The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

‘Yes, a little,’ replied the boy, shamefacedly.

‘Well,’ said Crass, giving him the leaf he had torn out of the pocket-book, ‘you can go to the yard and git them things and put ‘em on a truck and dror it up ‘ere, and git back as soon as you can. Just look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. I don’t want you to make no mistakes.’

Bert took the paper and with some difficulty read as follows:

1 pare steppes 8 foot

1/2 galoon Plastor off perish

1 pale off witewosh

12 lbs wite led

1/2 galoon Linsede Hoil

Do. Do. turps

‘I can make it out all right.’

‘You’d better bring the big truck,’ said Crass, ‘because I want you to take the Venetian blinds with you on it when you take it back tonight. They’ve got to be painted at the shop.’

‘All right.’

When the boy had departed Crass took a stroll through the house to see how the others were getting on. Then he returned to the kitchen and proceeded with his work.

Crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rather above middle height and rather stout. He had a considerable quantity of curly black hair and wore a short beard of the same colour. His head was rather large, but low, and flat on the top. When among his cronies he was in the habit of referring to his obesity as the result of good nature and a contented mind. Behind his back other people attributed it to beer, some even going so far as to nickname him the ‘tank’.

There was no work of a noisy kind being done this morning. Both the carpenters and the bricklayers having been taken away, temporarily, to another ‘job’. At the same time there was not absolute silence: occasionally Crass could hear the voices of the other workmen as they spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. Now and then Harlow’s voice rang through the house as he sang snatches of music-hall songs or a verse of a Moody and Sankey hymn, and occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupted the singer with squeals and catcalls. Once or twice Crass was on the point of telling them to make less row: there would be a fine to do if Nimrod came and heard them. Just as he had made up his mind to tell them to stop the noise, it ceased of itself and he heard loud whispers:

‘Look out! Someone’s comin’.’

The house became very quiet.

Crass put out his pipe and opened the window and the back door to get rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. Then he shifted the pair of steps noisily, and proceeded to work more quickly than before. Most likely it was old Misery.

He worked on for some time in silence, but no one came to the kitchen: whoever it was must have gone upstairs. Crass listened attentively. Who could it be? He would have liked to go to see whom it was, but at the same time, if it were Nimrod, Crass wished to be discovered at work. He therefore waited a little longer and presently he heard the sound of voices upstairs but was unable to recognize them. He was just about to go out into the passage to listen, when whoever it was began coming downstairs. Crass at once resumed his work. The footsteps came along the passage leading to the kitchen: slow, heavy, ponderous footsteps, but yet the sound was not such as would be made by a man heavily shod. It was not Misery, evidently.

As the footsteps entered the kitchen, Crass looked round and beheld a very tall, obese figure, with a large, fleshy, coarse-featured, clean-shaven face, and a great double chin, the complexion being of the colour and appearance of the fat of uncooked bacon. A very large fleshy nose and weak-looking pale blue eyes, the slightly inflamed lids being almost destitute of eye-lashes. He had large fat feet cased in soft calfskin boots, with drab-coloured spats. His overcoat, heavily trimmed with sealskin, reached just below the knees, and although the trousers were very wide they were filled by the fat legs within, the shape of the calves being distinctly perceptible. Even as the feet seemed about to burst the uppers of the boots, so the legs appeared to threaten the trousers with disruption. This man was so large that his figure completely filled up the doorway, and as he came in he stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glittering silk hat on his head. One gloved hand was thrust into the pocket of the overcoat and in the other he carried a small Gladstone bag.

When Crass beheld this being, he touched his cap respectfully.

‘Good morning, sir!’

‘Good morning. They told me upstairs that I should find the foreman here. Are you the foreman?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see you’re getting on with the work here.’

‘Ho yes, sir, we’re beginning to make a bit hov a show now, sir,’ replied Crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth.

‘Mr Rushton isn’t here yet, I suppose?’

‘No, sir: ‘e don’t horfun come hon the job hin the mornin’, sir; ‘e generally comes hafternoons, sir, but Mr ‘Unter’s halmost sure to be ‘ere presently, sir.’

‘It’s Mr Rushton I want to see: I arranged to meet him here at ten o’clock; but’ – looking at his watch – ‘I’m rather before my time.’

‘He’ll be here presently, I suppose,’ added Mr Sweater. ‘I’ll just take a look round till he comes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ responded Crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went out of the room.

Hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, Crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what progress had so far been made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered only by monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen.

Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman’s room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the price of a little light refreshment.

‘I think,’ he remarked, ‘that we oughter see-ise this ‘ere tuneropperty to touch ‘im for an allowance.’

