MIA > Library > Tressell > Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists
There was once a job at a shop that had been a high-class restaurant kept by a renowned Italian chef. It had been known as
‘MACARONI’S ROYAL ITALIAN CAFÉ’
Situated on the Grand Parade, it was a favourite resort of the ‘Elite’, who frequented it for afternoon tea and coffee and for little suppers after the theatre.
It had plate-glass windows, resplendent with gilding, marble-topped tables with snow white covers, vases of flowers, and all the other appurtenances of glittering cut glass and silver. The obsequious waiters were in evening dress, the walls were covered with lofty plate-glass mirrors in carved and gilded frames, and at certain hours of the day and night an orchestra consisting of two violins and a harp discoursed selections of classic music.
But of late years the business had not been paying, and finally the proprietor went bankrupt and was sold out. The place was shut up for several months before the shop was let to a firm of dealers in fancy articles, and the other part was transformed into flats.
Rushton had the contract for the work. When the men went there to ‘do it up’ they found the interior of the house in a state of indescribable filth: the ceilings discoloured with smoke and hung with cobwebs, the wallpapers smeared and black with grease, the handrails and the newel posts of the staircase were clammy with filth, and the edges of the doors near the handles were blackened with greasy dirt and finger-marks. The tops of the skirtings, the mouldings of the doors, the sashes of the windows and the corners of the floors were thick with the accumulated dust of years.
In one of the upper rooms which had evidently been used as a nursery or playroom for the children of the renowned chef, the wallpaper for about two feet above the skirting was blackened with grease and ornamented with childish drawings made with burnt sticks and blacklead pencils, the door being covered with similar artistic efforts, to say nothing of some rude attempts at carving, evidently executed with an axe or a hammer. But all this filth was nothing compared with the unspeakable condition of the kitchen and scullery, a detailed description of which would cause the blood of the reader to curdle, and each particular hair of his head to stand on end.
Let it suffice to say that the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the paintwork, the gas-stove, the kitchen range, the dresser and everything else were uniformly absolutely and literally – black. And the black was composed of soot and grease.
In front of the window there was a fixture – a kind of bench or table, deeply scored with marks of knives like a butcher’s block. The sill of the window was about six inches lower than the top of the table, so that between the glass of the lower sash of the window, which had evidently never been raised, and the back of the table, there was a long narrow cavity or trough, about six inches deep, four inches wide and as long as the width of the window, the sill forming the bottom of the cavity.
This trough was filled with all manner of abominations: fragments of fat and decomposed meat, legs of rabbits and fowls, vegetable matter, broken knives and forks, and hair: and the glass of the window was caked with filth of the same description.
This job was the cause of the sacking of the Semi-drunk and another man named Bill Bates, who were sent into the kitchen to clean it down and prepare it for painting and distempering.
They commenced to do it, but it made them feel so ill that they went out and had a pint each, and after that they made another start at it. But it was not long before they felt that it was imperatively necessary to have another drink. So they went over to the pub, and this time they had two pints each. Bill paid for the first two and then the Semi-drunk refused to return to work unless Bill would consent to have another pint with him before going back. When they had drunk the two pints, they decided – in order to save themselves the trouble and risk of coming away from the job – to take a couple of quarts back with them in two bottles, which the landlord of the pub lent them, charging twopence on each bottle, to be refunded when they were returned.
When they got back to the job they found the ‘coddy’ in the kitchen, looking for them and he began to talk and grumble, but the Semi-drunk soon shut him up: he told him he could either have a drink out of one of the bottles or a punch in the bloody nose – whichever he liked! Or if he did not fancy either of these alternatives, he could go to hell!
As the ‘coddy’ was a sensible man he took the beer and advised them to pull themselves together and try to get some work done before Misery came, which they promised to do.
When the ‘coddy’ was gone they made another attempt at the work. Misery came a little while afterwards and began shouting at them because he said he could not see what they had done. It looked as if they had been asleep all the morning: Here it was nearly ten o’clock, and as far as he could see, they had done Nothing!
