes Frankie felt quite at home. When Hunter had noticed how well cared for and well dressed he was, he thought a child must belong to well-to-do respectable parents. Frankie did not pay much attention to the lesson, for he was too much interested in the pictures on the walls and in looking at the other children. He also noticed a very fat man who was not teaching at all, but drifted aimlessly about the room from one class to another. After a time he came and stood by the class where Frankie was, and after nodding to Hunter remained near, listening and smiling, patronizing the other children. He was arrayed in a long garment of costly black cloth, a sort of frock coat, and by the retundity of his figure he seemed to be one of those accustomed to sit in the chief places at feasts. This was the reverent Mr. Belcher, minister of the shining light chapel. His short, thick neck was surrounded by a studless collar, and apparently buttonless, being fastened in some mysterious way known only to himself, and he showed no short front. The long garment before mentioned was unbuttoned, and through the opening there protruded a vast expanse of waistcoat and trousers, distended almost to bursting by the huge globe of flesh they contained. A gold watch-chain and a locket extended partly across the visible portion of the envelope of the globe. He had very large feet which were carefully encased in soft cast skin boots. If he had removed the long garment this individual would have resembled a balloon, the feet representing the car, and the small head that surmounted the globe, the safety valve. As it did actually serve the purpose of a safety valve, the owner being in consequence of gross over-feeding and lack of natural exercise, afflicted with chronic flatulence, which manifested itself in frequent belching's forth through the mouth of the foul-smelling gases generated in the stomach by the decomposition of the foods with which it was generally loaded. But as the reverent Mr. Belcher had never been seen with his coat off, no one ever noticed the resemblance. It was not necessary for him to take his coat off. His part in life was not to help to produce, but to help to devour the produce of the labour of others. After exchanging a few words and grins with Hunter, he moved on to another class, and presently, Frankie, with a feeling of awe, noticed that the confused murmuring sound that had hitherto pervaded the place was hushed. The time allotted for lessons had expired, and the teachers were quietly distributing hymn-books to the children. Meanwhile the balloon had drifted up to the end of the hall, and had ascended the platform, where it remained stationary by the side of the table, occasionally emitting puffs of gas through the safety valve. On the table were several books, and also a pile of folded cards. These latter were about six inches by three inches. There was some printing on the outside, and one of them was lying open on the table, showing the inside, which was ruled and had money-collumes. Presently Mr. Belcher reached out a flabby white hand, and, taking up one of the folded cards, he looked round upon the underfed, ill-clad children, with a large, sweet, benevolent fatherly smile, and then, in a drawing voice occasionally broken by explosions of flatulence, he said, My dear children! This afternoon, as I was standing near Brother Hunter's class, I heard him telling them of the wanderings of the children of Israel into wilderness, and of all the wonderful things that were done for them, and I thought how sad it was that they were so ungrateful. Now, those ungrateful Israelites had received many things, but we have even more cause to be grateful than they had, for we have received even more abundantly than they did. Here the good man's voice was stilled by a succession of explosions. Then I am sure, he resumed, that none of you would like to be even as those Israelites ungrateful for all the good things you have received. Oh, how thankful you should be for having been made happy English children! Now I am sure that you are grateful and that you will be all very glad of an opportunity of showing your gratitude by doing something in return. Doubtless some of you have noticed the unseemly condition of the interior of our chapel, the flooring is broken and countless places, the walls are sadly in need of cleansing and distempering, and they also need cementing externally to keep out the draught. The seats and benches and chairs are also in most unseemly condition and indeed varnishing. Now, therefore, after much earnest meditation and prayer, it has been decided to open a subscription list. None of those times are very hard just now. We believe we should succeed in getting enough to have the work done. So I want each one of you to take one of these cards, and go round to all your friends and see how much you can collect. It doesn't matter how trifling the amounts are, because the smallest donations will be thankfully received. Now, I hope you will do your very best. Ask everyone you know. Oh, do not refrain from asking people, because you think they are too poor to give a donation. But remind them that if they cannot give their thousands, they can give the widow's might. Ask everyone. First of all, ask those whom you feel certain will give. Then ask those whom you think may possibly give. And finally, ask all those whom you feel certainly will not give, and you will be surprised to find that many of these last will donate abundantly. If your friends are very poor and unable to give a large donation at one time, a good plan would be to arrange to call upon them every Saturday afternoon with your card to collect their donations. And while you are asking others, do not forget to give what you can yourselves. Just a little self-denial and those pennies and hapenies, which you so often spend on sweets and other unnecessary things, might be given as a donation to the good cause. Here the holy man paused again, and there was a rumbling, gurgling noise in the interior of the balloon, followed by several escapes of gas through the safety valve. The paroxysm over, the apostle of self-denial continued. All those who wished to collect donations will stay behind for a few minutes after school, when Brother Hunter, who is kindly consented to act as secretary to the fund, will issue the cards. I would like here to say a few words of thanks to Brother Hunter, for the great interest he has displayed in this matter, and for all the trouble he is taking to help us gather in the donations. This tribute is well deserved. Hunter, in fact, had originated the whole scheme, in the hope of securing the job for Rushton and Coe, and two and a half percent of the profits for himself. Mr. Belcher now replaced the collecting cards on the table, and taking up one of the hymn books, gave out the words, and afterwards conducted the singing, flourishing one fat, flabby hand in the air, and holding the book in the other. As the last strains of the music died away, he closed his eyes, and a sweet smile widened his mouth as he stretched forth his right