 In writing this book my intention was to present in the form of an interesting story a faithful picture of working-class life, more especially of those engaged in the building trades in a small town in the south of England. I wish to describe the relations existing between the workmen and their employers, the attitude and feelings of these two classes towards each other, their circumstances when at work and when out of employment, their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their religious and political opinions and ideals. The action of the story covers a period of only a little over twelve months, but in order that a picture might be complete it was necessary to describe how the workers are circumstances at all periods of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. Therefore the characters include women and children, a young boy, the apprentice, some improvers, journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men. I designed to show the conditions resulting from poverty and unemployment, to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal with them, and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy, namely socialism. I intended to explain what socialists understand by the word poverty, to define the socialist theory of the causes of poverty, and to explain how socialists propose to abolish poverty. It may be objected at considering the number of books dealing with these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for. The answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist is sufficient to show that he does not know what socialism means. The same is true of all the anti-socialist writers and the great statesmen who make anti-socialist speeches. Unless we believe that they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own interests, labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do not understand socialism. There is no other possible explanation of the extraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry out against is not socialism, but a phantom of their own imagining. Another answer is that the philanthropist is not a treatise or essay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story full of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the subject of socialism being treated incidentally. This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is for others to say, but whatever their verdict the work possesses at least one merit, that of being true. I have invented nothing. There are no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not either witnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared I let the characters express themselves in their own sort of language, and consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At the same time I believe that because it is true the book is not without its humorous side. The scenes and characters are typical of every town in the south of England, and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. If the book is published I think it will appeal to a very large number of readers. Because it is true, it will probably be denounced as a liable on the working class and their employers, and upon the religious professing section of the community. But I believe it will be acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that no attack is made upon sincere religion. End of Preface. Chapter 1, Part 1 of the Ragged Trousard Philanthropists. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tye Hines. The Ragged Trousard Philanthropists by Robert Tressel, Chapter 1, Part 1. An Imperial Banquet, a philosophical discussion, the mysterious stranger, Britain's never-shall-be-slaves. The house was named the Cave. It was a large old-fashioned three-story building, standing in about an acre of ground, and situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road, and was reached by means of a by-road, or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many years, and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of Rushton & Co., builders and decorators. There were altogether about twenty-five men working there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, brick-layers and painters, besides several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder. Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were cut through walls, and doors were being put where no doors had been before. Old broken chimney-pots were being taken down, and new ones were being taken up and fixed in their places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off the ceilings, and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls, preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels and the rattle of pails, the splashing of water-brushes, and the scraping of the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper. Besides being full of these, the air was heavily laden with dust and diseased germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those employed there might be said to be living in a tariff-reform paradise. They had plenty of work. At twelve o'clock Bob Crass, the painter's foreman, blew a blast upon a whistle, and all the hands assembled in the kitchen, where Berthie Apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By the side of the pail were a number of old jam jars, mugs, dilapidated tea-cups, and one or two empty-condensed milk-tins. Each man on the job paid Berthreupens a week for the tea and sugar. They did not have milk, and although they had tea at breakfast time as well as at dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune. Two pairs of steps laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the chair, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster, a sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls, and a bucket containing some stale white-wash stud in one corner. As each man came in he filled his cup jam jar or condensed milk-tins with tea from the steaming pail before sitting down. Most of them brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their laps or placed on the floor beside them. At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking, and the drizzling of the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire. "'I don't think much of this bloody tea,' suddenly remarked Sockon's one of the labourers. "'Well, it ought to be all right,' retorted Burt. "'It's been boiling ever since I've passed eleven.' Burt White was a fray-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hobnailed boots. The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there upon an upturned pale, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grime with paint and dirt. "'Well, then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've been using up what was left yesterday,' continued Sorkins. "'Why the bloody hell don't you leave the boy alone?' said Harlow, another painter. "'If you don't like the tea, you needn't drink it. For my part, I'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.' "'It's all very well for you to say I needn't drink it,' answered Sorkins. "'Well, I've paid my share, and I've got a right to an express in opinion. It's my belief that after money we gives him his spent and penny orables, he's always got one in his hand, and to make what tea he does by last he collects all the stops what's left and boils it up day after day.' "'Now I don't,' said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. "'It's not me what buys the things at all. I gives all the money I gets to crass, and he buys them himself, so there.' At this revelation some of the men furtively exchanged significant glances, and crass the foreman became very red. "'You better keep your bloody troubles, or make your own tea after this week,' he said, addressing Sorkins, and then perhaps you'll have a little piece at mealtimes. "'And you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,' added Bert tearfully, "'cause I won't do it.' Sorkins was not popular with any of the others. When about twelve months previously he first came to work for Rushton and Co., he was a simple labourer, but since then he had picked up a slight knowledge of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife, and put on a white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his conditions, but his wages five months an hour were two months an hour less than the standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was stood off when Sorkins was kept on. Moreover he was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the bloke. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his new-mates not to let that bugger Sorkins see anything. The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that followed the incident of the tea was forgotten. How did you get on yesterday? asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting collumes of the daily obscurer. No look, replied Bundy gloomily. They had a bob each way on Stockwell in the first, but it was scratched before the start. This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two others concerning the chances of different horses in the model's races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion of Bundy a syndicate was formed, each member contributing three pence, for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned Captain Kiddum of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the syndicate was Frank Owen, who was, as usual, absorbed in the newspaper. He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank, for it was felt that there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or football, and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his clean shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and in a natural colour flushed the thin cheeks. There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions on the subjects mentioned. The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox opinions. If any one did not think in accordance with these he soon discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of the things that are produced by work. He also saw that a very great number, in fact the majority of the people, lived on the verge of want, and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave, while a yet smaller but still very great number actually died of hunger, or maddened by privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a period to their misery. And, strangest of all in his opinion, he saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work were the people who did nothing, and that the others, who lived in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he thought that it was wrong, that a system that produced such results was rotten and should be altered, and he had sought out and eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done. It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably something wrong with his mind. When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with a bookie, and when he had gone, Easton annexed the copy of the obscure that Bundy had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some carefully cooked statistics relating to free trade and protection. Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned Dawson, a poor devil who has paid forpins an hour for acting as mate or laborer to Bundy, or the bricklayers or anyone else who wanted him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room, and with his coat rolled up as a pillow went to sleep. Sarkons, with the same intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who took no part in this syndicate was Barrington, a laborer who, having finished his dinner, placed the copy brought for his tea back into his dinner-basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled and proceeded to smoke in silence. Sometime previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy gentleman who lived in the country some distance outside Mudsborough. This gentleman also owned some property in the town, and it was commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman's, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter's laborer at the usual wages, five pounds per hour. He was about twenty-five years of age, and a good deal taller than the majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At mealtimes, as on the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and unconscious of his surroundings. Most of the others also lit their pipes, and a desultory conversation ensued. Is agent what's bought his house any relation to sweater? The draper? asked Payne, the carpenter's foreman. Is the same bloke? replied Crass. Didn't he used to be in the town council or something? He's been on the council for years, returned Crass. He's on it now. He's mayor this year. He's been mayor several times before. Let's say, said Payne, reflectively, he married old Grinder's sister, didn't he? You know what we mean, Grinder, the green grocer? Yes, believe he did, said Crass. It wasn't Grinder's sister, joined in old Jack Linden. It was his niece. I know because I remember walking in there that was just after they was married, about ten years ago. Oh, yes, I remember now, said Payne. She used to manage one of Grinder's old branch shops, didn't she? Yes, replied Linden. I remember her very well, because there was a lot of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, old Sweater used to be a regular hot one. No one ever taught us he'd ever get married at all. There were some funny yarns about several young women that used to walk for him. This important matter being disposed of their follow-the-brief silence, which was presently broken by Harlow. Funny name to call a house, ain't it? he said. The cave. I wonder what made him give it a name like that. They call them all sorts of outlandish names nowadays, said old Jack Linden. There's generally some sort of meaning to it, though, observed Payne. For instance, if I blow back the winner I made a boil, you might call his house Epsom Lodge, or New Market Villa. Or sometimes there's a hoax-dry or a cherry-tree in the garden, said another man. Then they call it hoax-lodge, or cherry cottage. Well, there's a cave up at the end of this garden, said Harlow with a grin. You know, the cess-pull. What the drains of the house runs into. Perhaps they called it after that. Talking about the drains, said old Jack Linden when the laughter produced by this elegant joke had ceased. Talking about the drains, I wonder what they're going to do about them. This house ain't fit to live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cess-pull it ought to be done away with. So it's going to be, replied Crass. There's going to be a new set of drains altogether, carried right out of the road and connected with the main. Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be adopted. He never missed an opportunity for enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm. That's going to cost a good bit, said Linden. Yeah, I suppose it will, replied Crass, but when he ain't no object to old sweater. He's got tons of it. You know, he's got a large old-sale business in London, and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one he's got here. Linden was still reading the obscure. He was not able to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at. Probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand, but he was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question. To tell the truth, he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length, he said aloud, addressing himself to Crass. What do you think of this here physical policy, Bob? Ain't taught much about it, replied Crass. We don't never worry me yet about politics. Much better left alone, joined in old Jack Linden, sagely. Agri-fying about politics generally ends up with a bloody row, and does no good to nobody. At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. Most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If two or three men of similar opinions happened to be together, they might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed company it was better left alone. The physical policy emanated from the Tory party. That was the reason why some of them were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. Some of them were under the delusion that they were conservatives. Similarly, others imagined themselves to be liberals. As a matter of fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs on the planet Jupiter. Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject when, looking up from his paper, Owen said, Does the fact that you never trouble your heads about politics prevent you from voting at election times? No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Easton, however, in spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking. Well, I don't go in for politics much either, but if what's in this air paper is true, it seems to me we ought to take some interest in it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners. If you're going to believe all that's in that bloody rag, you'll want some salt, said Harlow. The obscuro was a Tory paper, and Harlow was a member of the local Liberal Club. Harlow's remark roused crass. What's the use of talking like that, he said? You know very well that this country is being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to buy something, look round the place, and you'll see that more than half the damn stuff comes from abroad. They're able to sell their goods there, because they don't have to pay no duty. But they take care to put every duty on our goods and keep them out with their countries, and I say it's about time it was stopped. There, there, said Linden, who always agreed with crass, because the latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a good, or a bad word, for a man to the boss. There, there, now that's really called common sense. Several other men, for the same reason as Linden, echoed crass sentiments, but no one laughed contemptuously. Yes, it's quite true that we get a lot of stuff from foreign countries, said Harlow. But they boys more from what we do from them. Now you think you know a lot, said Crass, how much more did they buy from us last year than we did from them? Harlow looked foolish. As a matter of fact, his knowledge of the subject was not much wider than Crass's. He mumbled something about not having no head for figures, and offered to bring full particulars next day. You're what I call a bloody windbag, continued Crass. You've got a lot of a lot to say, but when it comes to the point you don't know nothing. Well, you even hear a mojbara chimed in sarkens, who, though still lying on the dresser had been awakened by the shouting, were overrun with them. Nearly all the waiters and the cook at a grand hotel where we were working last month was foreigners. Yes, said old Joe Philpot tragically, and then there's them Italian hargon-grinders, and the blokes were sells hot chestnuts. And when I was going home last night, I see a lot of them Frenchies selling onions, and a little while after I met two more of them coming up the street with a bear. Notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this intelligence, Owen again laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it was a very serious state of affairs. It was a damn shame that these people were allowed to take the bread out of English people's mouths. They ought to be driven into the bloody sea. CHAPTER I And so the talk continued, principally carried on by crass and those who agreed with them. None of them really understood the subject. Not one of them had ever devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the earnest investigation of it. The papers they read were filled with vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported into this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly arriving, and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the injury they did to British trade. These were the seeds which cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. To them the mysterious thing they variously called the friskal policy, the fisticle policy, or the physical question, was a great anti-foreign crusade. The country was in ahead of a state. Poverty, hunger, and misery in a hundred forms had already invaded thousands of homes and stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. How came these things to be? It was a bloody foreigner. Therefore, down with the foreigners and all their works, out with them, drive them buggers into the bloody sea. The country would be ruined if not protected in some way. The friskal, fisticle, physical, or whatever the hell policy it was called, was protection. Therefore, no one but a bloody fool could hesitate to support it. It was all quite plain, quite simple. One did not need to think twice about it. It was scarcely necessary to think about it at all. This was the conclusion reached by Crass and such of his mates who thought they were conservatives. The majority of them could not have read it as in sentences allowed without stumbling. It was not necessary to think or study or investigate anything. It was all as clear as daylight, the foreigner was the enemy and the cause of poverty and bad trade. When the storm had in some degrees subsided, some of you seemed to think, said own sneeringly, that it was a great mistake on God's part to make so many foreigners. You ought to hold a mass meeting about it, pass a resolution, something like this. This meeting of British Christians, hereby indignantly protests against the action of the supreme being and having created so many foreigners, and calls upon them to forthwith rain down fire, brimstone, and mighty rocks upon the heads of all those Philistines, so that they may be utterly exterminated from the face of the earth, which rightly belongs to the British people. Crass looked very indignant, but could think of nothing to say in answer to Owen, who continued, a little while ago you made a remark that you never trouble yourself about what you call politics. And some of the rest agreed with you that to do so is not worthwhile. Well, since you never worry yourself about these things, it follows that you know nothing about them. Yet you do not hesitate to express the most decided opinions concerning matters of which you admittedly know nothing. Presently, when there is an election, you will go and vote in favour of a policy of which you know nothing. I say that since you never take the trouble to find out which side is right or wrong, you have no right to express any opinion. You are not fit to vote. You should not be allowed to vote. Crass was by this time very angry. I pays my rates on taxes, he shouted. And I've got as much right to express an opinion as you have. I vote for who the bloody hell I likes, and I shan't ask your leave nor nobody else's. What the hell's it got to do with you who I vote for? It is a great deal to do with me. If you were to vote for protection, you will be helping to bring it about. And if you succeed, and if protection is the evil that some people say it is, I shall be one of those who will suffer. I say you have no right to vote for a policy which may bring suffering upon other people without taking the trouble to find out whether you are helping to make things better or worse. Owen had risen from his seat, and was walking up and down the room, emphasizing his words with excited