‘We won’t git nothin’ out of ‘im, mate,’ returned Newman. “E’s a red-‘ot teetotaller.’

‘That don’t matter. ‘Ow’s ‘e to know that we buys beer with it? We might ‘ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all ‘e knows!’

Mr Sweater now began ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently came into the room where Philpot was. The latter greeted him with respectful cordiality:

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Good morning. You’ve begun painting up here, then.’

‘Yes, sir, we’ve made a start on it,’ replied Philpot, affably.

‘Is this door wet?’ asked Sweater, glancing apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the great man, ‘the paint is wet, sir, but the painters is dry.’

‘Confound it!’ exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter part of Philpot’s reply. ‘I’ve got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.’

‘Oh, that’s nothing, sir,’ cried Philpot, secretly delighted. ‘I’ll get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just ‘arf a mo!’

He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and there was a can of turps in the room. Moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint from Sweater’s sleeve.

‘It’s all orf now, sir,’ he remarked, as he rubbed the place with a dry part of the rag. ‘The smell of the turps will go away in about a hour’s time.’

‘Thanks,’ said Sweater.

Philpot looked at him wistfully, but Sweater evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room.

‘I see they’ve put a new piece of skirting here,’ he observed.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Newman, who came into the room just then to get the turps. ‘The old piece was all to bits with dry-rot.’

‘I feel as if I ‘ad a touch of the dry-rot meself, don’t you?’ said Philpot to Newman, who smiled feebly and cast a sidelong glance at Sweater, who did not appear to notice the significance of the remark, but walked out of the room and began climbing up to the next floor, where Harlow and Sawkins were working.

‘Well, there’s a bleeder for yer!’ said Philpot with indignation. ‘After all the trouble I took to clean ‘is coat! Not a bloody stiver! Well, it takes the cake, don’t it?’

‘I told you ‘ow it would be, didn’t I?’ replied Newman.

‘P’raps I didn’t make it plain enough,’ said Philpot, thoughtfully. ‘We must try to get some of our own back somehow, you know.’

Going out on the landing he called softly upstairs:

‘I say, Harlow.’

‘Hallo,’ said that individual, looking over the banisters.

“Ow are yer getting on up there?’

‘Oh, all right, you know.’

‘Pretty dry job, ain’t it?’ Philpot continued, raising his voice a little and winking at Harlow.

‘Yes, it is, rather,’ replied Harlow with a grin.

‘I think this would be a very good time to take up the collection, don’t you?’

‘Yes, it wouldn’t be a bad idear.’

‘Well, I’ll put me cap on the stairs,’ said Philpot, suiting the action to the word. ‘You never knows yer luck. Things is gettin’ a bit serious on this floor, you know; my mate’s fainted away once already!’

Philpot now went back to his room to await developments: but as Sweater made no sign, he returned to the landing and again hailed Harlow.

‘I always reckon a man can work all the better after ‘e’s ‘ad a drink: you can seem to get over more of it, like.’

‘Oh, that’s true enough,’ responded Harlow. ‘I’ve often noticed it meself.’

Sweater came out of the front bedroom and passed into one of the back rooms without any notice of either of the men.

‘I’m afraid it’s a frost, mate,’ Harlow whispered, and Philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little while he came out again and once more accosted Harlow.

‘I knowed a case once,’ he said in a melancholy tone, ‘where a chap died – of thirst – on a job just like this; and at the inquest the doctor said as ‘arf a pint would ‘a saved ‘im!’

‘It must ‘ave been a norrible death,’ remarked Harlow.

“Orrible ain’t the work for it, mate,’ replied Philpot mournfully. ‘It was something chronic!’

After this final heartrending appeal to Sweater’s humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their efforts, they had done their best. They had placed the matter fully and fairly before him: nothing more could be said: the issue now rested entirely with him.

But it was all in vain. Sweater either did not or would not understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the cap which Philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floor.

9 Who is to Pay?

Sweater reached the hall almost at the same moment that Rushton entered by the front door. They greeted each other in a friendly way and after a few remarks concerning the work that was being done, they went into the drawing-room where Owen and Easton were and Rushton said:

‘What about this room? Have you made up your mind what you’re going to have done to it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Sweater; ‘but I’ll tell you about that afterwards. What I’m anxious about is the drains. Have you brought the plans?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s it going to cost?’

‘Just wait a minute,’ said Rushton, with a slight gesture calling Sweater’s attention to the presence of the two workmen. Sweater understood.

‘You might leave that for a few minutes, will you?’ Rushton continued, addressing Owen and Easton. ‘Go and get on with something else for a little while.’

