 CHAPTER XX The battle begins versus bandits. This is an even more unusually dull and uninteresting chapter, and introduces several matters that may appear to have nothing to do with the case. The reader is nevertheless entreated to peruse it, because it contains certain information necessary to an understanding of this history. The town of Mugsborough was governed by a set of individuals called the Municipal Council. Most of these representatives of the people were well-to-do or retired tradesmen. In the opinion of the inhabitants of Mugsborough, the fact that a man had succeeded in accumulating money in business was a clear demonstration of his fitness to be entrusted with the business of the town. Consequently, when that very able and successful man of business, Mr. George Rushton, was put up for election to the council, he was returned by a large majority of the votes of the working men who taught him an ideal personage. These brigands did just as they pleased. No one ever interfered with them. They never consulted the ratepayers in any way. Even at election time they did not trouble to hold meetings. Each one of them just issued a kind of manifesto, setting forth his many noble qualities and calling upon the people for their votes, and the latter never failed to respond. They elected the same old crew time after time. The brigands committed their depredations almost unhindered, for the voters were engaged in the battle of life. Take the public park, for instance, like so many swine around a trough. They were so busily engaged in this battle that most of them had no time to go to the park, or they might have noticed that there were not so many costly plants there as there should have been. Nandetale inquired further. They would have discovered that nearly all the members of the town council had very fine gardens. There was a reason for these gardens being so grand, for the public park was systematically robbed of its best to make them so. There was a lake in the park, where a large number of ducks and geese were kept at the ratepayers' expense. In addition to the food provided for these foul with public money, visitors to the park used to bring them bags of biscuits and bread crusts. When the ducks and geese were nicely fattened, the brigands used to carry them off and devour them at home. When they became tired of eating duck or goose, some of the councillors made arrangements with certain butchers and traded away the birds for meat. One of the most energetic members of the band was Mr. Jeremiah Didlam, the house-furnisher, who did a large hire-system trade. He had an extensive stock of second-hand furniture that he had resumed possession of when the unfortunate would-be purchasers failed to pay the instalments regularly. Other other second-hand things had been purchased for a fraction of the real value at share-of-sales, or from people whom misfortune or want of employment had reduced to the necessity of selling their household possessions. Another notable member of the band was Mr. Amos Grinder, who had practically monopolised the greengrocery trade and now owned nearly all the fruterers' shops in the town. As for the other shops, if they did not buy their stocks from him, or rather the company of which he was managing director and principal shareholder, if these fruterers and greengrocers did not buy their stuff from his company, he tried to smash them by opening branches in their immediate neighbourhood and selling below cost. He was a self-made man, an example of what may be accomplished by cunning and selfishness. Then there was the chief of the band, Mr. Adams Sweater, the mayor. He was always the chief, although he was not always mayor, it being the rule that the latter honour should be enjoyed by all the members of the band in turn. A bright honour for Soothe, to be the first citizen in a community composed for the most part of ignorant semi-imbeciles, slaves, slave-drivers, and Sam singing hypocrites. Mr. Sweater was the managing director and principal shareholder of a large drapery business in which he had amassed a considerable fortune. It is not very surprising, considering that he paid none of his work-people's fair wages, and many of them no wages at all. He employed a great number of girls and young women who were supposed to be learning dress-making, mantel-making, or millinery. These were all indentured apprentices, some of whom had paid premiums of from five to ten pounds. They were bound for three years. For the first two years they received no wages. The third year they got a shilling or eighteen pence a week. At the end of the third year they usually got the sack, unless they were willing to stay on as improvers at from three shillings to four and sixteen pence per week. They worked from half-past eight in the morning till eight at night, with an interval of about an hour for dinner, and at half-past four they ceased work for fifteen minutes for tea. This was provided by the firm, half a pint for each girl, but they had to bring their own milk and sugar and bread and butter. Few of the girls ever learned their trades thoroughly. Some were taught to make sleeves, others, cuffs, or button-holes, and so on. The result was that in a short time each one became very expert and quick at one thing, and although their proficiency in this one thing would never enable them to earn a decent living, it enabled Mr. Sweater to make money during the period of their apprenticeship, and that was all he cared about. Occasionally a girl of intelligence and spirit would insist on the fulfilment of the terms of her indentures, and sometimes the parents would protest. If this were persisted in, those girls got on better, but even these were turned to good account by the wily Sweater, who induced the best of them to remain after their time was up by paying them what appeared by contrast with the other girl's money, good wages. Sometimes even seven or eight shillings a week, and liberal promises of future advancement. These girls then became a sort of reserve who could be called up to crush any manifestation of discontent on the part of the leading hands. The greater number of the girls, however, submitted tamedly to the conditions imposed upon them. They were too young to realise the wrong that was being done them. As for their parents, it never occurred to them to doubt the sincerity of so good a man as Mr. Sweater, who was always prominent in every good and charitable work. At the expiration of the girl's apprenticeship, if the parents complained of her want of proficiency, the pious Sweater would attribute it to idleness or incapacity, and as the people were generally poor he seldom or never had any trouble with them. This was how he would fulfil the anxious promise that he made to the confiding parents at the time the girl was handed over to his tender mercy, that he would make a woman of her. This method of obtaining labour by false pretenses and without payment, which enabled him to produce costly articles for a mere fraction of the price for which they were eventually sold, was adopted in other departments of his business. He procured shop assistants of both sexes and the same terms. A youth was indentured, usually for five years, to be made a man and turned out fit to take a position in any house. With possible a premium, five, ten, or twenty pounds, according to their circumstances, would be extracted from the parents. For the first three years no wages, after that perhaps two or three shillings a week, and at the end of the five years the work of making a man of him would be completed. Mr. Sweater would then congratulate him, and assure him that he was qualified to assume a position in any house, but regret that there was no longer any room for him in his. Business was so bad. Still if the man wished he might stay on until he secured a better position, and as a matter of generosity, though he did not really need the man's services, he would pay him ten shillings per week. Provided he was not addicted to drinking, smoking, gambling, or the stock exchange, or going to theatres, the young man's future was thus assured. Even if he were unsuccessful in his efforts to obtain another position, he could save a portion of a salary and eventually commence business on his own account. And however, the branch of Mr. Sweater's business to which it is desired to especially direct the reader's attention was the home-workest apartment. He employed a large number of women making ladies' blouses, fancy aprons, and children's pinafores. Most of these articles were disposed of wholesale in London and elsewhere, but some were retailed at Sweater's Emporium, in Mugsborough, and at the firm's other retail establishments throughout the county. Many of the women-workers were widows with children, who were glad to obtain any employment that did not take them away from the homes and families. The blouses were paid for at the rate of from two shillings to five shillings a dozen, the women having to provide their own machine and cotton, besides calling for and delivering the work. These poor women were able to clear from six to eight shillings a week, and to earn even that they had to work almost incessantly for fourteen or sixteen hours a day. There was no time for cooking, and very little to cook, for they lived principally on bread and margarine and tea. The homes were squalid, their children half starved and raggedly clothed in grotesque garments, hastily fashioned out of cast-off clothes of charitable neighbours. But it was not in vain that these women toiled every weary day until exhaustion compelled them to cease. It was not in vain that they passed their cheerless lives bending with aching shoulders over the tankless work that barely blot them bread. It was not in vain that they and their children went famished and in rags, for after all the principal object of their labour was accomplished. The good cause was advanced. Mr. Sweater waxed rich and increased in goods and respectability. Of course none of these women were compelled to engage in that glorious cause. No one is compelled to accept any particular set of conditions in a free country like this. Such a fame, the manager of Sweater's Homework's apartment, always put the matter before them in the plainest, fairest possible way. There was the work, there was the figure, and those who didn't like it could leave. There was no compulsion. Sometimes some perverse creature belonging to that numerous class who are too lazy to work did leave it. But, as the manager said, there were plenty of others who were only too glad to take it. In fact, such was the enthusiasm amongst these women, especially such of them as had little children to provide for, and such was their zeal for the cause, that some of them had been known to positively beg to be allowed to work. By these and similar means Adam Sweater had contrived to lay up for himself a large amount of treasure upon earth, besides attaining undoubted respectability. For that he was respectable, no one questioned. He went to chapel twice every Sunday, his obese figure arrayed in costly apparel, consisting with other things of grey trousers, a long garment called a frock coat, a tall silk hat, a quantity of jewellery, and a Morocco-bound, gilt-edged Bible. He was an official of some sort at the Shining-Lite Chapel. His name appeared in nearly every published list of charitable subscriptions. No starving wretch had ever appealed to him in vain for a penny soup-ticket. Small wonder that when this good and public-spirited man offered his services to the town, free of charge, the intelligent working men of Mugsborough accepted his offer with enthusiastic applause. The fact that he had made money in business was a proof of his intellectual capacity. His much advertised benevolence was a guarantee that his abilities would be used to further not his own private interests, but the interests of every section of the community, especially those of the working classes, of whom the majority of his constituents was composed. As for the shopkeepers, they were all so absorbed in their own business, so busily engaged, chasing their employees, adding up their accounts, and dressing themselves up in feeble imitation of the aristocracy, that they were incapable of taking a really intelligent interest in anything else. They thought of the town council as a kind of paradise