hand, open, palm down, with his fingers close together, and said, Let us pray. With much shuffling of feet, everyone knelt down. Hunter's lanky form was distributed over a very large area. His body lay along one of the benches, his legs and feet sprawled over the floor, and his huge hands clasped the sides of the seat. His eyes were tightly closed, and an expression of the most intense misery pervaded his long face. Mrs. Starvam, being so fat that she knew that, if she once knelt down, she would never be able to get up again, compromised by sitting on the extreme edge of her chair, resting her elbows on the back of the seat in front of her, and burying her face at her hands. It was a very large face, but her hands were capacious enough to receive it. In the seat at the back of the hall knelt a pale-faced, weary-looking little woman, about thirty-six years of age, very shabbily dressed, who had come in during the singing. This was Mrs. White, the caretaker, Bert White's mother. When her husband died, the committee of the chapel, out of charity, gave her this work, for which they paid her six shillings a week. Of course, they could not offer her full employment. The idea was that she could get other work as well, charring and things of that kind, and do the chapel work in between. There wasn't much to do. Just the heating furnace to light when necessary, the chapel committee rooms, classrooms, and Sunday school to sweep and scrub out occasionally, the hymn books to collect, etc. Whenever they had a tea meeting, which was on average about twice a week, there would be the tressel tables to fix up, the chairs to arrange, the tables to set out, and then, supervised by Miss Didlam or some other lady, the tea to make. There was rather a lot to do on the days following these functions, the washing up, the tables and chairs to put away, the floor to sweep, and so on. But the extra work was supposed to be compensated by the cakes and broken victuals generally left over from the feast, which were much appreciated as a welcome change from the bread and dripping or margarine that constituted Mrs. White's and Bert's usual fare. There were several advantages attached to the position. The caretaker became acquainted with the leading members and their wives, some of whom, out of charity, occasionally gave her a day's work as charwoman. The wages being on about the same generous scale as those she earned at the chapel, sometimes supplemented by a parcel of broken victuals or some cast-off clothing. An evil-minded, worldly or unconverted person might possibly sum up the matter thus. These people required this work done. They employed this woman to do it, taking advantage of our poverty to impose upon her the conditions of price and labour that they would not have liked to endure themselves. Although she worked very hard, early and late, the money they paid her as wages was insufficient to enable her to provide herself with the bare necessaries of life. Then her employers, being good-kind, generous Christian people, came to the rescue, and bestowed charity in the form of cast-off clothing and broken victuals. Should any such evil-minded, worldly or unconverted persons happen to read these lines, it is a sufficient answer to their impious and malicious criticisms to say that no such thoughts ever entered the simple mind of Mrs. White herself. On the contrary, this very afternoon, as she knelt in the chapel, wearing an old mantle that some years previously had adorned the obese person of the saintly Mrs. Starvam, her heart was filled with gratitude towards her generous benefactors. During the prayer the door was softly opened. A gentleman and clerical dress entered on tiptoe and knelt down next to Mr. Didlam. He came in very softly, but all the same most of the people present heard him and lifted their heads or peeped through their fingers to see who it was, and when they recognized them, a sound like a sigh swept through the hall. At the end of the prayer, amid groans and cries of amen, the balloon slowly descended from the platform, and collapsed into one of the seats, and everyone rose up from the floor. When all were seated and the shuffling, coughing, and blowing of noses had ceased, Mr. Didlam stood up and said, Before we sing the closing hymn, the gentleman humbly left the reverent Mr. John Starvam, will say a few words. An expectant murmur rippled through the hall. The ladies lifted their eyebrows and nodded, smiled and whispered to each other. The gentleman assumed various attitudes and expressions. The children were very quiet. Everyone was in a state of suppressed excitement as John Starvam rose from the seat, and, stepping up on the platform, stood by the side of the table facing them. He was about twenty-six years of age, tall and slenderly built, his clean, cut intellectual face with its lofty forehead, and his air of refinement and culture were in striking contrast to the coarse appearance of the other adults in the room, the vulgar, ignorant, uncultivated crowd of prophet-mongers and hooksters in front of him. But it was not merely his air of good breeding, and the general comeliness of his exterior that attracted and held one. There was an indefinable something about him, an atmosphere of gentleness and love that seemed to radiate from his whole being, almost compelling confidence and affection from all those with whom he came in contact. As he stood there facing the others with an inexpressibly winning smile upon his cumbly face, it seemed impossible that there could be any fellowship between him and them. There was nothing in his appearance to give anyone even an inkling of the truth, which was that he was there for the purpose of bolstering up the characters of the despicable crew of sweaters and slave-drivers who paid his wages. He did not give a very long address this afternoon, just a few words, but they were very precious, original and illuminating. He told them of certain thoughts that had occurred to his mind on his way there that afternoon, and as they listened, sweater, rushton, diddlam, hunter, and the other disciples exchanged significant looks and gestures. Was it not magnificent, such power, such reasoning? In fact, as they afterwards modestly admitted to each other, it was so profound that even they experienced great difficulty in fathoming the speaker's meaning. As for the ladies, they were motionless and dumb with admiration. They sat with flushed faces, shining eyes and palpitating hearts, looking hungrily at the dear man as he proceeded. Unfortunately our time this afternoon was not permitted to dwell at length upon these thoughts. And perhaps at some future date we may have the blessed privilege of doing so. But this afternoon I have been asked to say a few words on another subject. The failing health of your dear minister has for some time passed engaged the anxious attention of the congregation. Sympathetic glances were directed towards the interesting invalid, the lady's moment, poor dear, and other expressions of anxious concern. Although naturally robust, continued star, long continued overwork, the