When they were alone, Rushton closed the door and remarked: ‘It’s always as well not to let these fellows know more than is necessary.’

Sweater agreed.

‘Now this ‘ere drain work is really two separate jobs,’ said Rushton. ‘First, the drains of the house: that is, the part of the work that’s actually on your ground. When that’s done, there will ‘ave to be a pipe carried right along under this private road to the main road to connect the drains of the house with the town main. You follow me?’

‘Perfectly. What’s it going to cost for the lot?’

‘For the drains of the house, £25.0.0. and for the connecting pipe £30.0.0. £55.0.0. for the lot.’

“Urn! That the lowest you can do it for, eh?’

‘That’s the lowest. I’ve figured it out most carefully, the time and materials, and that’s practically all I’m charging you.’

The truth of the matter was that Rushton had had nothing whatever to do with estimating the cost of this work: he had not the necessary knowledge to do so. Hunter had drawn the plans, calculated the cost and prepared the estimate.

‘I’ve been thinking over this business lately,’ said Sweater, looking at Rushton with a cunning leer. I don’t see why I should have to pay for the connecting pipe. The Corporation ought to pay for that. What do you say?’

Rushton laughed, ‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied.

‘I think we could arrange it all right, don’t you?’ Sweater went on. ‘Anyhow, the work will have to be done, so you’d better let ‘em get on with it. £55.0.0. covers both jobs, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, all right, you get on with it and we’ll see what can be done with the Corporation later on.’

‘I don’t suppose we’ll find ‘em very difficult to deal with,’ said Rushton with a grin, and Sweater smiled agreement.

As they were passing through the hall they met Hunter, who had just arrived. He was rather surprised to see them, as he knew nothing of their appointment. He wished them ‘Good morning’ in an awkward hesitating undertone as if he were doubtful how his greeting would be received. Sweater nodded slightly, but Rushton ignored him altogether and Nimrod passed on looking and feeling like a disreputable cur that had just been kicked.

As Sweater and Rushton walked together about the house, Hunter hovered about them at a respectful distance, hoping that presently some notice might be taken of him. His dismal countenance became even longer than usual when he observed that they were about to leave the house without appearing even to know that he was there. However, just as they were going out, Rushton paused on the threshold and called him:

‘Mr Hunter!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Nimrod ran to him like a dog taken notice of by his master: if he had possessed a tail, it is probable that he would have wagged it. Rushton gave him the plans with an intimation that the work was to be proceeded with.

For some time after they were gone. Hunter crawled silently about the house, in and out of the rooms, up and down the corridors and the staircases. After a while he went into the room where Newman was and stood quietly watching him for about ten minutes as he worked. The man was painting the skirting, and just then he came to a part that was split in several places, so he took his knife and began to fill the cracks with putty. He was so nervous under Hunter’s scrutiny that his hand trembled to such an extent that it took him about twice as long as it should have done, and Hunter told him so with brutal directness.

‘Never mind about puttying up such little cracks as them!’ he shouted. ‘Fill ‘em up with the paint. We can’t afford to pay you for messing about like that!’

Newman made no reply.

Misery found no excuse for bullying anyone else, because they were all tearing into it for all they were worth. As he wondered up and down the house like an evil spirit, he was followed by the furtively unfriendly glances of the men, who cursed him in their hearts as he passed.

He sneaked into the drawing-room and after standing with a malignant expression, silently watching Owen and Easton, he came out again without having uttered a word.

Although he frequently acted in this manner, yet somehow today the circumstance worried Owen considerably. He wondered uneasily what it meant, and began to feel vaguely apprehensive. Hunter’s silence seemed more menacing than his speech.

10 The Long Hill

Bert arrived at the shop and with as little delay as possible loaded up the handcart with the things he had been sent for and started on the return journey. He got on all right in the town, because the roads were level and smooth, being paved with wood blocks. If it had only been like that all the way it would have been easy enough, although he was a very small boy for such a large truck, and such a heavy load. While the wood road lasted the principal trouble he experienced was the difficulty of seeing where he was going, the handcart being so high and himself so short. The pair of steps on the cart of course made it all the worse in that respect. However, by taking great care he managed to get through the town all right, although he narrowly escaped colliding with several vehicles, including two or three motor cars and an electric tram, besides nearly knocking over an old woman who was carrying a large bundle of washing. From time to time he saw other small boys of his acquaintance, some of them former schoolmates. Some of these passed by carrying heavy loads of groceries in baskets, and others with wooden trays full of joints of meat.