reserved exclusively for jerry-builders and successful tradesmen. Possibly some day, as they succeeded in making money, they might become town councillors themselves, but in the meantime public affairs were no particular concern of theirs. Some of them voted for Adam's sweater, because he was a liberal, and some of them voted against him for the same reason. Now and then, when details of some unusually scandalous proceedings of the councils leaked out, the townspeople, roused for a brief space from their customary indifference, would discuss the matter in a casual, half-indignant, half-amused, helpless sort of way, but always as if it were something that did not directly concern them. It was during some such nine days wonder that the title, The Forty Thieves, was bestowed on the members of the council by their semi-imbicill constituents, who, not possessing sufficient intelligence to devise means of punishing the culprits, affected to regard the maneuvers of the brigands as a huge joke. There was only one member of the council who did not belong to the band, councillor Weakling, a retired physician, but unfortunately he was also a respectable man. When he saw something going forwards that he did not think was right, he protested and voted against it, and then he collapsed. There was nothing of the low agitator about him. As for the brigands, they laughed at his protests, and his vote did not matter. With this one exception, the other members of the band were very similar in character to Mr. Sweater, Rushton, Midlam, and Grinder. They had all joined the band with the same objects, self-glorification and the advancement of their private interests. These were the real reasons why they besought the rate-payers to elect them to the council, but of course none of them ever admitted that such was the case. No. When these noble-minded altruists offered their services to the town, they asked the people to believe that they were actuated by a desire to give their time and abilities for the purpose of furthering the interests of others, which was much the same as asking them to believe that it is possible for the Leopard to change his spots. Owing to the extraordinary apathy of the other inhabitants, the brigands were able to carry out their depredations undisturbed. Delight robberies were of frequent occurrence. For many years these brigands had looked with greedy eyes upon the huge profits of the gas company. They thought it a beastly shame that those other bandits should be always raiding the town and getting clear away with such rich spoils. At length, about two years ago, after much study and many private consultations, a plan of campaign was evolved. A secret council of war was held, presided over by Mr. Sweater, and the brigands formed themselves into an association called the Mugsborough Electric Light Supply and Installation Company Limited, and bound themselves by a solemn oath to do their best to drive the gas-works bandits out of the town, and to capture the spoils at present enjoyed by the latter for themselves. There was a large piece of ground, the property, of the town. This was a suitable site for the works, so, in their characters of directors of the Electric Light Company, they offered to buy this land from the municipality, or in other words, from themselves, for about half its value. At the meeting of the town council, when this offer was considered, all the members present, with the solitary exception of Dr. Weigling, being shareholders in the newly reformed company, Councillor Rushton moved a resolution in favour of accepting it. He said that every encouragement should be given to the promoters of the Electric Light Company, those public-spirited citizens who had come forward and were willing to risk their capital in an undertaking that would be a benefit to every class of residents in the town that they all loved so well. Applauds. There could be no doubt that the introduction of the Electric Light would be a great addition to the attractions of Mugsborough, but there was another more urgent reason that disposed them to do whatever he could to encourage the company to proceed with this work. Unfortunately, as was usual at that time of year, Mr. Rushton's voice trembled with emotion. The town was full of unemployed. The mayor, Aldermott Sweater, and the other councillors, shook their heads sadly. They were visibly affected. There was no doubt that the starting of this work at the time would be an inestimable boon to the working classes. As the representative of a working class, he was in favour of accepting the offer of the company. Here, here. Councillor Didlum seconded. In his opinion it would be nothing short of a crime to oppose anything that would provide work for the unemployed. Councillor Weakling moved that the offer be refused. Shame. He admitted that the Electric Light Company would be an improvement to the town and in view of the existing distress. He would be glad to see the work started, but the price mentioned was altogether too low. It is not more than half the value of the land. The rice of laughter. Councillor Grinder said he was astonished at the attitude taken up by Councillor Weakling. In his, Grinder's opinion, it is disgraceful that a member of the council should deliberately try to wreck a project which would do so much towards relieving the unemployed. The mayor, Alderman Sweater, said that he could not allow the amendment to be discussed until it was seconded. If there were no seconder, he would put the original motion. There was no seconder, because everyone except Weakling was in favour of the resolution, which has carried amid loud cheers, and the representatives of the ratepayers proceeded to the consideration of the next business. Councillor Didlum proposed that the duty on all cold brought to the borough be raised from two shillings to three shillings per ton. Councillor Rushton seconded. The largest customer of coal was the gas company, and considering the great profits made by that company, they were quite justified in increasing the duty to the highest figure the act permitted. After a feeble protest from Weakling, who said it would only increase the price of gas and coal without interfering with the profits of the gas company, this was also carried, and after some other business had been transacted, the band dispersed. That meeting was held two years ago, and since that time the electric lightworks had been built, and the war against the gasworks carried on vigorously. After several encounters, in which they lost a few customers and a portion of the public lighting, the gasworks bandits retreated out of the town and entrenched themselves in a strong position beyond the borough boundary, where they erected a number of gas-ometers. They were thus unable to pour the gas into the town at long range without having to pay the coal-juice. This masterly strategy created something like a panic in the ranks of the forty thieves. At the end of two years they found themselves exhausted with a protracted campaign, their movements hampered by a lot of worn-out plant and antiquated machinery, and harassed on every side by the lower charges of the gas company. They were reluctantly constrained to admit that the attempt to undermine the gasworks was a melancholy failure, and that the mugs were a light and electric company was a veritable white elephant. They began to ask themselves what they should do with it, and some of them even urged unconditional surrender, or an appeal to the arbitration of the bankruptcy court. In the midst of all the confusion and demoralization there was, however, one man who did not lose his presence of mind, who in this dark hour of disaster remained calm and immovable, and like a vast mountain of flesh reared his head above the storm, whose mighty intellect perceived a way to turn this apparently hopeless defeat into a glorious victory. And that man was Adam Sweater, the chief of the band. CHAPTER XXI The reign of terror, the great money trick. During the next four weeks the usual reign of terror continued at the cave. The men slaved like so many convicts under the vigilant surveillance of Kras, Misery and Rushton. No one felt free from observation for a single moment. It happened frequently that a man who was working alone, as he thought, on turning round would find Hunter or Rushton standing behind him, or one would look up from his work to catch sight of a face watching him through a door or a window or over the banisters. If they happened to be working in the room on the ground floor, or at a window on any floor, they knew that both Rushton and Hunter were in the habit of hiding amongst the trees that surrounded the house and spying upon them thus. There was a plumber working outside, repairing the gutter that ran round the bottom edge of the roof. This poor wretch's life was a perfect misery. He fancied he saw Hunter or Rushton in every bush. He had two ladders to work from, and since these ladders had been in use, Misery had thought of a new way of spying upon the men. Finding that he never succeeded in catching anyone doing anything wrong when he entered the house by one of the doors, Misery adopted the plan of crawling up one of the ladders, getting in through one of the upper windows, and creeping softly downstairs and in and out of the rooms. Even then he never caught anyone, but that did not matter, for he accomplished his principal purpose. Every man seemed afraid to cease working for even an instant. The result of all this was, of course, that the work progressed rapidly towards completion. The hands grumbled and cursed, but all the same every man tore into it for all he was worth, although he did next to nothing himself, crass-watched and urged on the others. He was in charge of the job, and he knew that unless he succeeded in making this work pay he would not be put in charge of another job. On the other hand, if he did make it pay, he would be given preference over others and be kept on as long as the firm had any work. The firm would give him the preference only as long as it paid them to do so. As for the hands, each man knew that there was no chance of obtaining work anywhere else at present. There were dozens of men out of employment already. Besides, even if there had been a chance of getting another job somewhere else, they knew that the conditions were more or less the same on every firm. Some were even worse than this one. Each man knew that unless he did as much as ever he could, this would report him for being slow. They knew also that when the job began to draw to a close the number of men employed upon it would be reduced, and when that time came the hands who did the most work would be kept on, and the slower ones discharged. It was therefore in the hope of being one of the favourite few, that while inwardly cursing the rest for tearing into it, everyone, as a matter of self-preservation, went and tore into it themselves. They all cursed crass, but most of them would have been very glad to change places with him, and if any one of them had been in his place they would have been compelled to act in the same way or lose the job. They all reviled Hunter, but most of them would have been glad to change places with him also, and if one of them had been in his place they would have been compelled to do the same things or lose the job. They all hated and blamed Rushden, yet if they had been in Rushden's place they would have been compelled to adopt the same methods or become bankrupt, for it is obvious that the only way to compete successfully against other employers who are sweaters is to be a sweater yourself. Therefore no one who is an upholder of the present system can consistently blame any of these men. Blame the system. If you reader had been one of the hands would you have slogged, or would you have preferred to starve and see your family starve? If you had been in class's place would you have resigned rather than do so much dirty work? If you had had Hunter's birth would you have given it up and voluntarily reduced yourself to the level of the hands? If you had been Rushden would you rather have become bankrupt than to treat your hands and your customers in the same way as your competitors treated theirs? It may be that so placed you, being the noble-minded paragon that you are, would have behaved unselfishly. But no one has any right to expect