loving solicitude for others that often prevented him taking even necessary repose, and a too rigorous devotion to the practice of self-denial, have at last brought about the inevitable breakdown, and ended a period of rest absolutely imperative. The orator paused to take a breath, and the silence that ensued was disturbed only by faint rumblings in the interior of the ascetic victim of overwork. With this laudable object, proceeded star, a subscription list was quietly opened about a month ago, and those dear children who had cards and assisted in the good work of collecting donations would be pleased to hear that altogether a goodly sum was gathered. But as it was not quite enough, the committee voted a further amount out of the general fund, and that a special meeting held last Friday evening, your dear shepherd was presented with an illuminated address, and a purse of gold sufficient to defray the expenses of a month's holiday in the south of France. Although, of course, he regrets being separated from you even for such a brief period, he feels that in going he is choosing the lesser of two evils. It is better to go to the south of France for a month than to continue working in spite of the warnings of exhausted nature, and perhaps be taken away from you altogether by heaven. God forbid, fervently ejaculated several disciples, and a ghastly pallor overspread the features of the object of their prayers. Even as it is, there is a certain amount of danger. Let us hope and pray for the best. But if the worse should happen, and he is called upon to ascend, there will be some satisfaction in knowing that you have done what you could to avert the dreadful calamity. Here, probably as a precaution against the possibility of an involuntary ascent, a large quantity of ghast was permitted to escape through the safety valve of the balloon. He sets out on his pilgrimage to Morrow, continued star, and I am sure he would be followed by the good wishes and prayers of all the members of his flock. The Reverend Gentleman resumed his seat, and almost immediately it became evident from the oscillations of the balloon that Mr. Belcher was desirous of rising to say a few words in acknowledgement, but he was restrained by the entreaties of those near him, who besought him not to exhaust himself. He afterwards said that he would not have been able to say much, even if they had permitted him to speak, because he felt too full. During the absence of our beloved pastor, said Brother Didlam, who now rose to give the closing hymn, his flock will not be left entirely without his shepherd, for we have arranged with Mr. Star to come and say a few words to his every Sunday. From the manner in which they constantly referred to themselves, it might have been thought that they were a flock of sheep, instead of being what they really were, a pack of wolves. When they heard Brother Didlam's announcement, a murmur of intense rapture rose from the ladies, and Mr. Star rolled his eyes and smiles sweetly. Brother Didlam did not mention the details of the arrangement. To have done so at that time would have been most unseemly, but the following extract from the accounts of the chapel will not be out of place here. Pay to Reverend John Star for Sunday, November 14. Four pounds, four shillings, per the treasurer. It was not a large sum considering the great services rendered by Mr. Star, but, small as it was, it is to be feared that many worldly, unconverted persons will think it was far too much to pay for a few words, even such wise words as Mr. John Star's admittedly always were. But the laborer is worthy of his hire. After the service was over, most of the children, including Charlie and Frankie, remained to get collecting cards. Mr. Star was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and a little later, when he rode away with Mr. Belcher and Mr. Sweater in the latter's motor-car, the ladies looked up hungrily after that conveyance, listening to the melancholy pip-pip of its hooter, and trying to console themselves with the reflection that they would see him again in a few hours' time at the evening service. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of the Ragged Trouser Philanthropists This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tye Hines The Ragged Trouser Philanthropists by Robert Tressel Chapter 18 The Lodger In accordance with his arrangement with Hunter, Owen commenced the work in the drawing-room on the Monday morning. Harlow and Easton were distempering some of the ceilings, and about tenotokta went down to the scullery to get some more whitewash. Crass was there, as usual, pretending to be very busy mixing colours. Well, what do you think of it? He said, as he served them with what they were required. I think of what? Asked Easton. What a special artist! replied Crass with a sneer. Do you think he's going to get through with it? I shouldn't like to say. Replied Easton, guardedly. You know, it's one thing to draw on a bit of paper and colour it with a penny-box of paints. It's quite another thing to do it on a wall or ceiling. Continued Crass. Ain't it? Well, that's true enough, said Harlow. Do you believe there is own designs? Crass went on. Much rather hard to tell, remarked Easton embarrassed. Neither Harlow nor Easton shared Crass's sentiments in this matter, but at the same time they could not afford to offend him by sticking up for Owen. If he was asked me quietly, Crass added, I shall be more inclined to say as he's copied it all out of some book. That's just about the size of it, mate. Agreed Harlow. It'd be a bit of all right if he was to make a bloody mess of it, wouldn't it? Continued Crass with a malignant leer. Not half, said Harlow. When the two men regained the upper landing on which they were working, they exchanged significant glances and laughed quietly. Nearing these half-suppressed sounds of merriment, Philpot, who was working alone in a room close by, put his head out of the doorway. What's the game? He inquired in a low voice. Oh, Crass ain't half-willed about Owen doing that room, replied Harlow, and repeated the substance of Crass's remarks. It's a bit of a take down for the bleeder, ain't it? Having to play second Phil, said Philpot with a delighted grin. He's hoping Owen will make a mess of it, Easton whispered. Well, maybe disappointed, mate, answered Philpot. I was working along of Owen for a push-up and slog-up about two years ago, and I've seen him do a job down at the Royal Hotel, the smoking-room ceiling there was, and I can tell you it looked a bloody treat. I've heard of it, said Harlow. There's no doubt Owen knows his work, remarked Easton, although he's a bit off his own in and about socialism. I don't know much about that, mate, returned Philpot. I agree with what Loddy says. I've often thought the same things myself, but I can't talk like him, because I ain't got no head for it. I agree with some of it too, said Harlow, with a laugh. But all the same, he does say some bloody silly things you must admit. For instance, that stuff about money being the cause of poverty. Yeah, I