When he was gone they drank the rest of the beer and then they began to feel inclined to laugh. What did they care for Hunter or Rushton either? To hell with both of ’em! They left off scraping and scrubbing, and began throwing buckets of water over the dresser and the walls, laughing uproariously all the time.
‘We’ll show the b—s how to wash down paintwork!’ shouted the Semi-drunk, as he stood in the middle of the room and hurled a pailful of water over the door of the cupboard. ‘Bring us another bucket of water, Bill.’
Bill was out in the scullery filling his pail under the tap, and laughing so much that he could scarcely stand. As soon as it was full he passed it to the Semi-drunk, who threw it bodily, pail and all, on to the bench in front of the window, smashing one of the panes of glass. The water poured off the table and all over the floor.
Bill brought the next pailful in and threw it at the kitchen door, splitting one of the panels from top to bottom, and then they threw about half a dozen more pailfuls over the dresser.
‘We’ll show the b—rs how to clean paintwork,’ they shouted, as they hurled the buckets at the walls and doors.
By this time the floor was deluged with water, which mingled with the filth and formed a sea of mud.
They left the two taps running in the scullery and as the waste pipe of the sink was choked up with dirt, the sink filled up and overflowed like a miniature Niagara.
The water ran out under the doors into the back-yard, and along the passage out to the front door. But Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk remained in the kitchen, smashing the pails at the walls and doors and the dresser, and cursing and laughing hysterically.
They had just filled the two buckets and were bringing them into the kitchen when they heard Hunter’s voice in the passage, shouting out inquiries as to where all that water came from. Then they heard him advancing towards them and they stood waiting for him with the pails in their hands, and directly he opened the door and put his head into the room they let fly the two pails at him. Unfortunately, they were too drunk and excited to aim straight. One pail struck the middle rail of the door and the other the wall by the side of it.
Misery hastily shut the door again and ran upstairs, and presently the ‘coddy’ came down and called out to them from the passage.
They went out to see what he wanted, and he told them that Misery had gone to the office to get their wages ready: they were to make out their time sheets and go for their money at once. Misery had said that if they were not there in ten minutes he would have the pair of them locked up.
The Semi-drunk said that nothing would suit them better than to have all their pieces at once – they had spent all their money and wanted another drink. Bill Bates concurred, so they borrowed a piece of blacklead pencil from the ‘coddy’ and made out their time sheets, took off their aprons, put them into their tool bags, and went to the office for their money, which Misery passed out to them through the trap-door.
The news of this exploit spread all over the town during that day and evening, and although it was in July, the next morning at six o’clock there were half a dozen men waiting at the yard to ask Misery if there was ‘any chance of a job’.
Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk had had their spree and had got the sack for it and most of the chaps said it served them right. Such conduct as that was going too far.
Most of them would have said the same thing no matter what the circumstances might have been. They had very little sympathy for each other at any time.
Often, when, for instance, one man was sent away from one ‘job’ to another, the others would go into his room and look at the work he had been doing, and pick out all the faults they could find and show them to each other, making all sorts of ill-natured remarks about the absent one meanwhile. ‘Jist run yer nose over that door, Jim,’ one would say in a tone of disgust. ‘Wotcher think of it? Did yer ever see sich a mess in yer life? Calls hisself a painter!’ And the other man would shake his head sadly and say that although the one who had done it had never been up to much as a workman, he could do it a bit better than that if he liked, but the fact was that he never gave himself time to do anything properly: he was always tearing his bloody guts out! Why, he’d only been in this room about four hours from start to finish! He ought to have a watering cart to follow him about, because he worked at such a hell of a rate you couldn’t see him for dust! And then the first man would reply that other people could do as they liked, but for his part, he was not going to tear his guts out for nobody!