Unfortunately, the wood paving ceased at the very place where the ground began to rise. Bert now found himself at the beginning of a long stretch of macadamized road which rose slightly and persistently throughout its whole length. Bert had pushed a cart up this road many times before and consequently knew the best method of tackling it. Experience had taught him that a frontal attack on this hill was liable to failure, so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of making diagonal movements, crossing the road repeatedly from right to left and left to right, after the fashion of a sailing ship tacking against the wind, and halting about every twenty yards to rest and take breath. The distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by his powers of endurance as by the various objects by the wayside – the lampposts, for instance. During each rest he used to look ahead and select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next stopping-place, and when he started again he used to make the most strenuous and desperate efforts to reach it.

Generally the goal he selected was too distant, for he usually overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to give in he ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure.

On the present occasion, during one of these rests, it flashed upon him that he was being a very long time: he would have to buck up or he would get into a row: he was not even half-way up the road yet!

Selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to reach it before resting again.

The cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece at the end, forming the handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and, placing his chest against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before him.

It seemed to get heavier and heavier every foot of the way. His whole body, but especially the thighs and the calves of his legs, pained terribly, but still he strained and struggled and said to himself that he would not give in until he reached the lamp-post.

Finding that the handle hurt his chest, he lowered it to his waist, but that being even more painful he raised it again to his chest, and struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart beating wildly.

The cart became heavier and heavier. After a while it seemed to the boy as if there were someone at the front of it trying to push him back down the hill. This was such a funny idea that for a moment he felt inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as soon as it came and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold out long enough to reach the lamp-post, after all. Clenching his teeth, he made a tremendous effort and staggered forward two or three more steps and then – the cart stopped. He struggled with it despairingly for a few seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone out of him: his legs felt so weak that he nearly collapsed on to the ground, and the cart began to move backwards down the hill. He was just able to stick to it and guide it so that it ran into and rested against the kerb, and then he stood holding it in a half-dazed way, very pale, saturated with perspiration, and trembling. His legs in particular shook so much that he felt that unless he could sit down for a little, he would fall down.

He lowered the handle very carefully so as not to spill the whitewash out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the cart, then, sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wheel.

A little way down the road was a church with a clock in the tower. It was five minutes to ten by this clock. Bert said to himself that when it was ten he would make another start.

Whilst he was resting he thought of many things. Just behind that church was a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with other boys to catch effets. If it were not for the cart he would go across now, to see whether there were any there still. He remembered that he had been very eager to leave school and go to work, but they used to be fine old times after all.

Then he thought of the day when his mother took him to Mr Rushton’s office to ‘bind’ him. He remembered that day very vividly: it was almost a year ago. How nervous he had been! His hand had trembled so that he was scarcely able to hold the pen. And even when it was all over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. His mother had been very nervous in the office also, and when they got home she cried a lot and held him close to her and kissed him and called him her poor little fatherless boy, and said she hoped he would be good and try to learn. And then he cried as well, and promised her that he would do his best. He reflected with pride that he was keeping his promise about being a good boy and trying to learn: in fact, he knew a great deal about the trade already – he could paint back doors as well as anybody! and railings as well. Owen had taught him lots of things and had promised to do some patterns of graining for him so that he might practise copying them at home in the evenings. Owen was a fine chap. Bert resolved that he would tell him what Crass had been saying to Easton. Just fancy, the cheek of a rotter like Crass, trying to get Owen the sack! It would be more like it if Crass was to be sacked himself, so that Owen could be the foreman.

One minute to ten.

With a heavy heart Bert watched the clock. His legs were still aching very badly. He could not see the hands of the clock moving, but they were creeping on all the same. Now, the minute hand was over the edge of the number, and he began to deliberate whether he might not rest for another five minutes? But he had been such a long time already on his errand that he dismissed the thought. The minute hand was now upright and it was time to go on.

Just as he was about to get up a harsh voice behind him said:

‘How much longer are you going to sit there?’

Bert started up guiltily, and found himself confronted by Mr Rushton, who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst close by towered the colossal figure of the obese Sweater, the expression on his greasy countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such an appalling example of juvenile depravity.

‘What do you mean by sich conduct?’ demanded Rushton, indignantly. ‘The idear of sitting there like that when most likely the men are waiting for them things?’

Crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made no reply.

‘You’ve been there a long time,’ continued Rushton, ‘I’ve been watchin’ you all the time I’ve been comin’ down the road.’

Bert tried to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable to articulate a single word.

‘You know, that’s not the way to get on in life, my boy,’ observed Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully.

‘Get along with you at once!’ Rushton said, roughly. ‘I’m surprised at yer! The idear! Sitting down in my time!’