can't exactly see that myself, agreed Philpot. We must tackle him about that at dinnertime, said Harlow. I should rather like to hear how he makes it out. I forgot, say, don't go starting no arguments at dinnertime, said Easton. Leave him alone when he's quiet. Yeah, let's have our dinner in peace, if possible, said Philpot. He added hoarsely, suddenly holding up his hand, warningly. They listened intently. It was evident from the creaking of the stairs that someone was crawling up them. Philpot instantly disappeared. Harlow lifted up the pail of whitewash and set it down again, noisily. I think we'd better add the steps and plank over this side, Easton. He said in a loud voice. Yes, I think that'll be the best way, replied Easton. While they were arranging their scaffold to do the ceiling, crass arrived on the landing. He made no remark at first, but walked into the room to see how many ceilings they had done. They'd better look alive, chaps, he said, as he went downstairs again. As we don't get these ceilings finished by dinnertime, Nimrod's sure to ramp. All right, said Harlow gruffly, while bloody soon slosh him over. Slosh was a very suitable word, very descriptive of the manner in which the work was done. The cornices of the staircase ceiling were enriched with plaster ornaments. These ceilings were supposed to have been washed off, but as the men who were put to do that work had not been allowed sufficient time to do it properly, the crevices of the ornaments were still filled up with old whitewash, and by the time Harlow and Easton had sloshed a lot more whitewash onto them, there were mere formless, unsightly lumps of plaster. The hands, who did the washing off, were not to blame. They had been hunted away from the work before it was half done. While Harlow and Easton were distempering these ceilings, Philpott and the other hands were proceeding with the painting in different parts of the inside of the house, and Owen, assisted by Burt, was getting on with the work in the drawing-room, striking chalk-lines and measuring and setting out the different panels. There were no political arguments that day at dinnertime, to the disappointment of Crass, who was still waiting for an opportunity to produce the obscure cutting. After dinner, when the others had all gone back to their work, Philpott unobtrusively returned to the kitchen, and gathered up the discarded paper wrappers, in which some of the men had brought their food. As fedding one of these open, he shook the crumbs from the others upon it. In this way, and by picking up particles of bread from the floor, he collected a little pile of crumbs and crusts. To these he added some fragments that he had left from his own dinner. Then he took the parcel upstairs, and opening one of the windows, through the crumbs onto the roof of the portico. He had scarcely closed the window, and two starlings fluttered down, and began to eat. Philpott watched him furtively from behind the shutter. The afternoon passed uneventfully. From one till five seemed a very long time to most of the hands, but to Owen and his mate, who were doing something in which they were able to feel some interest and pleasure, the time passed so rapidly that they both regretted the approach of evening. Other days, remarked Bert, I always keeps on wishing it was time to go home, but today seems to have gone like lightning. After leaving off that night, all the men kept together till they arrived downtown, and then separated. Owen went by himself, Easton, Philpott, Crass and Bundy, adjourned to the cricketer's arms, to have a drink together before going home. And Slime, who was a teetotaler, went by himself, although he was now lodging with Easton. Don't wait for me, said the latter as he went off with Crass and the others, as you'll most likely catch up with you before you get there. All right, said Slime. This evening Slime did not take the direct road home. He turned into the main street and, pausing before the window of a toy shop, examined the articles displayed therein attentively. After some minutes he appeared to have come to a decision, and entering the shop he purchased a baby's rattle for forpence-hapenny. It was a pretty toy made of white bone and coloured wool, with a number of little bells hanging upon it, and a ring of white bone at the end of the handle. When he came out of the shop, Slime set out for home, this time walking rapidly. When he entered the house, Ruth was sitting by the fire with the baby on her lap. She looked up with an expression of disappointment as she perceived that he was alone. Always will go to again, she asked. He gone to have a drink with some of the chaps. He said he wouldn't be long. Replied Slime as he put his food basket under dresser, and went upstairs to his room to wash and change his clothes. When he came down again, Easton had not yet arrived. Everything's ready, except just to make the tea, said Ruth, who was evidently annoyed at the continued absence of Easton. So you may as well have yours now. I'm in no hurry. I'll wait a little and see if he comes. He's sure to be here soon. If you're sure you don't mind, I shall be glad if you will wait, said Ruth, because it will save me making two lots of tea. They waited for about half an hour, talking at intervals in a constrained, awkward way about trivial subjects, and as Easton did not come, Ruth decided to serve Slime without waiting any longer. With his intention she lay the baby in its cot, but the child resented this arrangement and began to cry, so she had to hold him under her arm while she made the tea. Seeing her in this predicament, Slime exclaimed, holding out his hands. Here, let me hold him while you do that. Will you, said Ruth, who, in spite of her instinctive dislike of the man, could not help feeling gratified with this attention? Well, mind you don't let him fall. But the instant Slime took hold of the child, it began to cry even louder than it did when it was put into the cradle. He's always like that with strangers. Apologized Ruth as she took him back again. Wait a minute, said Slime. I've got something upstairs in my pocket that will keep him quiet. I've forgotten all about it. He went up to his room and presently returned with a rattle. When the baby saw the bright colours and heard the tinkling of the bells, he crowed with delight, and reached out his hands eagerly towards it, and allowed Slime to take him without a murmur of protest. Before Ruth had finished making and serving the tea, the man and child were on the very best of terms with each other. So much so indeed, that when Ruth had finished and went to take him again, the baby seemed reluctant to part from Slime, who had been dancing him in the air and tickling him in the most delightful way. Ruth too began to have a better opinion of Slime, and felt inclined to reproach herself for having taken such an unreasonable dislike of him at first. He was evidently a very good sort of fellow after all. The baby had by this time discovered the use of the bone-ring at the end of the handle of the toy, and was biting it