gestures. And as for not trying to find out what side is right, said Crass, somewhat overalled by Owen's manner, and by what he thought was the glare of madness in the latter's eyes. I read the Ananias every week, and I generally take the daily chloroform, or the Obscuror, as a way out to know some of it about it. Just listen to this, interrupted Easton, wishing to create a diversion and beginning to read from the copy of the Obscuror, which he still held in his hand. Great distress in Mugsborough, hundreds out of employment, work of the Charity Society, seven hundred and eighty nine cases on the books. Great as was the distress among the working classes last year, unfortunately there seems every prospect that before the winter which has just commenced is over, the distress will be even more acute. Already the Charity Society and Kindred Associations are relieving more cases than they did in the corresponding time last year. Applications to the Board of Gardens have also been much more numerous, and the Soup Kitchens has had to open its doors on November 7th, a fortnight earlier than usual. The number of men, women and children provided with meals is three or four times greater than last year. Easton stopped, reading was hard work to him. There's a lot more, he said, about starting relief works, two shillings a day for married men, and one shilling for single, and something about there's been one thousand five hundred and seventy two quarts of soup given to poor families, what was not even able to pay a penny, and a lot more. And here's another thing, an advertisement. The Suffering Poor Sir, the stress among the poor is so acute that I earnestly ask you for aid for the Salvation Army's great social work on their behalf. Some six thousand are being sheltered nightly. Hundreds are found work daily, soup and bread are distributed in the midnight hours to homeless wanderers in London. Additional workshops for the unemployed have been established. Our social work for men, women and children, for the characterless and the outcast, is the largest and oldest organised effort of its kind in the country, and greatly needs help. Ten thousand pounds is required before Christmas Day. Gifts may be made to any specific section or home if desired. Can you please send us something to keep the work going? Please address checks across the Bank of England, Law Courts branch, to me at 101 Queen Victoria Street, EC. Balance sheet and reports upon application. Bramwell Booth. Bah, that's part of the great happiness and prosperity what Owen makes of free trade brings, said Kras with a jeering laugh. I never said free trade brought happiness or prosperity, said Owen. Well, perhaps you didn't say exactly them words, but that's what it amounts to. I never said anything of the kind. We've had free trade for the last 50 years, and today most people are living in the condition of more or less abject poverty, and thousands are literally starving. When we have protection, things are worse still. Other countries have protection, and yet many of their people are glad to come here and work for starvation wages. The only difference between free trade and protection is that under certain circumstances one might be a little worse than the other. But as remedies for poverty, neither of them are of any real use, whatever. For the simple reason that they do not deal with the real causes of poverty. The greatest cause of poverty is overpopulation, remarked Harlow. Yes, said old Joe Philpott. If a boss wants two men, twenty goes after the job. There's too many people and not enough work. Overpopulation, cried Owen, when there's thousands of acres of uncultivated land in England without a house or human being to be seen, is overpopulation the cause of poverty in France? Is overpopulation the cause of poverty in Ireland? Within the last fifty years, the population of Ireland has been reduced by more than half. Four millions of people have been exterminated by famine, or got rid of by emigration, but they haven't got rid of poverty. Perhaps you think the half the people in this country are to be exterminated as well. Here Owen was seized with a violent fit of coughing and resumed his seat. When the cough had ceased, he sat wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and listening to the talk that ensued. Drink is the cause of most of the poverty, said Slime. This young man had been through some strange process that he called conversion. He had had a change of heart. He looked down with pious pity upon those he called worldly people. He was not worldly. He did not smoke or drink, and never went to the theatre. He had an extraordinary notion that total abstinence was one of the fundamental principles of the Christian religion. It never occurred to what he called his mind that this doctrine is an insult to the founder of Christianity. Yes, said Kras, agreeing with Slime, and there's plenty of them what's too lazy to work when they can get it. Some of the boogers who go about pleading poverty have never done a fair day's work on all their bloody lives. Then there's all this newfangled machinery, continued Kras. That's what's ruined in everything. Even in our trade there's their machines for trimming wallpaper, and now they've brought it with paint and machine. There's a pump and an O's pipe, and they reckon two men can do as much with this ear machine as twenty coat without it. Another thing is women, said Harlow. There's thousands of them nowadays doing work what ought to be done by men. In my opinion there's too much of this ear education nowadays, remarked old Linden. What the hell's the good of education to the likes of us? None-whatever, said Kras. It just puts foolish ideas into people's heads and makes them too lazy to work. Barrington, who took no part in the conversation, still sat silently smoking. Owen was listening to this pitiable ferago with feelings of contempt and wonder. Were they all hopelessly stupid? Had their intelligence never developed beyond the childhood stage? Or was he mad himself? Early marriages, that's another thing, said Slime. No man oughtn't to be allowed to get married unless he's in a position to keep a family. How can marriage be a cause of poverty? said Owen contemptuously. A man who is not married is living an unnatural life. Why don't you continue your argument a little further, and say that the practice of eating and drinking is the cause of poverty, or that if people were to go barefoot and naked there would be no poverty. The man who is so poor that he cannot marry is in a condition of poverty already. What I mean, said Slime, is that no man oughtn't to marry till he's saved up enough so as to have some money in the bank. And another thing, I reckon a man oughtn't to get married till he's got an house of his own. It's easy enough to buy one in the building society if you're in regular work. At least there was a general laugh. Were your bloody fool? said Harlow scornfully. Most of us is walking about half our time. It's all very well for you to talk. You've got almost a constant job at this firm. If they're doing anything at all, you're one of the few what gets a show in. And another thing, he added with a sneer, we don't all go to the same chapel as old Misery. Old Misery was Rushden and Co's manager or walking foreman. Misery was only one of the nicknames bestowed upon him by the hands. He was also known as Nimrod and Punches Pilot. And even if it's not possible, Harlow continued, winking at the others. What's a man to do during the years he's saving up? Well, he must conquer himself, said Slime, getting red. Conquer his self is right, said Harlow, and the others laughed again. Of course if a man tried to conquer himself by his own strength, replied Slime, he'd be sure to fail. But when you've got the grace of God in you, it's different. Chucker, for Christ's sake, said Harlow in a tone of disgust. We've only just had our dinner. And what about drink? demanded old Joe Philpot suddenly. Air, air, cried Harlow. That's the bleeding talk. I wouldn't mind having half a point now if somebody else would pay for it. Joe Philpot, or as he was usually called, old Joe, was in the habit of indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very old, being only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. He had lost his wife some five years ago, and was now alone in the world. For three children had died in their infancy. Slime's reference to drink had roused Philpot's indignation. He felt that it was directed against himself. The muddle condition of his brain did not permit him to take up the cudgels in his own behalf. But he knew that although Owen was a teetotaler himself, he disliked slime. There's no need for us to talk about drink or laziness. We turned Owen impatiently, because they have nothing to do with the matter. The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the majority of those who are not drunkards, and who do work? Why, if all the drunkards and won't works, and unskilled or inefficient workers could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious, and skilled workers to-morrow, it would, under the present conditions, be so much the worst for us, because there isn't enough work for all now, and these people, by increasing the competition for what work there is, would inevitably cause a reduction of wages, and a greater scarcity of employment. The theories that drunkenness, laziness, or inefficiency are the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present state of affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from discovering the real causes of our present condition. Well, if we're all wrong, said Crass with a sneer, perhaps you can tell us what the real cause is. And perhaps you think you know I was to be altered, remarked Harlow, winking at the others. Yes, I do think I know the cause, declared own, and I do think I know how it could be altered. It can never be altered, interrupted old Linden. I don't see no sense in all this air talk, there's always been rich jump-hole in the world, and there always will be. All I always say is this air, remarked Philpott, whose principal characteristic, apart from thirst, was a desire to see everyone comfortable and who hated rouse of any kind. There ain't no use in the likes of us troubling our heads or quarreling about politics. It'll make a damn bit of difference who you vote for, or who gets in. They're all the same, work on the horoscope of their own benefit. You can talk till you're black in the face, but you won't never be able to alter it. It's no use worrying. The sensible thing is to try and make the best of things, as we find them, enjoy ourselves, and do the best we can for each other. Lies too short to quarrel, and we shall all soon be dead. At the end of this lengthy speech, the philosophic Philpott abstractedly grasped the jam jar, and raised it to his lips, but suddenly remembering that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again without drinking. Let us begin at the beginning, continued on, taking no notice of these interruptions. First of all, what do you mean by poverty? Wait, that you've got no money, of course, said Crass impatiently. The others laughed, disdainfully. It seemed to them such a foolish question. Well, that's true enough as far as it goes, returned on. That is, as things are arranged in the world at present. But money itself is not wealth. It's of no use, whatever. At this, there was another outburst of jeering laughter. Supposing, for example, that you and Harlow were shipwrecked on a desolate island, and you had saved nothing from the wreck but a bag containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a bottle of water. Make a beer, said Harlow, appealingly. Who shall be the