you to sacrifice yourself for the benefit of other people who would only call you a fool for your pains. It may be true that if any one of the hands, Owen for instance, had been an employer of labour he would have done the same as other employers. Some people seem to think that proves the present system is all right, but really it only proves that the present system compels selfishness. One must either trample upon others or be trampled upon oneself. Happiness might be possible if everyone were unselfish, if everyone thought of the welfare of his neighbour before thinking of his own. Whereas there is only a very small percentage of such unselfish people in the world, the present system has made the earth into a sort of hell. Under the present system there is not sufficient of anything for everyone to have enough. Consequently there is a fight, called by the Christians the Battle of Life. In this fight some get more than they need, some barely enough, some very little, and some none at all. The more aggressive, cunning, unfeeling and selfish you are, the better it will be for you. As long as this Battle of Life system endures, we have no right to blame other people for doing the same things that we ourselves are compelled to do. Blame the system. But that is just what the hands did not do. They blamed each other. They blamed Crass and Hunter and Rushton. But with the great system of which they were all more or less victims, they were quite content, being persuaded that it was the only one possible and the best that human wisdom could devise. The reason why they all believed this was because not one of them had ever trouble to inquire whether it would be possible to order things differently. They were content with the present system. If they had not been content, they would have been anxious to find some other way to alter it. But they had never taken the trouble to seriously inquire whether it was possible to find some better way. And although they all knew, in a hazy fashion, that other methods of managing the affairs of the world had already been proposed, they neglected to inquire whether these other methods were possible or practicable. And they were ready and willing to oppose with ignorant ridicule or brutal force any man who was foolish or quixotic enough to try to explain to them the details of what he thought was a better way. They accepted the present system in the same way as they accepted the alternating seasons. They knew that there was a spring and summer and autumn and winter. As to how these different seasons came to be or what caused them, they hadn't the remotest notion. And it is extremely doubtful whether the question had ever occurred to any of them. But there is no doubt whatever about the fact that none of them knew. From their infancy they had been trained to distrust their own intelligence, and to leave the management of the affairs of the world, and for that matter of the next world, too, to their betters. And now most of them were absolutely incapable of thinking of any abstract subject whatever. Nearly all their betters, that is, the people who do nothing were unanimous in agreeing that the present system is a very good one, and that it is impossible to alter or improve it. Therefore Crass and his mates, although they knew nothing whatever about themselves, accepted it as an established incontrovertible fact, that the existing state of things is immutable. They believed it because someone else told them so, and they would have believed anything on one condition, namely that they were told to believe it by their betters. They said it was surely not for the like of them to think that they knew better than those who were more educated and had plenty of time to study. As the work in the drawing-room proceeded Crass abandoned the hope that Owen was going to make a mess of it. Some of the rooms upstairs now being ready for papering, Slime was started on that work, Bert being taken away from Owen to assist Slime as the paced boy, and it was arranged that Crass should help Owen whenever he needed someone to lend him a hand. Crass came frequently during these four weeks, being interested in the progress of the work. On these occasions Crass always managed to be present in the drawing-room and did most of the talking. Owen was very satisfied with this arrangement, for he was always ill at ease when conversing with a man like Sweater, who spoke in an offensively patronizing way and expected common people to cow-tow and sir him at every second word. Crass, however, seemed to enjoy doing that kind of thing. He did not exactly grovel on the floor when Sweater spoke to him, but he contrived to convey the impression that he was willing to do so if desired. Outside the house, Bundy and his mates had dug deep trenches in the damp ground in which there were laying new drains. This work, like that of the painting of the inside of the house, was nearly completed. It was a miserable job. Owing to the fact that there had been a spell of bad weather, the ground was sodden with rain, and there was mud everywhere. The men's clothes and boots being caked with it. But the worst thing about the job was the smell. For years the old drain-pipes had been effective and leaky. The ground a few feet below the surface was saturated with fetid moisture and a stench of a thousand putrefying corpses emanated from the open dirt. The clothing of the men who were working in the trenches became saturated with this fearful odour, and for that matter so did the men themselves. They said they could smell and taste it all the time, even when they were away from the work at home, and when they were at meals. Although they spoke the pipes all the time they were at work, misery having ungraciously given them permission, several times Bundy and one or other of his mates were attacked with fits of vomiting. But as they began to realize that the finish of the job was in sight, a kind of panic seized upon the hands, especially those who had been taken on last, and who would therefore be the first to be stood still. Then however felt pretty confident that Crass would do his best to keep him on till the end of the job, for they had become quite chummy lately, usually spending a few evenings together at the cricketers every week. There be a bloody slaughter here soon, remarked Harlow to Philpott one day as he were painting the banisters of the staircase. I reckon next week we'll about finish the inside. And the outside ain't going to take very long, you know? replied Philpott. They ain't got no other work in, have they? What's that I know of? replied Philpott, gloomily, and I don't think anyone else has either. You know that little place they call the kiosk down the grand parade near the bandstand, asked Harlow after a pause? Were they used to sell refreshments? Yes, it belongs to the corporation, you know. It's been closed up lately, ain't it? Yes, the people who had it couldn't make it pay, but I heard last night a grinder, the fruit merchant, is going to open it again. If it's true, there'll be a job there for some people, because it'll have to be done up. Well, I hope it comes off, replied Philpott, it'll be a job for some poor buggers. I wonder if they started anyone yet under the nation blinds for this house, remarked Eastern after a pause. I don't know, replied Philpott, they relapsed into silence for a while. I wonder what time it is, said Philpott at length. I don't know how you feel, but I begin to want me dinner. That's just what I was thinking. It can't be very far off at now. It's nearly half an hour since Bert went down to make the tea. It seems an hell of a long morning to me. So it goes to me, said Philpott. Slip upstairs and I'll slow him what time it is. Harlow laid his brush across the top of his paint-pot and went upstairs. He was wearing a pair of cloths, slippers, and walked softly, not wishing that Crass should hear him leaving his work. So it happened that without any intention of spying on Slime, Harlow reached the door of the room in which the former was working, without being heard, and entering suddenly surprised Slime, who was standing near the fireplace in the act of breaking a whole roll of wallpaper across his knee, as one might break a stick. On the floor beside him was what had been another roll, now broken into two pieces. When Harlow came in, Slime started, and his face became crimson with confusion. He hastily gathered the broken rolls together, and stooping down thrust the pieces up the flow of the grate and closed the register. What a bloody game, inquired Harlow. Slime laughed with an affectation of carelessness, but his hands trembled and his face was now very pale. Oh, we must get our own back somehow, you know, Fred, he said. Harlow did not reply. He did not understand. After puzzling over it a few minutes he gave it up. What a time, he asked. Fifteen minutes to twelve, said Slime, and added, as Harlow was going away. Don't mention anything about that paper to crass or any of the others. Very shant say nothing. Replied Harlow. Gradually, as he pondered over it, Harlow began to comprehend the meaning of the destruction of the two rolls of paper. Slime was doing the paper-hanging, peace-work, so much for each roll hung. Four of the rooms upstairs had been done with the same pattern, as Hunter, who was not over-skillful in such matters, had evidently sent more paper than was necessary. By getting rid of these two rolls Slime would be able to make it appear that he had hung two rolls more than was really the case. He had broken the roll so as to be able to take them away from the house without being detected, and he had hidden them up the chimney until he got an opportunity of doing so. Harlow had just arrived at the solution of the problem when, hearing the lower flight of stairs creaking, he peeped over and observed misery crawling up. He had come to see if any one had stopped work before the proper time, and passing the two workmen without speaking, he ascended to the next floor and entered the room where Slime was. "'You'd better not do this room yet,' said Hunter. There's to be a new great and mantelpiece put in. He crossed over to the fireplace and stood looking at it thoughtfully for a few minutes. "'It's not a bad grate, you know. Is it?' he remarked. We may be able to use it somewhere or other.' "'Yes, it's all right,' said Slime, whose heart was beating like a steam hammer. "'Do for our front room in a cottage,' continued misery, stooping down to examine it more closely. Well, there's nothing broken that I can see.' He put his hand against the register and vainly tried to push it open. "'Ah, there's something wrong here,' he remarked, pushing harder. "'Most likely a brick or some plaster falling down,' gasped Slime, coming to Misery's assistance. He shall I try to open it?' "'Ah, no trouble,' replied Nimrod, rising to his feet. "'Is most likely what you say. I'd see that a new grate is sent up after dinner. Bundy can fix it this afternoon, and then you can go on with the paper-hanging as soon as you like.' With his misery went out of the room, downstairs and away from the house, and Slime wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Then he knelt down, and opening the register, he took out the broken rolls of paper, and hid them up the chimney of the next room. While he was doing this, the sound of crassus whistle shrilled through the house. "'Thank God!' exclaimed Philpot fervently, as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. "'The scene here is already familiar to the reader. For seats the two pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight feet apart, and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank placed across, and the upturned pales, and the drawers of the dresser. The floor unswept, and littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of plaster, pieces of lead pipe and dried mud, and in the midst the steaming bucket of stewed tea, and the collection of cracked cups, jam jars, and condensed milk tins. And on the seats the men in their shabby, and in some cases ragged clothing, sitting, and eating their coarse food and cracking jokes. This was a pathetic and wonderful land at the same time at a spickable spectacle. Pathetic that human beings should be condemned to spend the greater part of their lives amid such surroundings, because they must be remembered