energetically. It's a very beautiful rattle, said Ruth. Thank you very much for it. It's just the very thing you wanted. The herd just stayed the other day that he wanted something of the kind to bite on to help his teeth through, answered Slime. And when I happened to notice it in that shop, I remembered what you said and thought I'd bring it home. The baby took the ring out of its mouth and shaking the rattle frantically in the air, laughed and crowed merrily, looking at Slime. Dad, dad, dad, he cried holding out his arms. Slime and Ruth burst out laughing. That's not your dad, you silly boy, she said kissing the child as she spoke. Your dad ought to be ashamed of himself for staying out like this. We'll give him dad, dad, dad when he comes home, won't we? But the baby only shook the rattle and rang the bells and laughed and crowed and laughed again, louder than ever. End of Chapter 18 CHAPTER 19 THE FILLING OF THE TANK Viewed from the outside, the cricketer's arms was a pretentious-looking building with plate-glass windows and a profusion of gilding. The filasters were painted in imitation of different marbles and the doors were grained to represent costly woods. There were panels containing painted advertisements of wines and spirits and beer written in gold and ornamented with gaudy colours. Over the lintel of the principal entrance was inscribed in small white letters. A-harpy, licensed to sell wines, spirits and malt liquor by retail to be consumed either on or off the premises. The bar was arranged in the usual way, being divided into several compartments. First, there was the saloon-bar. On the glass of the door leading into this was fixed a printed bill. No foreail served in this bar. Next to the saloon-bar was the jug-and-bottle department, much appreciated by ladies who wished to indulge in a drop of gin on the quiet. There was also two small private-bars, only capable of holding two or three persons, where nothing less than fourpony-worth of spirits or glasses of ale at thruppins were served. Finally, the public-bar, the largest compartment of all. At each end, separating it from the other departments, was a wooden partition painted and varnished. Wooden forms fixed across the partitions and against the walls under the windows provided seating accommodation for the customers. A large automatic musical instrument. A penny-in-the-slot polyphone resembling a grandfather's clock and shape stood against one of the partitions and close up to the counter, so that those behind the bar could reach to wind it up. Hanging on the partition near a polyphone was a board about fifteen inches square, over the surface of which were distributed a number of small hooks numbered. Not the bottom of the board was a net made of fine twine, extended by means of a semicircular piece of wire. In this net several india-rubber rings about three inches in diameter were lying. There was no table in the place, but jutting out from the other partition was a hinged flap about three feet long by twenty inches wide, which could be folded down when not in use. This was a shove-hapenny board. The coins, old French pennies, used in playing this game, were kept behind the bar, and might be borrowed on application. On the partition, just above the shove-hapenny board, was a neatly printed notice, framed and glazed. Notice, gentlemen using this house are requested to refrain from using obscene language. Alongside this notice were a number of godly coloured bills advertising the local theatre and the music hall, and another of a travelling circus and menagerie then visiting the town and encamped on a piece of waste-ground about half way on the road to Windley. The fittings behind the bar and the counter were of polished mahogany, with silvered plate glass at the back of the shelves. On the shelves were rows of bottles and cut-glass decanters, gin, whisky, brandy and wines, and the cures of different kinds. When Crass, Philpot, Easton and Bundy entered, the landlord, a well-fed, prosperous-looking individual in white-shirt sleeves, and a bright marooned fancy waistcoat with a massive gold watch chain and a diamond ring, was conversing in an affable friendly way with one of his regular customers, who were sitting on the end of the seat close to the counter, a shabbily dressed, bleary-eyed, degraded, beer-sodden, trembling wretch, who spent the greater part of every day and all his money in this bar. He was a miserable-looking wreck of a man, about thirty years of age, supposed to be a carpenter, although he never worked at that trade now. It was commonly said that some years previously he had married a woman considerably his senior, the landlady of a third-rate lodging-house. This business was evidently sufficiently prosperous to enable him to exist without working, and to maintain himself in a condition of perpetual semi-intoxication. This besotted wretch practically lived at the cricketers. He came regularly every morning and sometimes earned a pint of beer by assisting the barman to sweep up the saw-dust or clean the windows. He usually remained in the bar until closing time every night. He was a very good customer. Not only did he spend whatever money he could get whole of himself, but he was the cause of other spending money, for he was acquainted with most of the other regular customers, who, knowing his impicunious condition, often stood him a drink, for the good of the house. The only other occupant of the bar, previous to the entrance of Kras and his mates, was a semi-drunken man who appeared to be a house-painter, sitting on the form near the Shove-Hapenie board. He was wearing a battered bowler hat, and the usual shabby clothes. This individual had a very thin, pale face, with a large high-bridged nose, and bore a striking resemblance to the portraits of the first Duke of Wellington. He was not a regular customer here, having dropped in casually about two o'clock, and had remained ever since. He was beginning to show the effects of the drink he had taken during that time. As Kras and the others came in, they were hailed with enthusiasm by the landlord and the besotted wretch, while the semi-drunk workman regarded them with fishy eyes and stupid curiosity. What chair, Bob? said the landlord affably, addressing Kras and nothing familiarly to the others. How goes it? All right, me old dear? replied Kras jovly. How's yourself? They won, replied the old dear, getting up from his chair in readiness to execute their orders. Well, what's it to be? inquired Philpott of the others generally. Minds a pint of beer? said Kras. Half for me? said Bundy. Half a beer for me, too? replied Easton. That's one pint, two hours, and a pint of porter for me self? said Philpott, turning and addressing the old dear. While the landlord was serving these drinks, the besotted wretch finished his beer and set the empty glass down on the counter, and Philpott, observing this, said to him, Have one along with me. They don't mind if I do? replied the other. When the drinks were served, Philpott, instead of paying for them, winked significantly at the landlord, who nodded