richer man, you or Harlow? But then you see, we ain't shipwrecked on no desolate island at all, sneered Crass. And that's the worst of your arguments. You can't never get very far without supposing some bloody ridiculous thing or other. Never mind supposing things that ain't true. Let's have facts and common sense. There, there, said old Lyndon. That's what we want, a little common sense. What do you mean by poverty, then? Asked Easton. What I call poverty is when people are not able to secure for themselves all the benefits of civilization, the necessaries, comforts, pleasures, and refinements of life. There, books, theatres, pictures, music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good and pleasant food. Everybody laughed. It was so ridiculous. The idea of the likes of them wanting or having such things. Any doubts that any of them had entertained as their own sanity disappeared. The man was as mad as a march hare. If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare necessaries of existence, that man's family is living in poverty. Since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization, he might just as well be a savage. Better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is deprived. What we call civilization, the accumulation of knowledge, which has come down to us from our forefathers, is the fruit of thousands of years of human thought and toil. It is not the result of the labor of the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. Every little child that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or dull, whether he is physically perfect or lame or blind, no matter how much he may excel or fall short of his fellows and other respects, in one thing at least, he is their equal. He is one of the heirs of all the ages that have gone before. Some of them began to wonder whether one were not sane after all. He certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like that. It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could not understand one half of it. Why is it, continued Owen, that we are not only deprived of our inheritance, we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to obtain even the bare necessaries of existence. No one answered. All these things, Owen proceeded, are produced by those who work. We do our full share of work, therefore we should have a full share in the things that are made by work. The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the overpopulation theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping machine, and bringing the hose-pipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned the idea. After all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such a fool as Owen? Owen's pretended to be asleep. Philpott, however, had suddenly grown very serious. As things are now, went on Owen, instead of enjoying the advantages of civilization, we are really worse off than slaves. For if we were slaves, our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always had food, and, oh, I don't see it like that, roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been listening with evident anger and impatience. You can speak for yourself, but I can tell you, I don't put myself down as a slave. No, me neither," said Crass, sturdily. Let them call their selves slaves as wants to. At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the kitchen, old misery, or perhaps the bloke himself. Crass hurriedly pulled out his watch. Jesus Christ! he gasped. It's fallen in his past one. Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps, and began wandering about the room with them. Sarkin scrambled hastily to his feet, and snatching a piece of sandpaper from the pocket of his apron began furiously rubbing down the scullery door. Easton threw down a copy of the Obscurer, and scrambled hastily to his feet. The boy crammed the chronicles of crime into his trousers' pocket. Crass rushed over to the bucket, and began stirring up the stale whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was simply appalling. Consternation reigned. They looked like a gang of malefactors, suddenly interrupted in the commission of a crime. The door opened. It was only Bundy returning from his mission to the bogey. Mr. Hunter, as he was called to his face, and as he was known to his brethren at the shining light Chapel, where he was superintendent of the Sunday School, or Misery, or Nimrod, as he was named behind his back by the workmen over whom he tyrannized, was the general or walking foreman, or manager of the firm, whose card is herewith presented to the reader. Rushton and Coe, Mugsborough. Builders, decorators, and general contractors. Funerals furnished. Estimates given for general repairs to house-property, first-class work only at moderate charges. There were a number of sub-form and arcudies, but Hunter was the foreman. He was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered bony form. His long, thin legs, about which the baggy trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed and terminated in large, flat feet. His arms were very long, even for such a tall man, and a huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. When he removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did, to wipe away with a red handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle-riding, it was seen that as far it was high, flat, and narrow. His nose was a large, fleshy, hawk-like beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep bend indentation extended downwards till it disappeared in the drooping moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workman, his exhortations to greater exertions. His chin was large and extraordinarily long. His eyes were pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-colored, almost invisible eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. His head covered with thick, coarse, brown hair, was very large at the back. The ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to make a full-faced drawing of his cadaverous visage, it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin. This man had been with Rushton. No one had ever seen the Coe for fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the latter commenced business. Rushton had, at that period, realized the necessity of having a deputy, who could be used to do all the drudgery and running about so that he himself might be free to attend to the more pleasant or profitable matters. Hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point of starting on his own account when Rushton offered him a constant job as foreman, two pounds a week and two-and-a-half percent of the profits of all work done. On the face of it disappeared a generous offer. Hunter closed with it, gave up the idea of starting for himself and threw himself heart and mind into the business. When an estimate was to be prepared, it was Hunter who measured up the work and laboriously figured out the probable cost. When their tenders were accepted, it was he who superintended the work, and schemed how to scamp it where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where there ought to have been cement, sheet-sink where there was supposed to put sheet lead, boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint where five were paid for. In fact, scamping the work was, with this man, a kind of mania. It grieved him to see anything done properly. Even when it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force of habit on having it scamped. Then he was almost happy, because he felt that he was doing some one down. If there were an architect superintending the work, misery would square him or bluff him. If it were not possible to do either, at least he had a try, and in the intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye was ever on the lookout for fresh jobs. His long red nose was thrust into every estate agent's office in the town, in the endeavour to smell out what properties had recently changed hands or been let, in order that he might interview the new owners, and secure the order for whatever alterations or repairs might be required. It was he, who entered into unholy compacts, with numerous char-women and nurses of the sick, who, in return for a small commission, would let him know when some poor sufferer was passing away, and would recommend Rushden and Coe to the bereaved and distracted relatives. By this means often, after first carefully inquiring into the financial position of the stricken family, misery would contrive to wriggle his unsavory carcass into the house of sorrow, seeking, even in the chamber of debt, to further the interests of Rushden and Coe, and to earn his miserable two-and-a-half percent. It was to make possible the attainment of this object that misery slaved and drove and schemed and cheated. It was for this that the workers' wages were cut down to the lowest possible point, and their offspring went ill-clad, ill-shod, and ill-fed, and were driven forth to labour while there were yet children, because their fathers were unable to earn enough to support their homes. Fifteen years! Hunter realised now that Rushden had had considerably the best of the bargain. In the first place, it would be seen that a latter had bought over one who might have proved a dangerous competitor, and now, after fifteen years, the business that had been so laboriously built up, mainly by Hunter's energies, industry, and unscrupulous cunning, belonged to Rushden and Coe. Hunter was but an employee, liable to dismissal like any other workman, the only difference being that he was entitled to a week's notice instead of an hour's notice, and was but little better off financially than when he'd started for the firm. Fifteen years! Hunter knew now that he had been used, but he also knew that it was too late to turn back. He had not saved enough to make a successful start on his own account, even if he had felt mentally and physically capable of beginning all over again, and if Rushden were to discharge him now, he was too old to get a job as a journeyman. Further, in his zeal for Rushden and Coe, and his anxiety to earn his commission, he had often done things that had roused the animosity of rival firms to such an extent that it was highly improbable that any of them would employ him, and even if they would, Misery's heart failed him at the thought of having to meet unequal footing those workmen whom he had tyrannized over and oppressed. It was for these reasons that Hunter was as terrified of Rushden as the hands were of himself. Over the men stood Misery ever threatening them with dismissal, and their wives and children with hunger. Behind Misery was Rushden ever bullying and goading him on to greater excesses and efforts in the furtherance of the good cause, which was to enable the head of the firm to accumulate money. Mr. Hunter at the moment when the reader first makes his acquaintance, on the afternoon of the day when the incidents recorded in the first chapter took place, was executing a kind of strategical movement in the direction of the house where Crass and his mates were working. He kept to one side of the road because by doing so he could not be perceived by those within the house until the instant of his arrival. When he was within about a hundred yards of the gate he dismounted from his bicycle, there being a sharp rise in the road just there, and as he toiled up pushing the bicycle in front, his breath showing in white clouds in the frosty air, he observed a number of men hanging about. Some of them he knew. They had worked for him at various times, but were now out of the job. There were five men altogether. Three of them were standing in a group. The other two stood each by