that most of their time was spent on some job or other. When the cave was finished they would go to some similar job, if they were lucky enough to find one. Wonderful because although they knew that they did more than their fair share of the great work of producing the necessaries and comforts of life, they did not think they were entitled to a fair share of the good things they helped to create, and the spickable, because although they saw their children condemned to the same life of degradation, hard labour and privation, yet they refused to help to bring about a better state of affairs. Most of them thought that what had been good enough for themselves was good enough for their children. It seemed as if they regarded their own children with a kind of contempt as being only fit to grow up to be servants of the children of such people as Rushdon and Sweater, but it must be remembered that they had been taught self-contempt when they were children. In the so-called Christian schools they attended when they were taught to order themselves lowly and reverently towards their betters, and they were now actually sending their own children to learn the same degrading lessons in their turn. They had a vast amount of consideration for their betters, and for the children of their betters, but very little for their own children, for each other or for themselves. That was why they sat there in the rags and ate their coarse food, and cracked their coarser jokes, and drank the dreadful tea, and were content. So long as they had plenty of work and plenty of something to eat, and somebody else's cast-off clothes to wear, they were content, and they were proud of it, and they gloried in it. They agreed and assured each other that the good things of life were not intended for the likes of them or their children. What's become of the professor? I asked the gentleman who sat on the upturned pale in the corner, referring to Owen, who had not yet come down from his work. Perhaps he's preparing his sermon, remarked Harlow as a laugh. We ain't had no lectures from him lately, since he'd been on that room, observed Easton. Have we? Damn good job, too, exclaimed Salkins. It gives me the pip to ear him, the same old thing over and over again. Poor old Frank, remarked Harlow. He does upset himself about things, don't he? Awful him, said Bundy, I'll take a bloody good care I don't go worry myself to death like he's doing, about such damn rot as that. I do believe that's what makes him look as bad as he does, observed Harlow, several times this morning. I couldn't help noticing the way he kept on coughing. I thought he seemed a bit better lately, Philpott observed, more cheerful and happier like, and more inclined for a bit of fun. He's a funny sort of chap, ain't he? said Bundy, one day quite jolly singing and cracking jokes and telling yarns, and the next you can't hardly get a word out of him. Bloody rod, I call it, chimed in a man on the pale. What's the use of the likes of us troublein' our heads about politics? Oh, I don't see that, replied Harlow. We've got our votes, and we're really the people what controls the affairs of the country, so I reckon we ought to take some interest in it. But at the same time I can't see no sense in this here socialist wangle that Owen's always talkin' about. Nor anybody else either, said Crass with a jeering laugh. Even if all the bloody money in the world was divided out equal, said the man on the pale profoundly, it wouldn't do no good. In six months' time it would be all back in the same hands again. Of course, said everybody. We had a cof the other day about money bein' no good at all, observed Easton. Don't you remember, he said his money was the principal cause of poverty? So it is the principal cause of poverty, said Owen, who entered at that moment. Hooray! shouted Philpot, leading off a cheer which the others took up. The professor has arrived, and will now proceed to say a few remarks. A roar of merriment greeted this sally. Less of a bloodied enough first for Christ's sake, appealed Harlow and mocked a spare. As Owen, having filled his cup with tea, sat down in his usual place, Philpot rose solemnly to his feet, and, looking round the company, said, Gentlemen, with your kind permission, as soon as the professor has finished his dinner, he will deliver his well-known lecture entitled Money, The Principal Cause of Bein' Hard Up. Proven as money ain't no good to nobody. At the end of the lecture, a collection will be took up to provide a lecture with a little encouragement. Philpot resumed his seat amid cheers. As soon as they had finished eating, some of the men began to make remarks about the lecture, but Owen only laughed and went on reading the piece of newspaper that his dinner had been wrapped in. Usually most of the men went out for a walk after dinner, but as it happened to be raining that day they were determined, if possible, to make Owen fulfil the engagement made in his name by Philpot. Let's eat him, said Harlow, and the suggestion was at once acted upon. Howls, groans, and cat-calls filled the air, mingled with cries of fraud, imposter, give us our money back, let's wreck the all, and so on. Come on here, cried Philpot, putting his hand on Owen's shoulder. Prove that money is the cause of poverty. There's one thing to say it, and another to prove it, feared Crass, who was anxious for an opportunity to produce the long-deferred obscure cutting. "'Money is the real cause of poverty,' said Owen. "'Prove it,' repeated Crass. "'Money is the cause of poverty because it is the device by which those who are too lazy to work are unable to rob the workers of the fruits of their labours.' "'Prove it,' said Crass. Owen slowly folded up the piece of newspaper that he had been reading, and put it into his pocket. "'All right,' he replied. "'I'll show you how the great money trick is worked.' Owen opened his dinner-basket and took from it two slices of bread, but as these were not sufficient he requested that anyone who had some bread left would give it to him. They gave him several pieces, which he placed in a heap on a clean piece of paper, and having borrowed the pocket-knives they used to cut and eat their dinners with, from Easton, Harlow, and Philpot, he addressed them as follows. These pieces of bread represent the raw materials which exist naturally in and on the earth for the use of mankind. They were not made by any human being, but were created by the great spirit for the benefit and sustenance of all. The same as were the air and the light of the sun. "'You're about as fair speaking a man as I've met for some time,' said Harlow, winking at the others. "'Yes, mate,' said Philpot, "'anyone would agree with that much. It's as clear as mud.' Now,' continued Owen, "'I am a capitalist, or rather I represent the landlord and the capitalist class. That is to say, all these raw materials belong to me. It does not matter for our present argument how I obtained possession of them, or whether I have any real right to them. The only thing that matters now is the admitted fact that all the raw materials which are necessary for production of the necessaries of life are now the property of the landlord and capitalist class. I am that class. All these raw materials belong to me.' "'Good enough,' agreed Philpot. Now, you three represent the working class. You have nothing, and for my part, although I have all these raw materials, they are of no use to me. What I need is the things that can be made out of these raw materials by work, but as I am too lazy to work myself. I have invented the money trick to make you work for me. But first I must explain that I possess something else beside these raw materials. These three knives represent all the machinery of production, the factories, tools, railways, and so forth, without which the necessaries of life cannot be produced in abundance. And these three coins, taking three hapenies from his pocket, represent my money capital. But before we go any further,' said Owen, interrupting himself, it is most important that you remember that I am not supposed to be merely a capitalist. I represent the whole capitalist class. You are not supposed to be just three workers. You represent the whole working class. All right, all right," said Crass impatiently. We all understand that. Get on with it. Owen proceeded to cut up one of the slices of bread into a number of little square blocks. These represent the things which are produced by labor, aided by machinery, from the raw materials. We will suppose that three of these blocks represent a week's work. We will suppose that a week's work is worth one pound. And we will suppose that each of these hapenies is a sovereign. We'd be able to do the trick better if we had real sovereigns. But I forgot to bring any with me. I'd lend you some," said Philpot regretfully, but I left me porse on our grand piano. As by strange coincidence nobody happened to have any gold with them, it was decided to make shift with a half-pence. Now this is the way the trick works. Before he goes on with it, interrupted Philpot apprehensively, don't you think we'd better have someone keep watch at the gate in case a slop comes along? We don't want to get one in, you know. I don't think there's any need for that, replied Owen. There's only one slop who didn't affair with us for playing this game, and that's police constable socialism. Never mind about socialism, said Crass irritably. Get along with the bloody trick. Owen now addressed himself to the working classes as represented by Philpot, Harlow, and Easton. You say that you are all in need of employment, and as I am the kind-hearted capitalist class I'm going to invest all my money in various industries, so as to give you plenty of work. I shall pay each of you one pound per week, and a week's work is. You must each produce three of these square blocks. For doing this work you will each receive your wages. The money will be your own to do with as you like, and the things you produce will, of course, be mine, to do as I like with. You will each take one of these machines, and as soon as you have done a week's work you shall have your money. The working class is accordingly set to work, and the capitalist class sat down and watched them. As soon as they had finished they passed the nine little blocks to Owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by his side, and paid the workers their wages. These blocks represent the necessaries of life. You can't live without some of these things, but as they belong to me you will have to buy them from me. My price for these blocks is one pound each. As the working classes were in need of the necessaries of life, and as they could not eat, drink, or wear the useless money, they were compelled to agree with the kind capitalist's terms. They each bought back at once, and consumed one-third of the produce of their labour. The capitalist class also devoured two of the square blocks, and so the net result of the week's work was that the kind capitalist had consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the labour of the others. And reckoning the squares at their market value of one pound each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the three pounds in money, and in addition four pounds worth of goods. As for the working classes, Philpot Harlow and Easton, having each consumed the pounds worth of necessaries they had bought with their wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as when they had started work. They had nothing. This process was repeated several times. For each week's work the producers were paid their wages. They kept on working and spending all their earnings. The kind-hearted capitalist consumed twice as much as any one of them, and his pile of wealth continually increased. In a little while, reckoning the little squares at their market value of one pound each, he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the working classes were still in the same condition as when they began, and were still tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon it. After a while the rest of the crowd began to laugh, and their merriment increased when the kind-hearted capitalist, just after having sold a pound's worth of necessaries to each of his workers, suddenly took their tools, the machineries of production, the knives away from