silently, and unobtrusively made an entry in an account book that was lying on one of the shelves. Although it was only Monday, and he had been at work all the previous week, Philpott was already stony broke. This was accounted for by the fact that on Saturday he had paid his landlady something on account of the arrears of board and lodging money that had accumulated while he was out of work, and he had also paid the old dear for shillings for drinks obtained on tick during the last week. Well, here's the skin off your nose! said Kras, nodding to Philpott, and taking a long pull at the pint glass which the latter had handed to him. Similar appropriate and friendly sentiments were expressed by the others, and suitably acknowledged by Philpott, the founder of the feast. The old dear now put a penny in the slot of the polyphone, and winding it up started it playing. It was some unfamiliar tune, but when the semi-drunk painter heard it he rose unsteadily to his feet and began shuffling and dancing about singing. Oh, we'll invite you to the wedding, and we'll have the glorious time, when the boys and girls is at dancing, and we'll all get drunk on wine. Eh, that's quite enough of that, cried the landlord roughly. We don't want that row here. The semi-drunk stopped, and, looking stupidly at the old dear, sank abashed into the seat again. Well, we may as well sit and stand for a few minutes, remarked Kras, suiting the action to the word. The others followed his example. At frequent intervals the bar was entered by fresh customers, most of them working men on the way home, who ordered and drank their pint or half-pint of ale or porter, and left at once. Bundy began reading the advertisement of the circus and menageries, and a conversation ensued concerning the wonderful performances of the trained animals. The old dear said that some of them had as much sense as human beings, and the manner with which he made this statement implied that he thought it was a testimonial to the sagacity of the brutes. He further said that he had heard, a little earlier in the evening, a rumour that one of the wild animals, a bear or something, had broken loose and was at present at large. This was what he had heard. He didn't know if it were true or not, for his own part he didn't believe it, and his hearers agreed that it was highly improbable. Nobody ever knew how these silly yarns got about. Presently the besotted wretch got up, and, taking the India rubber rings out of the net with a trembling hand, began throwing them one at a time at the hooks on the board. The rest of the company watched him with much interest, laughing when he made a very bad shot, and applauding when he scored. He's a bit off tonight, remarked Philpot aside to Easton, but as a rule he's a fair knockout at it, throws a splendid ring. The semi-drunk regarded the proceedings of the besotted wretch with an expression of profound contempt. You can't play for nuts, he said scornfully. Can't we? I can play you, anyway. Rightear, I'll play you for a drinks round, cried the semi-drunk. For a moment the besotted wretch hesitated. He had not money enough to pay for drinks round. However, feeling confident of winning, he replied. And come on, then. What's it to be? Fifty up? Anything you like. Fifty or a hundred or a bloody million. I better make a fifty for a start. All rightear, you play forst if you like. All rightear, agreed the semi-drunk anxious to distinguish himself. Holding the six rings in his left hand, the man stood in the middle of the floor at a distance of about three yards from the board, with his right foot advanced. Taking one of the rings between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand and closing his left eye, he carefully sighted the centre hook, number thirteen. Then he slowly extended his arm to its full length in the direction of the board. Then, building his elbow, he brought his hand back again until it nearly touched his chin, and slowly extended his arm again. He repeated these movements several times, whilst the others watched with bated breath. Getting it right at last, he suddenly shot the ring at the board. But it did not go on thirteen. It went over the partition into the private bar. This feat was greeted with a roar of laughter. The player stared at the board in a dazed way, wondering what had become of the ring. When someone in the next bar threw it over to partition again, he realised what had happened, and turned to the company with a sickly smile remarked, I ain't got properly used to this board yet. That's the reason of it. He now began throwing the other rings at the board rather wildly, without troubling to take aim. One struck the partition to the right of the board, one to the left, one underneath. One went over the counter, one on the floor. The other, the last, hit the board, and made a shout of applause caught on the centre hook, number thirteen. The highest number it was possible to score with a single throw. They should be all right now, I've got the range. Observe the semi-drunk as he made way for his opponent. He'll say something now, whispered Philpott to Easton. This bloke is a dandy. The besotted wretch took up his position, and with an affectation of carelessness began throwing the rings. It is really a remarkable exhibition, for notwithstanding the fact that his hand trembled like the proverbial aspenleaf, he succeeded in striking the board almost in the centre every time, but somehow or other most of them failed to catch on the hooks and fell into the net. When he finished his innings, he had only scored four, two of the rings having caught on the number two hook. Hard lines remarked Bundy as he finished his beer and put the glass down on the counter. Drink up and have another, said Easton as he drained his own glass. I don't mind if I do," replied Crass, pouring what remained of the pint down his throat. Philpott's glass had been empty for some time. Same again, said Easton addressing the old deer and putting six pennies on the counter. By this time the semi-drunk had again opened fire on the board, but he seemed to have lost the range, for none of the rings scored. They flew all over the place, and he finished his innings without increasing his total. The besotted wretch now sailed in and speedily piled up thirty-seven. Then the semi-drunk had another go and succeeded in getting eight. His case appeared hopeless, but his opponent in his next innings seemed to go all to pieces, twice he missed the board altogether, and when he did hit it he failed the score, until the very last throw when he made one. Then the semi-drunk went again and got ten. The scores were now the besotted wretch forty-two, the semi-drunk thirty-one. So far it was impossible to foresee the end. It was anybody's game. Crass became so excited that he absentmindedly opened his mouth and shot his second pint down into his stomach with a single gulp, and Bundy also drained his glass and called upon Philpott and Easton to drink up and have another, which they accordingly did. While the semi-drunk was having his next innings, the besotted