himself, being apparently strangers to each other and the first three. The three men who stood together were nearest to Hunter, and as the latter approached one of them advanced to greet him. Good afternoon, sir. Hunter replied by an inarticulate grunt without stopping. The man followed. Any chance of a job, sir? Full up! replied Hunter, still without stopping. The man still followed like a beggar soliciting charity. Any use in calling around the day or so, sir? Don't think so, replied Hunter. You can if you like, more full up. Thank you, sir, said the man, and turned back to his friends. By this time Hunter was within a few yards of one of the other two men, who also came to speak to him. This man felt there was no hope of getting a job. Still there was no harm in asking. Besides he was getting desperate. It was over a month now since he had finished up with his last employer. It had been a very slow summer altogether. Sometimes a fortnight for one firm, then perhaps a week doing nothing, then three weeks or a month for another firm, then out again and so on. And now it was November. Last winter they had got into debt. That was nothing unusual, but owing to the bad summer they had not been able, as in other years, to pay off the debts accumulated in winter. It was doubtful too whether they would be able to get credit again this winter. In fact, this morning, when his wife sent her little girl to the grocers for some butter, the latter had refused to let the child have it without the money. So although he felt it to be hopeless he accosted Hunter. This time Hunter stopped. He was winded by his time up the hill. Good afternoon, sir. Hunter did not return the salutation. He had not the breath to spare, but the man was not hurt. He was used to being treated like that. Any chance of a job, sir? Hunter did not reply at once. He was short of breath, and he was thinking of a plan that was ever recurring to his mind, and which he had lately been hankering to put into execution. It seemed to him that the longer waited for opportunity had come. Just now, Russian and Coe were almost the only firm in Mugsborough who had any work. There were dozens of good workmen about. Yes, this was the time. If this man agreed he would give him a start. Hunter knew the man was a good workman. He had worked for Russian and Coe before. To make room from old Linden and some other full-priced man could be gone rid of, it would not be difficult to find some excuse. Well, said Hunter at last in a doubtful, hesitating kind of way, I'm afraid not Newman. We're both full up. He ceased speaking, and remained waiting for the other to say something more. He did not look at the man, but stooped down, fidgeting with the mechanism of the bicycle as if adjusting it. Things have been so bad this summer, Newman went on. I've had rather a rough time of it. I'll be very glad of a job, even if it was only for a week or so. There was a pause. After a while Hunter raised his eyes to the other's face, but immediately let him fall again. Well, he said, I might perhaps be able to let you have a day or two. You can come here to this job." And he nodded his head in the direction of the house where the other men were working. Tomorrow at seven. Of course, you know the figure. He added that Newman was about to thank him. Six and a half. Hunter spoke as if the reduction were already an accomplished fact. Newman was more likely to agree if he thought that the others were already working at the reduced rate. Newman was taken by surprise and hesitated. He had never worked under price. Indeed, he had sometimes gone hungry rather than do so. But now it seemed that others were doing it. And then he was so awfully hard up. If he refused this job he was not likely to get another in a hurry. He thought of his home and his family. Already they owed five weeks rent, and last Monday the collector had hinted pretty plainly that the landlord would not wait much longer. Not only that, but if he did not get a job how were they to live? This morning he himself had had no breakfast to speak of, only a cup of tea and some dry bread. These thoughts crowded upon each other in his mind. But still he hesitated. Hunter began to move off. Well, he said, If you like to start you can come here at seven in the morning. Then as Newman still hesitated he added impatiently. Are you coming or not? Yes, sir, said Newman. All right, said Hunter affably. I'll tell Crass to have a kid ready for you. He nodded in a friendly way to the man who went off feeling like a criminal. As Hunter resumed his march, well satisfied with himself, the fifth man who had been waiting all this time came to meet him. As he approached Hunter recognized him as one who had started work for Russian and Coe early in the summer, but who had left suddenly of his own accord, having taken offense at some bullying remark of Hunter's. Hunter was glad to see this man. He guessed that the fellow must be very hard pressed to come again and ask for work after what had happened. Any chance of a job, sir? Hunter appeared to reflect. I believe I have room for one. He said it linked. But you're such an uncertain kind of a chap. You don't seem to care much whether you work or not. You're too independent, you know. One can't say two words to your be almost needs clear off. The man made no answer. We can't tolerate that kind of thing, you know, Hunter added. If we were to encourage many of your stamp, we would never know where we are. So, saying, Hunter moved away and again proceeded on his journey. When he arrived within about three yards of the gate, he noisesly laid his machine against the garden fence. The high evergreens that grew inside still concealed him from the observation of anyone who might be looking out of the windows of the house. Then he carefully crept along till he came to the gate-post, and bending down he cautiously peeped round to see if he could detect anyone idling or talking or smoking. There was no one inside except old Jack Linden, who was rubbing down the lobby doors with pumice-stone and water. Hunter noisesly opened the gate and crept quietly along the grass border of the garden path. His idea was to reach the front door without being seen, so that Linden could not give notice of his approach to those within. In this he succeeded, and passed silently into the house. He did not speak to Linden. To do so would have proclaimed his presence to the rest. He crawled steltily over the house, but had disappointed in his quest, for everyone he saw was hard at work. Upstairs he noticed that the door of one of the rooms was closed. Old Joe Philpot had been working in this room all day, washing off the old whitewash from the ceiling and removing the old papers from the walls with a broad blade at square-topped knife called a stripper. Although it was only a small room, Joe had had deterrent to do work pretty hard all the time, for the ceiling seemed to have had two or three coats of whitewash without ever having been washed off, and there were several thicknesses of paper on the walls. The difficulty of removing these papers was increased by the fact that there was a dado which had been varnished. In order to get this off it had been necessary to soak it several times with strong soda water, and although Joe was as careful as possible he had not been able to avoid letting some of the stuff onto his fingers. The result was that his nails were all burnt and discoloured, and the flesh around them cracked and bleeding. However he had got it all off at last, and he was not sorry for his right arm and shoulder were aching from the prolonged strain, and in the palm of his right hand there was a blister as large as a shilling, caused by the handle of the stripping knife. All the old paper being off Joe washed down the walls with water, and having swept the paper into a heap in the middle of the floor, he mixed with a small trowel some cement on a small board, and proceeded to stop up the cracks and holes in the walls and ceiling. After a while feeling very tired, it occurred to him that he deserved a spell and a smoke for five minutes. He closed the door and placed a pair of steps against it. There were two windows in the room, almost opposite each other, these he opened wide in order that the smoke and smell of his pipe might be carried away. Having taken these precautions against surprise, he ascended to the top of the step ladder that he had laid against the door and sat down at ease. Within easy reach was the top of a cupboard where he had concealed a pint of beer in a bottle. To this he now applied himself. Having taken a long pull at the bottle, he tenderly replaced it at the top of the cupboard and proceeded to enjoy a quiet smoke, remarking to himself, this is where we get some of our own back. He held, however, his trowel in one hand, ready for immediate action in case of interruption. Philpott was about fifty-five years old. He wore no white jacket, only an old patched apron. His trousers were old, very soiled with paint and ragged at the bottoms of the legs, where they fell over as much patched, broken, and down at heeled boots. The part of his waistcoat, not protected by his apron, was covered with spots of dried paint. He wore a coloured shirt and a dickie, which was very soiled and covered with splashes of paint, and one side of it was projecting from the opening of the waistcoat. His head was covered with an old cap, heavy and shining with paint. He was very thin and stooped slightly, although he was really only fifty-five. He looked much older, for he was prematurely aged. He had not been getting his own back for quite five minutes, when Hunter softly turned the handle of the lock. Philpott immediately put out his pipe, and the sending from his perch opened the door. When Hunter entered, Philpott closed it again, and mounting the steps went on stopping the wall just as before. Nimrod looked at him suspiciously, wondering why the door had been closed. He looked all round the room, but could see nothing to complain of. He snuffed the air, to try if he could detect the order of tobacco, and if he had not been suffering from a cold in the head, there was no doubt that he would have perceived it. However, as it was he could smell nothing, but all the same he was not quite satisfied, although he remembered that Crath always gave Philpott a good character. I don't like to have men working on a job like this with the door shut, he said at length. It always gives me the idea that the man's having a muck, and you can do what you're doing just as well with the door open. Philpott, muttering something about it being all the same to him, shut or open, got down from the steps and opened the door. Hunter went out again without making any further remark, and once more began crawling over the house. End of Chapter 2, Part 1 Chapter 2, Part 2, of the ragged trousered philanthropists. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tyge Hines The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressel Chapter 2, Part 2 Owen was working by himself in a room on the same floor as Philpott. He was at the window, burning off with a paraffin torch-lamp those parts of the old paint work that were blistered and cracked. In this work the flame of the lamp is directed against the old paint, which becomes soft and is removed with a chisel-knife or a scraper called a shave-hook. The door was ajar, and he had opened the top sash of the window for the purpose of letting in some fresh air, because the atmosphere of the room was foul with the fumes of the lamp and the smell of the burning paint, besides being heavy with moisture. The ceiling had only just been water-washed and the walls had just been stripped. The old paper, saturated with water, was piled up in a heap in the middle of the floor. Presently, as he was working, he began to feel conscious of some other presence in the room. He looked round. The door was opened about six inches, and in the opening appeared a long pale face with a huge chin, surmounted by a bowler hat, and ornamented with a large red nose and a drooping moustache, and two small glittering eyes set very close together. For some seconds this apparition regarded Owen intently, then it was silently withdrawn, and he was again alone. He had been so surprised and startled that he had nearly dropped the lamp, and now that the ghastly countenance was gone, Owen felt the blood surge into his own cheeks. He trembled with surprise and fury, and longed to be able to go out there on the landing and hurl the lamp into Hunter's face. Meanwhile, on the landing outside Owen's door, Hunter stood thinking. Someone must be got rid of to make room for the cheap man to-morrow. He had hoped to catch somebody doing something that would have served as an excuse for an instant dismissal, but there was now no hope of that happening. What was to be done? He would like to get rid of Lyndon, who was now really too old to be of much use, but as the old man had worked for Rushton on and off for many years, Hunter felt that he could scarcely sack him offhand without some reasonable pretext. Still, the fellow was really not worth the money he was getting. The seven-pence an hour was an absurdly large wage for an old man like him. It was preposterous. He would have to go, excuse or no excuse. Hunter crawled downstairs again. Jack Lyndon was about sixty-seven years old, but like Philpott, and as is usual with working men, he appeared older because he had had to work very hard all his life, frequently without proper food and clothing. His life had been passed in the midst of a civilization which he had never been permitted to enjoy the benefits of, but of course he knew nothing about all this. He had never expected or wished to be allowed to enjoy such things. He had always been of the opinion that they were never intended for the likes of him. He called himself a conservative and was very patriotic. At the time when the Boer War commenced, Lyndon was an enthusiastic jingle. His enthusiasm had been somewhat damped when his youngest son, a reservist, had to go to the front where he died of fever and exposure. When this soldier's son went away, he left his wife and two children, aged respectively four or five years at the time, in his father's care. After he died they stayed on with the old people. The young woman earned a little occasionally by doing needlework, but was really dependent on her father-in-law. Notwithstanding his poverty, he was glad to have them in the house, because of late years his wife had been getting very feeble, and since the shock occasioned by the news of the death of her son, needed someone constantly with her. Lyndon was still working at the vestibule doors when the manager came downstairs. Misery stood watching him for some minutes, without speaking. At last he said loudly, How much longer are you going to be messing about those doors? Why don't you get them under color? You were fooling about there when I was here this morning. Do you think it'll pay to have you playing about there hour after hour with a bit of pumice stone? Get the work done, or if you don't want to, I'll very soon find someone else who does. I'll be noticing your style of doing things for some time past, and I want you to understand that you can't play the fool with me. There's plenty of better men than you walking about, if you can't do more than you've been doing lately, you can clear out, if we can do without you even when we're busy. Old Jack trembled. He tried to answer, but was unable to speak. If he had been a slave and had failed to satisfy his master, the latter might have tied him up somewhere and thrashed him. Hunter could not do that. He could only take his food away. Old Jack was frightened. It was not only his food that might be taken away. At last, with a great effort, for the word seemed to stick in his throat, he said, I must clean down the work, sir, before I go on painting. I'm not talking about what you're doing, but the time it takes you to do it, shouted Hunter, and I don't want any back answers or argument about it. You must move yourself a bit quicker, or leave it alone altogether. Lyndon did not answer. He went on with his work, his hand trembling to such an extent that he was scarcely able to hold a pumice stone. Hunter shouted so loud that his voice filled all the house. Everyone heard, and was afraid. Who would be next, they thought. Finding that Lyndon made no further answer, misery again began walking about the house. As he looked at them, the men did their work in a nervous, clumsy, hasty sort of way. They made all sorts of mistakes and messes. Pain, the four-man carpenter, was putting some new boards on a part of the drawing-room floor. He was in such a state of panic that, while driving a nail, he accidentally struck the thumb of his left hand a severe blow with his hammer. Bundy was also working in the drawing-room, putting some white glazed tiles in the fireplace. Whilst cutting one of these in half to fit into its place, he inflicted a deep gash in one of his fingers. He was afraid to leave off to bind it up while Hunter was there, and consequently, as he worked, the white tiles became all smeared and spattered with blood. Easton, who was working with Harlow on a plank, washing off the old distemper from the whole ceiling, was so upset that he was scarcely able to stand on the plank, and presently the brush fell from his trembling hand with a crash upon the floor. Everyone was afraid. They knew that it was impossible to get a job for any other firm. They knew that this man had the power to deprive them of the means of earning a living, that he possessed the power to deprive their children of bread. Owen, listening to Hunter over the banisters upstairs, felt that he would like to take him by the throat with one hand and smash his face in with the other, and then, why then he would be sent to Gale, or at the best he would lose his employment, his food and that of his family would be taken away. That was why he only ground his teeth and cursed and beat the wall with his clenched fist, so and so and so. If it were not for them, Owen's imagination ran riot. First he would seize him by the collar with his left hand, dig his knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall, and then, with his right fist, smash, smash, smash, until Hunter's face was all cut and covered with blood. But then, what about those at home? Was it not braver and more manly to endurance silence? Owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, panting, and exhausted. Downstairs Misery was still going to and fro in the house, and walking up and down it. Presently he stopped to look at Salken's work. This man was painting the woodwork of the back staircase. Although the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, Misery had given orders that it was not to be cleaned before being painted. Just dusted down and slobbered a colour on, he had said. Consequently, when Crass made the paint, he had put into it an extra large quantity of dryers. To a certain extent this destroyed the body of the colour. It did not cover well. It would require two coats. When Hunter perceived this, he was furious. He was sure it could be made do with one coat, with a little care. He believed Salken's was doing it like this on purpose. Really, these men seem to have no conscience. Two coats, and he had estimated for only three. Crass! Yes, sir? Come here! Yes, sir? Crass came hurrying along. What's the meaning of this? Didn't I tell you to make this do with one coat? Look at it! It's like this, sir, said Crass. If it had been washed down. Washed down be damned, shouted Hunter. The reason is that the colour ain't thick enough. Take the paint and put a little more body in it, and we'll soon see whether it can be done or not. I can make a cover if you can't. Crass took the paint, and super intended by Hunter, made it thicker. Misery then seized the brush and prepared to demonstrate the possibility of finishing the work with one coat. Crass and Salken's looked on in silence. Just as Misery was about to commence he fancied he heard someone whispering somewhere. He lay down the brush and crawled stealthily upstairs to see who it was. Directly his back was turned. Crass seized a bottle of oil that was standing near, and tipping about half a pint of it into the paint, stirred it up quickly. Misery returned almost immediately. He had not caught anyone. It must have been fancy. He took up the brush and began to paint. The result was worse than Salken's. He messed and fooled about for some time, but could not make it come right. At last he gave up. I suppose it'll have to have two coats after all, he said mournfully. But it's a thousand pitties. He almost wept. The film would be ruined if things went on like this. You'd better get on with it, he said, as he lay down the brush. He began to walk about the house again. He wanted to go away now, but he did not want any of them to know he was gone. So he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house, and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle, and rode away. No one saw him go. For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked, the musical ringing of Bundy's trowel, the noise of the carpenter's hammers and saws, and the occasional moving of a pair of steps. No one dared to speak. At last Philpott could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty. He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived. He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gone. He looked across the landing, and could see Owen working in the front room. Philpott made a little ball of paper, and threw at him to attract his attention. Owen looked round, and Philpott began to make signals. He pointed downstairs with one hand, and jerked the thumb of his other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while. This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed. He shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know. Philpott cautiously crossed the landing, and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly. Was he gone or not, he wondered. He crept along a tiptoe towards Owen's room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. Do you think he's gone? He asked, in a hoarse whisper, when he reached Owen's door. I don't know. He plied Owen in a low tone. Philpott wondered. He must have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him with a bottle. He must find out somehow whether he was gone or not. At last an idea came. He would go downstairs and get some more cement. Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working. Then he walked noisily across the landing again. Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank, he asked, in a loud voice. No, replied Owen. I'm not using it. Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some. Is there anything I can bring up for you? No, thanks, replied Owen. Philpott marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilised as a paint shop. Crass was there, mixing some colour. I want a bit of stopping, Philpott said, as he helped himself to some. Is the bugger gone? Whispered Crass. I don't know. Replied Philpott. Where's his bike? He always leaves it outside the gate, so as we can't see it. Replied Crass. Tell you what, whispered Philpott after a pause. Give the boy a empty bottle, and let him go to the gate and look to the bikes there. If misery sees him, he can pretend to be going to the shop for some oil. This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately. The bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house, the chorus of thanksgiving burst forth. Thank God! said Owen. I hope the bugger falls off and breaks his bloody neck. Said another. These Bible tempers are all the same. No one ever knew one to be any good yet. Cried a third. Directly they knew for certain that he was gone. Nearly everybody left off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on working, and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that misery's presence inspired, they made better progress. A few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked. One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the other smoking, he thought he would have a pipe. It might steady his nerves. As a rule he did not smoke when working. It was contrary to orders. As Philpott was returning to work again, he paused for a moment to whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him upstairs. On reaching Philpott's room, the latter placed a stepladder near the cupboard, and taking down a bottle of beer, handed it to Linden with a remark, Get somewhere out across, you matey. It'll put you right. While Linden was taking a hasty drink, Joe kept watch on the landing outside in case Hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear. When Linden was gone downstairs again, Philpott, having finished what remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up to Chimney, resumed the work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls. He must make a bit of a show tonight, or there would be a hell of a row when misery came in the morning. Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way. He felt like a beaten dog. He was more indignant on poor old Linden's account than on his own, and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation. All his life it had been the same, incessant work under similar more or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being just able to avoid starvation. And the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past, darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough, when he would be unable to work any more. He thought of his child. Was he to be a slave and drudge all his life also? It would be better for the boy to die now. As Owen thought of his child's future, there sprung up within him a feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fellow-workmen. They were the enemy. Those who not only quietly submitted like so many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and opposed and ridiculed any suggestion to alter it. They were the real oppressors, the men who spoke of themselves as the likes of us, who, having lived in poverty and degradation all their lives, considered that what had been good enough for them was good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into existence. He hated and despised them, because they calmly saw their children condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberately refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than those they had themselves. It was because they were indifferent to the fate of their children, that he would be unable to secure a natural and human life for his. It was their apathy, or active opposition, that made it impossible to establish a better system of society, under which those who did their fair share of the world's work would be honoured and rewarded. Instead of helping to do this, they abased themselves, they groveled before their oppressors, they compelled and taught their children to do the same. They were the people who were really responsible for the continuance of the present system. Owen laughed bitterly to himself for a very comical system it was. Those who worked were looked upon with contempt and subjected to every possible indignity. Nearly everything they produced was taken away from them and enjoyed by the people who did nothing. And then the workers bowed down and groveled before those who had robbed them of the fruits of their labour, and were childishly grateful to them for leaving anything at all. No wonder the rich despised them and looked upon them as dirt. They were despicable, they were dirt, they admitted it and gloried in it. While these thoughts were seething in Owen's mind, his fellow workmen were still patiently toiling downstairs. Most of them had by this time dismissed Hunter from their thoughts. They did not take things as seriously as Owen. They flattered themselves that they had more sense than that. Things could not be altered, grin and bear it, after all it was only for life. Make the best of things, and get your own back whenever you get a chance. Presently Harlow began to sing. He had a good voice, and it was a good song, but his mates just ended not appreciating either one or the other. His singing was a signal for an outburst of exclamations and cat-calls. Shut up for Christ's sake. That's enough of that bloody row, and so on. Harlow stopped. How's the enemy? asked Easton presently, addressing no one in particular. Don't know, replied Bundy. Must be about half-past four. Ask Slime, he's got a watch. It was quarter-past four. Guess dark very early now, said Easton. Yes, replied Bundy. It's been very dull all day. I think it's going to rain. Listen to the wind. I hope not, replied Easton. That means a wet short going home. He called out to old Jack Linden, who's still working at the front doors. Is it raining, Jack? Old Jack, his pipe still in his mouth, turned to look at the weather. It was raining, but Linden did not see the large drops which splashed heavily upon the ground. He only saw Hunter, who was standing at the gate watching him. For a few seconds the two men looked at each other in silence. Linden was paralyzed with fear. Recovering himself, he hastily removed his pipe. But it was too late. Misery strode up. I don't pay you for smoking, he said loudly. Make out your time sheet and take it to the office and get your money. I've had enough of you. Jack made no attempt to defend himself. He knew it was of no use. He silently put aside the things he had been using. Went into the room where he had left his tool-bag and coat. Removed his apron and white jacket. Folded them up and put them into his tool-bag along with the tools he had been using. A chisel-knife and a shave-hawk. Put on his coat and with the tool-bag slung over his shoulder. Went away from the house. Without speaking to anyone else, Hunter then hastily walked over the place, noticing what progress had been made by each man during his absence. Then he rode away, as he wanted to get to the office in time to give Linden his money. It was now very cold and dark within the house, and as the gas was not yet laid on, Crass distributed a number of candles to the men, who worked silently, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts. Who would be next? Outside, somber masses of lead-coloured clouds gathered ominously in the tempestuous sky. The gale roared loudly round the old-fashioned house, and the windows rattled discordantly. The rain fell in torrents. They said it meant getting wet true going home, but all the same, thank God it was nearly five o'clock. End of Chapter 2, Part 2 Chapter 3, Part 1 of The Ragged Trousard Philanthropists That night, as Easton walked home through the rain, he felt very depressed. It had been a very bad summer for most people, and he had not fared better than the rest. A few weeks with one firm, a few days with another, then out of a job, then on again for a month perhaps, and so on. William Easton was a man of medium height, about twenty-three years old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. He wore a stand-up collar with a coloured tie, and his clothes, though shabby, were clean and neat. He was married. His wife was a young woman whose acquaintance he had made when he had happened to be employed with others painting the outside of the house where she was a general servant. They had walked out for about fifteen months. Easton had been in no hurry to marry, for he knew that, taking good times with bad, his wages did not average a pound a week. At the end of that time, however, he found that he could not honourably delay longer, so they were married. That was twelve months ago. As a single man, he had never troubled much if he happened to be out of work. He always had enough to live on and pocket money besides, but now that he was married it was different. The fear of being out haunted him all the time. He had started for Rushton and Coe on the previous Monday after having been idle for three weeks, and as the house where he was working had to be done right through, he had congratulated himself on having secured a job that would last till Christmas. But he now began to fear that what had befallen Jack Linden might also happen to himself at any time. He would have to be very careful not to offend Crass in any way. He was afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was. Easton knew that Crass could get him to sack at any time, and would not scruple to do so, if he wanted to make room for some crony of his own. Crass was the coddy or foreman of the job. Considered as a workman he had no very unusual abilities. He was, if anything, inferior to the majority of his fellow workmen. But although he had but little real ability, he pretended to know everything, and the vague references he was in the habit of making on tones and shades and harmony had so impressed Hunter that the latter had a high opinion of him as a workman. It was by pushing himself forward in this way, and by judicious toady into Hunter, that Crass managed to get himself put in charge of work. Although Crass did as little work as possible himself, he took care that the others worked hard. Any man who failed to satisfy him in this respect, he reported to Hunter as being no good, or too slow for a funeral. The result was that this man was dispensed with at the end of the week. The men knew this, and most of them feared the wily Crass accordingly, though there were a few whose known abilities placed them to a certain extent above the reach of his malice. Frank Owen was one of these. The other two, by the judicious administration of pipe-fulls of tobacco and pints of beer, managed to keep in Crass's good graces, and often retained their employment when better workmen were stood off. As he walked home through the rain thinking of these things, Easton realized that it was not possible to foresee what a day or even an hour might bring forth. By this time he had arrived at his home. It was a small house, one of a long row of similar ones, and it contained altogether four rooms. The front door opened into a passage about two feet six inches wide, and ten feet in length, covered with oil cloth. At the end of the passage was a flight of stairs leading to the upper part of the house. The first door on the left led into the front sitting-room, an apartment about nine feet square with a bay window. This room was very rarely used, and was always very tidy and clean. The mantle-piece was of wood painted black and ornamented with jagged streaks of red and yellow, which are supposed to give the appearance of marble. On the walls was a paper with a pale terracotta ground, and a pattern consisting of large white roses with chocolate-colored leaves and stalks. There was a small iron fender with fire-irons to match, and on the mantle-shelf stood a clock in a polished wood case, a pair of blue-glass vases and some photographs in frames. The floor was covered with oil cloth of a tile pattern in yellow and red. On the walls were two or three framed-colored prints, such as are presented with Christmas numbers of illustrated papers. There was also a photograph