them, and informed them that as owing to overproduction all his storehouses were glutted with the necessaries of life, and he decided to close down the works. Well, and what the bloody hell are we to do now? demanded Philpot. Well, that's not my business, replied the kind-hearted capitalist. I've paid you your wages, and provided you with plenty of work for a long time past. I have no more work for you to do at present. Come round again in a few months' time, and I'll see what I can do for you. And for what about the necessaries of life? demanded Harlow. We must have something to eat. And, of course, you must, replied the capitalist, affably, and I should be very pleased to sell you some. But we ain't got no bloody money. Well, you can't expect me to give you goods for nothing. You didn't work for me for nothing, you know. I paid you for your work, and you should have saved something. You should have been thrifty, like me. Look how I've got on by being thrifty. The unemployed looked blankly at each other, but the rest of the crowd only laughed, and then the three unemployed began to abuse the kind-hearted capitalist, demanding that he should give them some of the necessaries of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to be allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs, and even threaten to take some of the things by force if he did not comply with their demands. But the kind-hearted capitalist told them not to be so insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said that if they were not careful they would have their faces battered in for them by the police, or if necessary he would call out the military and have them shot down like dogs, the same as he had done before at Featherstone and Belfast. Of course, continued the kind-hearted capitalist, if it were not for foreign competition I should be able to sell these things that you have made, and then I should be able to give you plenty of work again. But until I have sold them to somebody or other, or until I have used them myself, you will have to remain idle. Well, this takes the bloody biscuit, don't it? said Harlow. Only one thing as I can see for it, said Philpot monthly, is to have an unemployed procession. That's the idea, said Harlow, and the three began to march about the room, in an Indian file, singing. We got no work to do. We got no work to do. Just because we've been working a damseye too hard, now we got no work to do. As they marched round, the crowd jeered at them, and made offensive remarks. Crass said that anyone could see that they were a lot of lazy, drunken loafers who had never done a fair day's work in their lives and never intended to. We shall never get nothing like this, you know, said Philpot. Let's try the religious dodge. Not all right, agreed Harlow. What shall we give them? I know, quite Philpot, after a moment's deliberation. Let my lower lights be borne, and that always makes them start up. The three unemployed accordingly resumed their march round the room, singing mournfully, and imitating the usual whine of street-singers. Trim your feeble lamp, my brethren. Some poor sailors tempest-tossed. Struggling hard to save the arbor, and the darkness may be lost. So let thy lower lights be borne, and send our gleam across the wave. Some poor ship-drecks struggle in seaman. You may rescue, you may save. Coin-friends, said Philpot, removing his cap and addressing the crowd. We're all honest British working men, and we've been out of work for the last twenty years on account of foreign competition and over-production. We don't come out here because we're too lazy to work. It's because we can't get a job, and if it wasn't for foreign competition, the kind-hearted English capitalists would be able to sell their goods, and give us plenty of work. And if they could, I assure you that we should all be perfectly willing and content to go work in our bloody guts out for the benefit of our masters, for the rest of our lives. We're quite willing to work. That's all we ask for, plenty of work. But as we can't get it, we're forced to come out here, and ask you to spare a few coppers towards a crust of bread and a night's lodging. As Philpot held out his cap for subscriptions, some of them attempted to expectorate into it, but the more charitable put in pieces of cinder or dirt from the floor, and the kind-hearted capitalists were so affected by the sight of their misery that he gave them one of the sovereigns he had in his pocket. But as this was of no use to them, they immediately returned it to him, in exchange for one of the small squares of the necessaries of life, which they divided and greedily devoured. And when they had finished eating, they gathered round the philanthropist and sang, for he's a jolly good fellow, and afterwards, Harlow suggested that he should ask him if he would allow them to elect him to Parliament. CHAPTER XXII The following morning, Saturday, the men met about their work in gloomy silence. There were but few attempts at conversation, and no jests are singing. The tenor of the impending slaughter pervaded the house. Even those who were confident of being spared and kept on till the job was finished shared the general depression, not only out of sympathy for the doomed, but because they knew that a similar fate awaited themselves a little later on. They all waited anxiously for Nimrod to come, but hour after hour dragged slowly by, and he did not arrive. At half-past eleven some of those who had made up their minds that they were to be stood still began to hope that the slaughter was to be deferred for a few days. After all, there was plenty of work still to be done. Even if all hands were kept on, the job could scarcely be finished in another week. Anyhow, it would not be very long now before they would know one way or the other. If he did not come before twelve, it was all right. All the hands were paid by the hour, and were therefore entitled to an hour's notice. Even when Harlow were working together on the staircase, finishing the doors, another would work with white enamel. The men had not been allowed to spend the time necessary to prepare this work in a proper manner. It had not been rubbed down smooth, or properly filled up, and it had not had a sufficient number of coats of paint to make it solid white. Now that the glossy enamel was put on, the work looked rather rough and shady. It ain't half all right, ain't it? remarked Harlow sarcastically, indicating the door he had just finished. Meeston laughed. I can't understand how people pass such work, he said. No sweater did make some remark about it the other day," replied Harlow, and I heard misery tell him it was impossible to make a perfect job of such old doors. I believe that man's the biggest liar God ever made, said Easton, an opinion in which Harlow entirely concurred. They wonder what the time is, said the latter after a pause. So I don't know exactly, replied Easton, but it can't be far off twelve. He don't seem to be coming, does he? Harlow continued. No, and I shouldn't be surprised if he didn't turn up at all now. Perhaps he don't mean to stop nobody to day after all. They spoke in hushed tones, and glanced cautiously about them, fearful of being heard or observed. This is a bloody life, ain't it? Harlow said bitterly, walk on our guts out like a lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and then, as soon as they've done with you, you're chucked aside like a dirty rag. Yes, and I begin to think that a great deal of what Owen says is true. But for my part, I can't see how it's ever going to be altered. Can you? Load of I know, mate. But whether it can be altered or not, there's one thing very certain. It won't be done in our time. Neither of them seem to think that if the alteration they spoke of was to be accomplished at all, they themselves would have to help to bring it about. I wonder what they're doing about the Venetian blinds. Said Easton. Is there anyone doing them yet? I don't know. Well, you ain't heard nothing about them since the boy took them to the shop. There was quite a mystery about these blinds. About a month ago they were taken to the paint shop down at the Yard to be repainted and re-harnessed, and since then nothing had been heard of them by the men working at the cave. Perhaps a couple of us will be sent there to do them next week," remarked Harlow. Perhaps so. Most likely they'll have to be done in a bloody hurry at the last minute. Presently Harlow, who was very anxious to know what the time was, went downstairs to ask Slime. It was twenty minutes to twelve. From the window of the room where Slime was papering, one could see into the front garden. Harlow paused the moment to watch Bundy and the labourers who were still working in the trenches at the drains, and as he looked out he saw Hunter approaching the house. Harlow drew back hastily and returned to his work, and as he went he passed the word to the other men, warning them of the approach of misery. Hunter entered in his usual manner, and after crawling quietly about the house for about ten minutes he went into the drawing room. "'I see you're putting the finish and touches on that at last,' he said. "'Yes,' replied Owen, "'I've only got this bit of outlining to do now.' "'Ah, well, it looks very nice, of course,' said Misery in a voice of mourning. "'But we've lost money over it. It's taken you a week longer to do than we allowed for. You've said three weeks and it's taken you a month, and we only allowed for fifty and books of gold, but you've been in use twenty-three.' "'Well, you can hardly blame me for that, you know,' answered Owen. "'I could have got it done in the three weeks, but Mr. Ruskin told me not to hurry for the sake of a day or two, because he wanted a good job.' And he said he'd rather lose a little over it than spoil it, than ask for the extra gold. That was also his order.' "'Ah, I suppose it can't be helped,' whined Misery. "'N anyhow, I'm very glad it's done, because this kind of work don't pay. We'll have you back on the brush on Monday morning. We want to get the outside done next week if it keeps fine.' The brush alluded to by Nimrod was the large pound brush used in ordinary painting. Every now we began wandering about the house, in and out of the room, sometimes standing for several minutes silently watching the hands as they worked. As he watched them the men became nervous and awkward, each one of them dreading that he might be one of those who were to be paid off at one o'clock. At about five minutes to twelve Hunter went down to the paint shop, the scullery, where Crass was mixing some colour, and getting ready some empties to be taken to the yard. "'I suppose the bug has gone to ask Crass which one of us is the least use,' whispered Harlow to Easton. "'There wouldn't be surprised if it was you and me for two,' replied the latter in the same tone. "'You can't trust Crass, you know. For all he seems so friendly to our faces. You never know what he says behind our backs.' "'Ah, you may be sure that it won't be Sarkins or any other of the Lightweights, because Nimrod won't want to pay us sixpence hapenny for painting guttering and drainpipes, and they can do it near enough for forpence hapenny and forpence. "'They won't be able to do the sashes, though, will they?' "'I don't know much about that,' replied Easton. "'Anything seems to be good enough for Hunter.' "'Look out, here he comes,' said Harlow, and they about relapsed into silence and busy themselves with their work. Misery stood watching them for some time without speaking, and then went out of the house. They crept cautiously to the window of a room that overlooked the garden, and peeping furtively out. They saw him standing on the brink of one of the trenches, moodily watching Bundy and his mates as they toiled at the drains. Then, to their surprise and relief, he turned and went out of the gate. They just caught sight of one of the wheels of his bicycle as he rode away. The slaughter was evidently to be put off until next week. It seemed too good to be true. Perhaps he's left a message for some of us who are crass, suggested Easton. I don't think it's likely, but it's just possible.' "'Well, I'm going down to ask him,' said Harlow desperately. We may as well know the worst at once.' He returned in a few minutes with the information that Hunter had decided not to stop