wretch placed a penny on the counter, and called for half a pint, which he drank in the hope of steadying his nerves for a great effort. His opponent meanwhile threw the rings at the board and missed it every time, but all the same he scored for one ring after striking the partition about a foot above the board, fell down and caught on the hook. The other man now began his innings, playing very carefully, and nearly every ring scored. As he played, the others uttered exclamations of admiration and called out the result of every throw. One. One again. Miss. No. Got him. Two. Miss. Miss. Four. The semi-drunk accepted his defeat with good grace, and after explaining that he was a bit out of practice, placed a shilling on the counter, and invited the company to give their orders. Everyone asked for the same again, but the landlord served Easton, Bundy, and the besotted wretch with pints instead of half pints as before, so there was no change out of the shilling. You know there's a great deal of not being used to the board, said the semi-drunk. There's no disgrace in being beat by a man like him, mate, said Philpott. He's a champion. They asked there's no mistake about it. He threw out a splendid ring, said Bundy. This was the general verdict. The semi-drunk, though beaten, was not disgraced, and he was so affected by the good feeling manifested by the company that he presently produced a sixpence and insisted on paying for another half-pint all round. Crass had gone outside during this conversation, but he returned in a few minutes. I feel a bit easier now. He remarked with a laugh as he took the half-point glass of the semi-drunk past to him with a shaking hand. One after another, within a few minutes, the rest followed Crass's example, going outside and returning almost immediately, and as Bundy, who was the last to return, came back. He exclaimed, Let's have a game of shove-happiny. All right, said Easton, who was beginning to feel reckless, but drink up first. Let's have another. He had only seven pints left, just enough to pay for another pint for Crass and half a pint for everyone else. The shove-happiny table was a plain mahogany board with a number of parallel lines scored across it. The game is played by placing the coin at the end of the board, the rim slightly overhanging the edge, and striking it with the back part of the palm of the hand, regulating the force of the blow according to the distance it is desired to drive the coin. What have we come about tonight? inquired Philpott of the landlord, whilst Easton and Bundy were playing. That was the barman. He's doing a bit of a job down on the cellar. Some of the vowels got a bit wrong, but the Mrs is coming down to lend me a hand presently. Now here she is now. The landlady, who at this moment entered through the door at the back of the bar, was a large woman with a highly-coloured countenance and a tremendous bust, encased in a black dress with a shot silk blouse. She had several jewelled gold rings on the fingers of each fat white hand, and a long gold watchguard hung round her fat neck. She greeted Crass and Philpott with condescension, smiling affably upon them. Meantime the game of shove-hapen he proceeded merrily, the semi-drunk taking a great interest in it and tendering advice to both players impartially. Bundy was badly beaten, and then Easton suggested that it was time to think of going home. This proposal, slightly modified, met with general approval, the modification being suggested by Philpott, who insisted on standing one final round of drinks before they went. While they were pouring this down their throats, Crass took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the slot of the polyphone. The landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up, and it began to play The Boys of the Bulldog Breed. The semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song, and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet, and with many fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice. They may build their ships, my lads, and try to play the game, but they can't build The Boys of the Bulldog Breed, what made all highlands. Here, stop that, will you? Quite the old dear, fiercely. I told you once before that I don't allow that sort of thing in my house. The semi-drunk stopped in confusion. I don't mean no harm, he said unsteadily, appealing to the company. I don't want no chin from you, said the old dear with a ferocious scowl. If you want to make that row you can go somewhere else, and the sooner you go the better. You've been here long enough. This was true. The man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been possessed of when he first came in. He had no money left now. A fact that the observant and experienced landlord had devined some time ago. He therefore wished to get rid of the fellow before the drink affected him further, and made him helplessly drunk. The semi-drunk listened with indignation and wrath to the landlord's insulting words. We shall go where the bloody hell I like, he shouted. We shan't ask you nor nobody else. Who the bloody hell are you? You're nobody. See? Nobody. It is also nice of me that you get your bloody living. We shall stop here as long as I bloody will like, and if you don't like it, you can go to hell. Ah, you will, will you? said the old dear. We soon see about that. An opening the door at the back of the bar he roared out. Ralph? Yes, sir? replied a voice evidently from the basement. Just come up here. All right, replied the voice, and footsteps were heard ascending some stairs. He'll see some fun in a minute, gleefully remarked crass to Easton. The polyphone continued to play the boys of the bulldog breed. Philpot crossed over to the semi-drunk. Look here, old man. He whispered, Take my tip and go home quietly. You'll only get the worst of it, you know. Now, me, mate, replied the other, shaking his head doggedly. Here I am, and here I'm going so bloody well to stop. I know you ain't, replied Philpot coaxingly. Look here. I'll tell you what we'll do. You have just one more half-point along of me, and then we'll both go on together. I'll see you safe home. See me safe home? Watch here, man, indignantly demanded the other. Do you think I'm drunk or what? No, certainly not, replied Philpot hastily. You're all right, as late as I am myself. But you know what I mean. Let's go home. You don't want to stop here all night, do you? By this time Alf had arrived at a door at the back of the bar, he was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. Put it outside, grelled the landlord, indicating the culprit. The barman instantly vaulted over the counter, and having opened wide the door leading into the street, he turned to the half-drunken man, and jerking his thumb in the direction of the door said, Are you going? I'm going to have half a point along of this gentleman first. Yes, it's all right, said Philpot to the landlord. Let's have two half-points and say no more about it. You mind your own business, shouted the landlord, turning savagely on him. He said no more here, although no drunk on men on my house, who asked you to interfere. Now, then, exclaimed the barman to the cause of the trouble. Outside. Not me, said the semi-drunk firmly, not before I've had my Alf. But before he could conclude, the barman had clutched them by the collar, dragged them violently to the door, and shot them into the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a Brewer's Drey that happened to be passing. This accomplished Alf shut the door, and retired behind the counter again. Serve him bloody well, right? said Crass. I couldn't help laughing when I see him go flying through the bloody door, said Bundy. You ought to have more sense to go interfering like that, said Crass to Philpot. There was nothing to do with you. Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others, peeping into the street, over the top of the window casing. Then he opened the door, and went out into the street. Crass and the others, through the window, watched him assist the semi-drunk to his feet, and rub some of the dirt off his clothes. And presently, after some argument, they saw the two go away together, arm in arm. Crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished drinks. Well, Joe enjunk hardly half of his. Cryed Easton, seeing Philpot's porter on the counter. Fancy going away like that. More fuel to him, growled Crass. There was no need for it. The man's all right. The resorted wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot's glass. He had just finished his own, and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter, when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared. Hello, what have you done with him? inquired Crass. I think he'll be all right, replied Philpot. He wouldn't let me go now, for though with him. Instead, if I didn't go away, he'd go for me. But I believe he'll be all right. I think the fall's sobered him a bit. No, he's all right, said Crass off-handedly. There's nothing the matter with him. Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding good night to the old deer, the landlady, and the besotted wretch. They all set out for home. As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field. Just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in front of them. It seemed to be a large animal of some kind, and was coming slowly and stealthily towards them. They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness. The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground, groping about in search of a stone. And with the exception of Crass, who was too frightened to move, the others followed his example. They found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature, whatever it was, to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at it. They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its side and moaned as if in pain. Observing this, the four men advanced cautiously towards it. Bundy struck a match and held it over the prostrate figure. It was the semi-drunk. After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all right for some distance. As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to some extent sobered him. But he had not gone very far before the drink he had taken began to affect him again, and he had fallen down. Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong direction. Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They raised him up, and Philpot, exhorting him to pull himself together, inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be able to tell him his address, which was fortunately at Windley where they all resided. Bundy and Philpot took him home, separating from Crass and Easton at the corner of the street where both the latter lived. Crass felt very full and satisfied with himself. He had had six and a half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections on the polyphone at a total cost of one penny. Easton had but a few yards to go before reaching his own house after parting from Crass, but he paused directly he heard the latter's door close, and leaning against his streetlamp yielded to the feeling of giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way home. All the inanimate objects around him seemed to be in motion. The lights of the distant streetlamps appeared to be floating about on the pavement, and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a troubled sea. He searched his pockets for his handkerchief, and having found it, wiped his mouth. Inwardly congratulating himself that Crass was not there to see him. Resuming his walk, after a few minutes he reached his own home. As he passed through, the gate closed of itself after him, clanging loudly. He went rather unsteadily up the narrow path that led to his front door and entered. The baby was asleep in the cradle. Slime had gone up to his own room, and Ruth was sitting, sewing by the fireside. The table was still set for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea. Easton lurched in noisily. Hello, old girl! He cried, throwing his dinner-basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality, and resting his hands on the table to support himself. Come at last, you see! Ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands fall into her lap, sat looking at him. She had never seen him like this before. His face was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips tremulous and moist, and the ends of the fair hair of his moustache stuck together with saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily around his mouth in damp clusters. Perceiving that she did not speak or smile, Easton concluded that she was angry, and became grave himself. I've come at last to see him, my dear, and better late than ever. He found it very difficult to speak plainly for his lips trembled and refused to form the words. I don't know so much about that, said Ruth, inclined to cry, and trying not to let him see the pity she could not help feeling for him. A nice state you're in. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. Don't be angry, Ruth. It's no good, you know. He walked clumsily towards her, still leaning on the table to steady himself. Don't be angry. He mumbled as he stooped over at putting his arm round her neck and his face close to hers. It's no good being angry, you know, dear. She shrank away, shuddering with involuntary disgust as he pressed his wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. His fetid breath fouled with the smell of tobacco and beer, and the odor of the stale tobacco smoke that exuded from his clothes filled her with loathing. He kissed her repeatedly, and, when at last he released her, she hastily wiped her face with a handkerchief and shivered. Easton said he did not want any tea, and went upstairs to bed almost immediately. Ruth did not want any tea, either, now, although she had been very hungry before he came home. She sat up very late, sowing, and when at length she did go upstairs, she found him lying on his back, partly undressed on the outside of the bed-clothes, with his mouth wide open, breathing statoriously.