of a group of Sunday schoolgirls with their teachers, with the church for the background. In the centre of the room was a round-dealed table about three feet six inches across, with the legs stained red to look like mahogany. Against one wall was an old couch covered with faded cretone, four chairs to match, standing backs to wall in different parts of the room. The table was covered with a red cloth, and with a yellow cruel work design in the centre and in each of the four corners, the edges being overcast in the same material. On the table were a lamp, and a number of brightly-bound books. Some of these things, as the couch and chairs, Easton had bought second hand and had done up himself. The table, oil cloth, fender, heart-rug, etc., had been obtained on the higher system and were not yet paid for. The windows were draped with white lace curtains, and in the bay was a small bamboo table, on which repose a large holy Bible, cheap but surely bound. If anyone had ever opened this book they would have found that its pages were as clean as the other things in the room, and on the fly-leaf might have been read the following inscription. To dear Ruth, from her loving friend Mrs. Starvam, with the prayer that God's word may be her guide, and that Jesus may be her very own saviour—October 12th, 19 something. Mrs. Starvam was Ruth's former mistress, and this had been her parting gift when Ruth left to get married. It was supposed to be a keepsake, but as Ruth never opened the book and never willingly allowed her thought to dwell upon the scenes of which it reminded her, she had forgotten the existence of Mrs. Starvam almost as completely as that well-to-do and pious lady had forgotten hers. For Ruth, the memory of the time she spent in the house of her loving friend was the reverse of pleasant. It comprised a series of recollections of petty tyrannies, insults, and indignities—six years of cruelly excessive work, beginning every morning two or three hours before the rest of the household were awake, and ceasing only when she went exhausted to bed late at night. She had been what is called a slavey, but if she had been really a slave, her owner would have had some regard for her health and welfare. Her loving friend had had none. Mrs. Starvam's only thought had been to get out of Ruth the greatest possible amount of labour, and to give her as little as possible in return. When Ruth looked back upon that dreadful time she saw it, as one might say, surrounded by a halo of religion. She never passed by a chapel or heard the name of God or the singing of a hymn without thinking of her former mistress. To have looked into this Bible would have reminded her of Mrs. Starvam. That was one of the reasons why the book reposed unopened and unread, a mere ornament on the table in the bay window. The second door in the passage near the foot of the stairs led into the kitchen or living-room. From here another door led into the scullery. Upstairs were two bedrooms. As Eson entered the house, his wife met him in the passage, and asked him not to make a noise as the child had just gone to sleep. They kissed each other, and she helped him to remove his wet overcoat. Then they both went softly into the kitchen. This room was about the same size as a sitting-room. At one end was a small range with a oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece painted black. On the mantel shelf was a small round alarm clock and some brightly polished tin canisters. At the other end of the room, facing the fireplace, was a small dresser, on the shelves of which were neatly arranged a number of plates and dishes. The walls were papered with oak paper. On one wall between two coloured almanacs hung a tin lamp with a reflector behind the light. In the middle of the room was an oblong deal table with a white tablecloth, upon which the tea-things were set ready. There were four kitchen-chairs, two of which were placed close to the table. Overhead, across the room, about eighteen inches down from the ceiling, were stretched several cords upon which were drying a number of linen or calico undergarments, a coloured shirt, and Easton's white apron and jacket. On the back of a chair, at one side of the Firemore clothes were drying. At the other side on the floor was a wicker cradle in which a baby was sleeping. Nearby stood a chair with a towel hung on the back, arranged so to shade the infant's face from the light of the lamp. An air of homely comfort pervaded the room. The atmosphere was warm and the fire blazed cheerfully over the whitened heart. They walked softly over and stood by the cradle-side looking at the child. As they looked the baby kept moving uneasily in its sleep. Its face was very flushed and its eyes were moving under the half-closed lids. Every now and again its lips were drawn back slightly, showing part of the gums. Presently it began to whimper, drawing up its knees as if in pain. He seemed to have something wrong with them, said Easton. I think it's his teat, replied the mother. He's been very restless all day, and he was awake nearly all last night. Perhaps he's hungry. No, it can't be that. He's had the best part of an egg this morning, and I've nursed him several times today. And then, at dinner time, he had a whole saucer full of dried potatoes with little bits of bacon in it. Again the infant whimpered and twisted in its sleep. Its lips drawn back showing the gums, its knees pressed closely to its body, the little fists clenched and face flushed. Then after a few seconds it became placid. The mouth resumed in usual shape, the limbs relaxed, and the child slumbered peacefully. Don't you think he's getting thin, asked Easton? It may be fancy, but he don't seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago. No, he's not quite so fat, admitted Ruth. It's his teeth what's wearing him out. He don't hardly get no rest at all with them. They continued looking at him a little longer. Ruth thought he was a very beautiful child. He would be eight months old on Sunday. They were sorry they could do nothing to ease the pain, but console themselves with the reflection that he would be all right once those teeth were through. Well, let's have some tea. Sit Easton at last. Whilst he removed his wet boots and socks and placed them in front of the fire to dry, and put on dry socks and a pair of slippers in their stead, Ruth half filled a tin basin with hot water from the boiler and gave it to him. And then he went to the scullery, added some cold water, and began to wash the paint off his hands. This done, he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. I couldn't think what to give you to eat tonight, said Ruth as she poured the tea. I hadn't got no money left, and there wasn't nothing in the house except bread and butter and that piece of cheese. So I cut some bread and butter, and put some tin slices of cheese on it, and toasted it on a plate in front of the fire. I hope you like it. It was the best I could do. That's all right. It smells very nice anyway, and I'm very hungry. As they were taking their tea, Easton told his wife about Lyndon's affair, and the apprehensions as to what might befall himself. They were both very indignant and very sorry for poor old Lyndon, but their sympathy for him was soon forgotten in their fears for their own immediate future. They remained at the table in silence for some time, then, and which went to be all now, asked Easton. Four weeks, and they promised to collect her last time he called, that we'd paid two weeks next Monday. He was quite nasty about it. Well, I suppose you'll have to pay it, that's all, said Easton. How much money will you have tomorrow? asked Ruth. He began to reckon up his time. He started on Monday, and today was Friday. Five days, from seven to five, less half an hour for breakfast and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day, forty-two hours and a half. At seven pence an hour that came to one pound four and nine pence apony. You know I only started on Monday, he said, so there's no back day to come. Tomorrow goes into next week. Yes, I know, replied Ruth. If we pay the two weeks rent, that'll leave us twelve children to live on. But we won't be able to keep all that, said Ruth, because there's other things to pay. What other things? We owe the beggar eight shillings for the bread he let us have while you were not working, and there's about twelve shillings owing for groceries. We'll have to pay them something on account. Then we want some more coal. There's only about a shovelful left, and— Wait a minute, said Easton. The best way is to write down a list of everything we owe. Then we shall know exactly where we are. You give me a piece of paper and tell me what to write. Then we'll see what it all comes to. Do you mean everything we owe or everything we will pay tomorrow? I think we'd better make a list of all we owe first. While they were talking, the baby was sleeping restlessly, occasionally uttering plaintive little cries. The mother now went and knelt at the side of the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the infant with the other. Except the furniture people, the biggest thing we owe was the rent. She said when Easton was ready to begin. Seems to me, said he, as after having cleared the space on the table and arranged the paper, he began to sharpen his pencil with a table-knife. Now you don't manage things as well as you might. If you was to make a list of just the things you must have before you went out on Saturday, you'd find the money would go much farther. Instead of doing that, you'd just take the money in your hand, without knowing exactly what you're going to do with it, and when you come back, it's all gone, and next to nothing to show for it. His wife made no reply. Her head was bent over the child. Now, let's see, went on her husband. First of all, there's a rent. How much did you say we owe? Four weeks. That's the three weeks you were out, and this week. Four sixes is twenty-four. That's one pound four, said Easton, as he wrote it down. Next. Grocer twelve shillings. Easton looked up in astonishment. Twelve shillings? Wait, didn't you tell me only the other day that you'd paid up all we owed for groceries? Don't you remember we owed thirty-five shillings last spring? Well, I've been paying that bit by bit all the summer. I paid the last of it the week you finished your last job. Then you were out three weeks, up to last Friday, and as we had nothing in hand, I had to get what we wanted without paying for it. But do you mean to say that it cost us three shillings a week for tea and sugar and butter? It's not only them. There's been bacon and eggs and cheese and other things. The man was beginning to become impatient. Well, he said, what else? We owed the baker eight shillings. We did owe nearly a pound, but I've been paying it off a little at a time. This was added to the list. Then there's a milkman. I've not paid him for four weeks. He hasn't sent a bill yet, but you can reckon it up. We had two pennant worth every day. That's four and eight, said Easton, writing it down. Anything else? One and seven to the greengrocer for potatoes, cabbage, and paraffin oil. Anything else? We owe the butcher two and seven minutes. Why, we haven't had any meat for a long time, said Easton. When was it? Three weeks ago. Don't you remember? A small leg of mutton. Ah, yes, and he added the item. And then there's the installments for the furniture and oil cloth, twelve shillings. A letter came from them today, and there's something else. She took three letters from the pocket of her dress and handed them to him. They all came today. I didn't show them to you before, as I didn't want to upset you before you had your tea. End of Chapter 3, Part 1