any one that day, because he wanted to get the outside finished during the next week if possible. The hands received this intelligence with mixed feelings, because although it left them safe for the present, it meant that nearly everybody would certainly be stopped next Saturday, if not before, whereas if a few had been sacked today, it would have made it all the better for the rest. Still, this aspect of the business did not greatly interfere with the relief that they all felt at knowing that the immediate danger was over, and the fact that it was Saturday, payday, also served to revive their drooping spirits. They all felt pretty certain that misery would return no more that day, and presently Harlow began to sing the old favourite, Work for the Night is Coming, the refrain of which was soon taken up by nearly every one in the house. Work for the Night is Coming, Work in the morning hours, Work for the Night is Coming, Work amid springing flowers, Work while the dew is sparkling, Work in the noonday sun, Work for the Night is Coming, when man's work is done. When this hymn was finished, someone else, imitating the whine of a street-singer, started, O, where's my wandering boy to-night, and then Harlow, who by some strange chance had a penny, took it out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor, the ringing of the coin being greeted with shouts of, O, thank you, kind lady, from several of the singers. This little action of Harlow's was the means of bringing a most extraordinary circumstance to light. Although it was Saturday morning, several of the others had pennies and half-pence, and at the conclusion of each verse they all followed Harlow's example, and the house resounded with the ringing of falling coins, cries of, Thank you, kind lady, thank you, sir, and God bless you, mingled with shouts of laughter. My wandering boy was followed by a choice selection of choruses of well-known music-hall songs, including Good-bye, My Blue Bell, The Honey-Suckle, and A Bee, I've Got'em, and The Church Parade, the whole being tastefully varied and interspersed with howls, shrieks, curses, cat-calls, and downward explosions of flatulence. In the midst of the uproar, Crass came upstairs. Here! He shouted, For Christ's sake, make less row! Suppose Nimrod wants to come back? Ah, he ain't coming any more to-day, said Harlow recklessly. Besides, what if he does come, cried the Easton? Who cares for him? Well, we never know, and for that matter, rushing our sweat on might come at any minute. With his crass went muttering back to the scullery, and the men relapsed into their unusual silence. At ten minutes to when they all ceased work, put away their colors and locked up the house. There were a number of empties to be taken away and left at the yard and away to the office. These crass divided amongst the others, carrying nothing himself, and then they all set out for the office to get their money, cracking jokes as they went along. Harlow and Easton enlivened the journey by coughing significantly whenever they met a young woman, and audibly making some complimentary remark about her personal appearance. If the girls smiled, each of them eagerly claimed to have seen her first, but if she appeared offended or stuck up, they suggested that she was cross-cut, or that she had been eating vinegar with a fork. Now and then they kissed their hands affectionately to servant girls whom they saw looking out of windows. Some of these girls laughed, others looked indignant, but whichever way they took it, it was equally amusing to crass and the rest, who were like a crowd of boys just let out of school. It will be remembered that there was a back door to Rushden's office. In this door was a small sliding panel or trap door with a little shelf at the bottom. The men stood in the road on the pavement outside the closed door, their money being passed out to them through the sliding panel. As there was no shelter, when it rained they occasionally got wet through while waiting to be paid. With some firms it was customary to call out the names of the men and pay them in order of seniority or ability, but there was no such system here. The man who got to the aperture first was paid first, and so on. The result was that there was always a sort of miniature battle of life, the men pushing and struggling against each other as if their lives depended upon their being paid by a certain time. On the ledge of the little window through which the money was passed there was always a hospital collection box. Every man put either his penny or twopence into this box. Of course it was not compulsory to do so, but they all did, because they felt that any man who admitted to contribute might be marked. They did not all agree with contributing to the hospital for several reasons. They knew that the doctors at the hospital made a practice of using the free patients to make experiments upon. They also knew that the so-called free patients who contribute so very largely directly into the maintenance of such institutions get scant consideration when they apply for the free treatment and are plainly given to understand that they are receiving charity. Some of the men thought that, considering the extent to which they contribute, they should be entitled to attention as a right. After receiving their wages, Crass, Easton, Bundy, Philpot, Harlow, and a few others adjourned to the cricketers for a drink, Owen went away alone, and Slyam also went on by himself. There was no use waiting for Easton to come out of the public house, because there was no knowing how long he would be. He might stay half an hour or two hours. On his way home, in accordance with his usual custom, Slyam called at the post-office to put some of his wages in the bank. Like most other Christians, he believed in taking thought for the morrow, what he was to eat and drink and wherewithal he was to be clothed. He thought it wise to lay up for himself as much treasure on earth as possible. The fact that Jesus said that his disciples were not to do these things made no more difference to Slyam's conduct than it does to the conduct of any other Christian. They all agreed that when Jesus said this, he meant something else, and all the other inconvenient things that Jesus said are disposed of in the same way. For instance, these disciples assured us that when Jesus said, Resist not evil, if a man smithy upon the right cheek, turn unto him also the left, he really meant turn to him a maxim gone, disembowel him with a bayonet or batter in his skull with the butt end of a rifle. When he said, If one take thy coat, give him thy cloak also, the Christians say that what he really meant was, if one take thy coat, give him six months hard labour. A few of the followers of Jesus admit that he really did mean what he said, but they say that the world would never be able to go on if they followed out his teachings. It is probably the effect that Jesus intended his great teachings to produce. It is altogether improbable that he wished the world to continue along its present lines. But if these pretended followers really think, as they say that they do, that the teachings of Jesus are ridiculous and impracticable, why continue the hypocritical farce of calling themselves Christians when they don't really believe in or follow them at all? As Jesus himself pointed out, there's no sense in calling them Lord, Lord, when they do not do the things that he said. This banking transaction finished, Slime resumed his homeward way, stopping only to purchase some sweets at a confectioner's. He spent a whole six months at once in this shop on a glass jar of sweets for the baby. Ruth was not surprised when she saw him come in alone. It was the usual thing since Easton had become so friendly with Kras. She made no reference to his absence, but Slime noticed with secret char grin that she was annoyed and disappointed. She was just finishing scrubbing the kitchen floor, and Little Freddy was sitting up in the baby's hide-chair that had a little shelf or table fixed in front of it. To keep him amused while she did her work, Ruth gave him a piece of bread and raspberry jam, which the child had rubbed all over his face and into a scalp, evidently being under the impression that it was something for the improvement of the complexion, or a cure for baldness. He now looked as if he had been in a fight or a railway accident. The child hailed the arrival of Slime with enthusiasm, being so overcome with emotion that he began to shed tears, and was only pacified when the man gave him the jar of sweets and took him out of the chair. Slime's presence in the house had not proved so irksome as Easton and Ruth had dreaded it would be. Indeed, at first he made a point of retiring to his own room after tea every evening until they invited him to stay downstairs in the kitchen. Nearly every Wednesday and Saturday he went to a meeting or an open-air preaching when the weather permitted, for he was one of a little zealous band of people connected with the shining-light chapel who carried on the open-air work all the year round. After a while the Eastons not only became reconciled to his presence in the house, but were even glad of it. Ruth especially would often have been very lonely if he had not been there, for it had lately become Easton's custom to spend a few evenings every week with crass at the cricketers. When at home Slime passed the time playing a mandolin or making fretwork photo frames. Ruth had the baby's photograph taken a few weeks after Slime came, and the frame he made for it was now one of the ornaments of the sitting-room. The instinctive unreasoning of versions she had first fell to him had passed away. In a quiet, unobtrusive manner he did her so many little services that she found it impossible to dislike him. At first she used to address him as Mr., but after a time she fell naturally into Easton's practice of calling him by his first name. As for the baby he made no secret of his affection for the lodger, who nursed and played with him for hours at a stretch. I'll serve your dinner now, Althe, said Ruth when she had finished grubbing the floor, but I'll wait for mine a little while. Will may come. I'm in no hurry, replied Slime. I'll go and have a wash. He may be here then. As he spoke Slime, who had been sitting by the fire nursing the baby, who was trying to swallow the jar of sweets, put the child back into the high chair, giving him one of the sticks of sweet out of the jar to keep him quiet, and went upstairs to his own room. He came down again in a quarter of an hour, and Ruth proceeded to serve his dinner, for Easton was still absent. If I was you, I wouldn't wait for Will, said Slime. He may not come for another hour or two. It's after two o'clock now, and I'm sure you must be hungry. I suppose I may as well, replied Ruth hesitatingly. He most likely gets some bread and cheese at the cricketers, same as he did last Saturday. No, most sure to, responded Slime. The baby had had his face washed while Slime was upstairs. Directly he saw his mother eating. He threw away the sugar-stick, and began to cry, holding out his arms to her. She had to take him on her lap whilst she ate her dinner, and feed him with pieces from her plate. Slime talked all the time, principally about the child. He was very fond of children, he said, and always got on well with them. But he had really never known such an intelligent child for his age as Freddie. His fellow workman would have been astonished if they had been present to hear him talking about the shape of the baby's head. They would have been astonished about the amount of knowledge he appeared to possess of the science of phrenology. Ruth, at any rate, thought he was very clever. After a time the child began to grow fretful and refused to eat. When his mother gave him a fresh piece of sugar-stick out of the jar, he threw it peevishly on the floor, and began to whimper, rubbing his face against his mother's bosom and pulling at her dress with his hands. When Slime first came, Ruth had made a practice of withdrawing from the room if he happened to be present when she wanted to nurse the child. But lately she had been less sensitive. She was sitting with her back to the window, and she partly covered the baby's face with a light shawl that she wore. By the time they finished dinner, the child had dozed off to sleep. Slime got up from his chair and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at them. Presently he spoke, referring, of course, to the baby. He's very like you, isn't he? Yes, replied Ruth. Everyone says he takes after me. Slime moved a little closer, bending down to look at the slumbering infant. You know, at first I thought he was a girl. He continued after a pause. He seems almost too pretty for a boy, doesn't he? Ruth smiled. People always take him for a girl at first, she said. Yesterday I took him with me to the monopoly stores to buy some things, and the manager would hardly believe it wasn't a girl. The man reached out his hand and stroked the baby's face. Although Slime's behaviour had hitherto always been very correct, yet there was occasionally an indefinable something in his manner when they were alone, that made Ruth feel conscious and embarrassed. Now as she glanced up at him and saw the expression on his face, she crimsoned with confusion and hastily lowered her eyes without replying to his last remark. He did not speak again, either, and they remained for several minutes in silence as if spellbound. Ruth oppressed with instinctive dread, and Slime scarcely less agitated, his face flushed and his heart beating wildly. He trembled as he stood over, hesitating and afraid. And then the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking and clanging of the gate, hurling the tardy coming of Easton. Slime went out to the scullery and, taking down the blacking-brushes from the shelf, began cleaning his boots. It was plain from Easton's appearance and manner that he had been drinking, but Ruth did not reproach him in any way. On the contrary, she seemed almost feverishly anxious to attend to his comfort. When Slime finished cleaning his boots, he went upstairs to his room, receiving a careless greeting from Easton as he passed through the kitchen. He felt nervous and apprehensive that Ruth might say something to Easton, and was not quite able to reassure himself with the reflection that, after all, there was nothing to tell. As for Ruth, she had to postpone the execution of her hastily formed resolution to tell her husband of Slime's strange behaviour. For Easton fell asleep in his chair before he had finished his dinner, and she had some difficulty in waking him sufficiently to persuade him to go upstairs to bed where he remained until tea-time. Probably he would not have come down even then if it had not been for the fact that he had made an appointment to meet Crass at the cricketers. Whilst Easton was asleep, Slime had been downstairs in the kitchen, making a fretwork frame. He played with Freddie, while Ruth prepared the tea, and he appeared to her to be so unconscious of having done anything unusual that she began to think that she must have been mistaken in imagining that he had intended anything wrong. After tea, Slime put on his best clothes to go to his usual open-air meeting. As a rule, Easton and Ruth went out marketing together every Saturday night. But this evening he could not wait for her because he had promised to meet Crass at seven o'clock, so he arranged to meet her downtown at eight. CHAPTER XXII The open-air. During the last few weeks, ever since he had been engaged on the decorating of the drawing-room, Owen had been so absorbed in his work that he had had no time for other things. Of course, all he was paid for was the time he actually worked, but really every waking moment of his time was given to the task. Now that it was finished, he felt something like one aroused from a dream to the stern realities and terrors of life. By the end of the week, the inside of the house and part of the outside would be finished, and as far as he knew, the firm had nothing else to do at present. Most of the other employers in the town were in the same plight, and it would be no use to apply even to such of them as had something to do, for they were not likely to take on a fresh man while some of the regular hands were idle. For the last month he had forgotten that he was ill. He had forgotten that when the work at the cave was finished he would have to stand off with the rest of the hands. In brief, he had forgotten for the time being that, like the majority of his fellow workmen, he was on the brink of destitution, and that a few weeks of unemployment or idleness meant starvation. As far as illness was concerned, he was even worse off than most others for the greater number of them were members of some sick benefit-club, but Owens Hillheld rendered him ineligible for membership of such societies. As he walked homeward after being paid, feeling unutterably depressed and weary, he began once more to think of the future, and the more he thought of it, the more dreadful it appeared. Even looking at it in the best possible light, supposing he did not fall too ill to work or lose his employment from some other cause, what was there to live for? He had been working all this week. These few coins that he held in his hand were the result, and he laughed bitterly as he thought of all they had to try to do with this money, and of all that would have to be left undone. As he turned the corner of Kirk Street, he saw Frankie coming to meet him, and the boy catching sight of him at the same moment began running and leapt into his arms with a joyous hoop. Mother told me to tell you to buy something for dinner before you come home, because there's nothing in the house. Did she tell you what I was to get? She did tell me something, but I forget what it was, but I know she said to get anything you like if you couldn't get what she told me to get you. Well, we'll go and see what we can find, said Owen. If I were you, I'd get a tin of salmon or some eggs and bacon, suggested Frankie as he skipped along holding his father's hand. We don't want anything that's a lot of trouble to cook, you know, because mom's not very well today. Did she up? She'd been up all the morning, but she's lying down now. We've done all the work, though. While she was making the beds, I started washing up the cups and saucers without telling her. But when she came in and saw what a mess I'd made on the floor, she had to stop me doing it, and she had to change nearly all my clothes as well, because I was almost wet through. But I managed the wiping up all right when she did the washing, and I swept the passage and put all my things tidy and made the cat's bed. And that just reminds me, will you please give me my penny now? I promised the cat I'd bring back some meat. Owen complied with the boy's request, and while the latter went to the butchers for the meat, Owen went to the grocers to get something for dinner. It being arranged that they were to meet again at the corner of the street. Owen was at the appointed place first, and after waiting some time and seeing no sign of the boy, he decided to go towards the butchers to meet him. When he came inside of the shop, he saw the boy standing outside in earnest conversation with the butcher, a jolly-looking, stoutly-built man with a very red face. Owen perceived at once that the child was trying to explain something, because Frankie had a habit of holding his head sideways and supplementing his speech by spreading out his fingers and making quaint gestures with his hands whenever he found it difficult to make himself understood. The boy was doing this now, waving one hand about with the fingers and thumb extended wide, and the other flourishing a paper parcel which evidently contained the pieces of meat. Presently the man laughed heartily, and after shaking hands with Frankie, went into the shop to attend to a customer, and Frankie rejoined his father. That butcher's a very decent sort of chap, you know, Dad? He said, he wouldn't take a penny for the meat. Is that what you were talking about to him? No, we were talking about socialism. You see, this is the second time he wouldn't take the money, and the first time he did it, I thought he must be a socialist, but I didn't ask him then. But when he did it again this time, I asked him if he was. So he said no. He said he wasn't quite mad yet. So I said, if you think that socialists are all mad, you're very much mistaken, because I'm a socialist myself, and I'm quite sure I'm not mad. So he said he knew I was all right, but he didn't understand anything about socialism himself, only that it meant sharing out all the money so that everyone could have the same. So then I told him that that's not socialism at all. And when I explained it to him properly and advised him to be one, he said he'd think about it. So I said, if you'd only do that, he'd be sure to change over to our side. And then he laughed and promised to let me know next time he sees me. And I promised to lend him some literature. You won't mind, will you, dad? Of course not. When we go home, we'll have a look through what we've got, and you can take him some of them. I know, quite frankly, eagerly, the two very best of all, Happy Britain and England for the English. He knew that these were two of the best, because he had often heard his father and mother say so, and he had noticed that whenever a socialist friend came to visit them, he was also of the same opinion. As a rule on Saturday evenings, they all three went out together to do the marketing, but on this occasion, in consequence of Nora being unwell, Owen and Frankie went by themselves. The frequent recurrence of his wife's illness served to increase Owen's pessimism with regard to the future, and the fact that he was unable to procure for her the comfort she needed was not calculated to dispel the depression that filled his mind as he reflected that there was no hope of better times. In the majority of cases, for a workman, there was no hope of advancement. After he has learned his trade and become a journeyman, all progress ceases. He is at the goal. After he's been working 10 or 20 years, he commands no more than he did at first a bare living wage, sufficient money to purchase fuel to keep the human machine working. As he grows older, he will have to be content with even less, and all the time he holds his employment at the caprice and by the favour of his masters, who regard him merely as a piece of mechanism that enables them to accumulate money, a thing which they are justified in casting aside as soon as if he comes unprofitable, and the workman must not only be an efficient money-producing machine, but he must also be the servile subject of his masters. If he's not abjectly civil and humble, if he will not submit timely to insult, indignity, and every form of contemptuous treatment that occasion makes possible, he can be dismissed and replaced in a moment by one of the crowd of unemployed who are always waiting for his job. This is the status of the majority of the heirs of all the ages under the present system. As he walked through the crowded streets, holding Frankie by the hand, Owen taught that to voluntarily continue to live such a life as this be tokened a degraded mind. To allow one's child to grow up to suffer it in turn was an act of callous criminal cruelty. In this matter he held different opinions from most of his fellow workmen. The greater number of them were quite willing and content that their children should be made into beasts of burden for the benefit of other people. As he looked down upon the little frail figure trotting along by his side, Owen thought for the thousandth time that it would be far better for the child to die now. He would never be fit to be a soldier in the ferocious Christian battle of life. Then he remembered Nora. Although she was always brave and never complained, he knew that her life was one of almost incessant physical suffering. And as for himself, he was tired and sick of it all. He had been working like a slave all his life and there was nothing to show for it. There never would be anything to show for it. He thought of the man who had killed his wife and children. The jury had returned the usual verdict, temporary insanity. It never seemed to occur to these people that the truth was that to continue to suffer hopelessly like this was evidence of permanent insanity. But supposing that bodily death was not the end, supposing there was some kind of God. If there were, it wasn't unreasonable to think that the being who was capable of creating such a world as this and who seemed so callously indifferent to the unhappiness of his creatures would be also capable of devising and creating the other hell that most people believed in. Although it was December, the evening was mild and clear. The full moon deluged the town with silvery light and the cloudless sky was jeweled with myriads of glittering stars. Looking out into the unfathomable infinity of space, Owen wondered what manner of being or power it was that had originated and sustained all this. Considered as an explanation of the existence of the universe, the orthodox Christian religion was too absurd to merit a second thought. But then every other conceivable hypothesis was also ultimately unsatisfactory and even ridiculous. To believe that the universe as it is now has existed from all eternity without any cause is surely ridiculous. But to say that it was created by a being who existed without a cause from all eternity is equally ridiculous. In fact, it was only postponing the difficulty one stage. Evolution was not more satisfactory because although it was undoubtedly true as far as it went, it only went part of the way, leaving the great question still unanswered by assuming the existence in the beginning of the elements of matter without a cause. The question remained unanswered because it was unanswerable. Regarding this problem, a man was but an infant crying in the night, an infant crying for the light and with no language but a cry. All the same it did not follow because one could not explain the mystery oneself, that it was right to try to believe an unreasonable explanation offered by someone else. But although he reasoned like this, one could not help longing for something to believe, for some hope for the future, something to compensate for the unhappiness of the present. In one sense, he thought how good it would be if Christianity were true, and after all the sorrow there was to be an eternity of happiness such as it had never entered into the heart of a man to conceive. If only that were true, nothing else would matter. How contemptible and insignificant the very worst that could happen here would be if he knew that his life was only a short journey that was to terminate at the beginning of an eternity of joy. But no one really believed this, and as for those who pretended to do so, their lives showed that they did not believe it at all. Their greed and inhumanity, their ferocious determination to secure for themselves the good things of this world were conclusive proofs of their hypocrisy and infidelity. Dad, said Frankie suddenly, let's go over here with that man's saying. He pointed across the way to where, a little distance back from the main road, just round the corner of a side street, a group of people were standing and circling a large lantern fixed on the top of a pole, about seven feet high, which was being held up by one of the men. A bright light was burning inside this lantern, and on the pane of white obscured glass which formed the sides, visible from where Owen and Frankie were standing, was written in bold, plain letters that were readable even at that distance, the text. Be not deceived, God is not mocked. The man whose voice had attracted Frankie's attention was reading out a verse of a hymn. I hear the voice that Jesus say, behold, I freely give, the living water, thirsty one, stoop down and drink and live. I came to Jesus and I drank of that life-giving stream. My torseless quenched, my soul revived, and now I live in him. The individual who gave out this hymn 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 hung 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 the huge bony hands were gnarled and knotted. Regardless of the season, he had removed his bowler hat, revealing his forehead, which was high, flat and narrow. His nose was a large, fleshy, hawk-like beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared into drooping mustache that concealed his mouth when he was not speaking. But the vast extent of which was perceptible now as he opened it to call out the words of the hymn. 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, especially at the back. The ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to make a full-faced drawing of this cadaverous visage, it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin. As Owen and Frankie drew near, the boy tugged at his father's hand and whispered, "'Dad, that's the teacher at the Sunday school where I went that day with Charlie and Elsie.' Owen looked quickly and saw that it was Hunter. As Hunter ceased reading out the words of the hymn, the little company of evangelists began to sing, accompanied by the strains of a small but peculiarly sweet-toned organ. A few persons in the crowd joined in, the words being familiar to them. During the singing their faces were as study. They all looked so profoundly solemn and miserable, as if they were a gang of condemned criminals waiting to be led forth to execution. The great number of the people standing around appeared to be listening more out of idle curiosity than anything else, and two well-dressed young men, evidently strangers and visitors to the town, amused themselves by making audible remarks about the texts on the lantern. There was also a shabbily dressed semi-drunk man in a battered bowler hat who stood on the inner edge of the crowd, almost in the ring itself, with folded arms and an expression of scorn. He had a very thin pale face with a large high-bridge nose and bore a striking resemblance to the first duke of Wellington. As the singing proceeded, the scornful expression faded from the visage of the semi-drunk, and he not only joined in, but unfolded his arms and began waving them about as if he were conducting the music. By the time the singing was over, a considerable crowd had gathered, and then one of the evangelists, the same man who had given out the hymn, stepped into the middle of the ring. He had evidently been offended by the unseemly conduct of the two well-dressed young men, for after a preliminary glance round upon the crowd, he fixed his gaze upon the pair and immediately launched out upon a long tirade against what he called infidelity. Then, having heartily denounced all those who, as he put it, refused to believe, he proceeded to ridicule those half-and-half believers who, while professing to believe the Bible, rejected the doctrine of hell, that the existence of a place of eternal torture is taught in the Bible, he tried to prove by a long succession of texts. As he proceeded, he became very excited, and the contemptuous laughter of the two unbelievers seemed to make him worse. He shouted and raved, literally foaming at the mouth and glaring in a frenzied manner around upon the faces of the crowd. "'There is a hell,' he shouted, and, understand this clearly, the wicked shall be turned into hell. He that believeth shall not be damned.' "'Well, then, you'll stand a very good chance of being damned also,' exclaimed one of the two young men. "'How do you make that out?' demanded the preacher, wiping the froth from his lips and the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. "'Why, because you don't believe the Bible yourselves.' Nimrod and the other evangelists laughed, and looked pityingly on the young man. "'Ah, my dear brother,' said Misery, "'that's your delusion. "'I thank God I do believe it, every word.' "'Name men,' fervently ejaculated Slime and several of the other disciples. "'No, no, you don't,' replied the other, "'and I can prove you don't.' "'Prove it, then,' said Nimrod. "'Read out the seventeenth and eighteenth verses "'of the sixteenth chapter of Mark,' said the Disturber of the meeting. The crowd began to close in on the centre, the better to hear the dispute. Misery, standing close to the lantern, found the verse mentioned and read aloud as follows. "'And these signs shall follow them that believe. "'In my name they shall cast out devils, "'they shall speak with new tongues, "'they shall take up serpents, "'and if they drink any deadly thing, "'it shall not hurt them, "'and they shall lay hands on the sick, "'and they shall recover.' "'Well, you can't heal the sick. "'Neither can you speak new languages or cast out devils, "'but perhaps you can drink deadly things "'without suffering harm.' "'The speaker here suddenly drew from his waistcoat pocket "'a small glass bottle, "'and held it out towards Misery, "'who shrank from it with horror as he continued. "'I have here a most deadly poison. "'There is in this bottle sufficient strickening "'to kill a dozen unbelievers. "'Drake it, and if it doesn't harm, "'you will know that you really are a believer, "'and that what you believe in is the truth.' "'Ear, ere,' said the semi-drunk, "'who had listened to the progress of this argument "'with great interest. "'Ear, ere, that is fair enough. "'Get it across your chest.' "'Some of the people in the crowd began to laugh, "'and voices were heard from several quarters "'calling upon Misery to drink the strict name. "'Now, if you'll allow me, "'you'll explain to you what that diverse means,' "'said Hunter, if you read it carefully with a context. "'I don't want you to tell me what it means,' "'interrupted the other. "'I'm able to read it myself. "'Whatever you may say or pretend to think it means, "'I know what it says.' "'Ear, ere,' shouted several voices, "'and angry cries of, "'why don't you drink the poison?' "'began to be heard from the outskirts of the crowd. "'Are you going to drink it or not?' "'demanded the man with the bottle. "'No, I'm not such a fool,' retorted Misery fiercely, "'and a loud shout of laughter broke from the crowd.' "'And perhaps some of the other believers would like to,' "'said the young man sneeringly, "'looking around upon the disciples. "'As no one seemed desirous of availing himself of this offer, "'the man returned the bottle regretfully to his pocket.' "'I suppose,' said Misery, "'regarding the owner of the strict name with a snare, "'I suppose you're one of them there hired critics, "'what's going round the country doing a devil's work?' "'I want to know, is this ere?' said the semi-drunk, "'suddenly advancing into the middle of the ring "'and speaking in a loud voice. "'Where did Cain get his wife from?' "'Don't answer him, brother Hunter,' said Mr. Didlam, one of the disciples. "'This was rather an unnecessary piece of advice, "'because Misery did not know the answer.' "'An individual in a long black garment, the minister, "'now whispered something to Miss Didlam, "'who was seated at the organ, whereupon she began to play "'and the believers began to sing, as loud as they could, "'so as to drown out the voices of the disturbers of the meeting, "'a song called, Oh, that will be glory for me.' "'After this hymn, the minister invited a shabbily dressed brother, "'a working-man member of the PSA to say a few words, "'and the latter accordingly stepped into the centre of the ring "'and held forth as follows. "'My dear friends, I thank God to-night "'that I can stand here tonight, out in the open air, "'and tell all you dear people tonight "'of all what's been done for me. "'Oh, my dear friends, I am so glad tonight "'as I can't stand here tonight, "'and say, as all my sins is under the blood tonight, "'and what he's done for me, he can do for you tonight. "'If you'll only do as I done, "'and just acknowledge yourself as a lost sinner.' "'Yes, that's the only way,' shouted Nimrod. "'Amen,' cried all the other believers. "'If you'll only come to him tonight in the same way as I done, "'you'll see what he's done for me, and he can do for you. "'Oh, my dear friends, don't go putting it off from day to day "'like a door turning on its hinges. "'Don't put it off to some more convenient time, "'because you may never have another chance. "'In that being often reproved, "'ardened his neck shall be suddenly cut off "'and that without remedy. "'Oh, come to him tonight for his namesake, "'and to him we'll give all the glory. "'Amen.' "'Amen,' said the believers fervently, "'and then the man who was dressed in the long garment "'and treated all those who were not yet true believers and doers "'of the word to join earnestly and meaningly "'in the singing of the closing hymn, "'which he was about to read out to them. "'The semi-drunk obligingly conducted as before, "'and the crowd faded away with the last notes of the music.' End of Chapter 23