The second man would applaud these sentiments and say that he wasn’t going to tear his out either: and then they would both go back to their respective rooms and tear into the work for all they were worth, making the same sort of ‘job’ as the one they had been criticizing, and afterwards, when the other’s back was turned, each of them in turn would sneak into the other’s room and criticize it and point out the faults to anyone else who happened to be near at hand.
Harlow was working at the place that had been Macaroni’s Cafe when one day a note was sent to him from Hunter at the shop. It was written on a scrap of wallpaper, and worded in the usual manner of such notes – as if the writer had studied how to avoid all suspicion of being unduly civil:
Harlow go to the yard at once take your tools with you. Crass will tell you where you have to go.
J.H.
They were just finishing their dinners when the boy brought this note; and after reading it aloud for the benefit of the others, Harlow remarked that it was worded in much the same way in which one would speak to a dog. The others said nothing; but after he was gone the other men – who all considered that it was ridiculous for the ‘likes of us’ to expect or wish to be treated with common civility – laughed about it, and said that Harlow was beginning to think he was Somebody: they supposed it was through readin’ all those books what Owen was always lendin’ ’im. And then one of them got a piece of paper and wrote a note to be given to Harlow at the first opportunity. This note was properly worded, written in a manner suitable for a gentleman like him, neatly folded and addressed:
Mr. Harlow Esq.,
c/o Macaroni’s Royal Cafe
till called for.
Mister Harlow, Dear Sir: Wood you kinely oblige me bi cummin to the paint shop as soon as you can make it convenient as there is a sealin’ to be wate-woshed hoppin this is not trubbling you to much
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I remane |
This note was read out for the amusement of the company and afterwards stored away in the writer’s pocket till such a time as an opportunity should occur of giving it to Harlow.
As the writer of the note was on his way back to his room to resume work he was accosted by a man who had gone into Harlow’s room to criticize it, and had succeeded in finding several faults which he pointed out to the other, and of course they were both very much disgusted with Harlow.
‘I can’t think why the coddy keeps him on the job,’ said the first man. ‘Between you and me, if I had charge of a job, and Misery sent Harlow there – I’d send ’im back to the shop.’
‘Same as you,’ agreed the other as he went back to tear into his own room. ‘Same as you, old man: I shouldn’t ’ave ’im neither.’
It must not be supposed from this that either of these two men were on exceptionally bad terms with Harlow; they were just as good friends with him – to his face – as they were with each other – to each other’s faces – and it was just their way: that was all.
If it had been one or both of these two who had gone away instead of Harlow, just the same things would have been said about them by the others who remained – it was merely their usual way of speaking about each other behind each other’s backs.
It was always the same: if any one of them made a mistake or had an accident or got into any trouble he seldom or never got any sympathy from his fellow workmen. On the contrary, most of them at such times seemed rather pleased than otherwise.
There was a poor devil – a stranger in the town; he came from London – who got the sack for breaking some glass. He had been sent to ‘burn off’ some old paint of the woodwork of a window. He was not very skilful in the use of the burning-off lamp, because on the firm when he had been working in London it was a job that the ordinary hands were seldom or never called upon to do. There were one or two men who did it all. For that matter, not many of Rushton’s men were very skilful at it either. It was a job everybody tried to get out of, because nearly always the lamp went wrong and there was a row about the time the work took. So they worked this job on to the stranger.
This man had been out of work for a long time before he got a start at Rushton’s, and he was very anxious not to lose the job, because he had a wife and family in London. When the ‘coddy’ told him to go and burn off this window he did not like to say that he was not used to the work: he hoped to be able to do it. But he was very nervous, and the end was that although he managed to do the burning off all right, just as he was finishing he accidentally allowed the flame of the lamp to come into contact with a large pane of glass and broke it.
They sent to the shop for a new pane of glass, and the man stayed late that night and put it in in his own time, thus bearing half the cost of repairing it.
Things were not very busy just then, and on the following Saturday two of the hands were ‘stood off’. The stranger was one of them, and nearly everybody was very pleased. At mealtimes the story of the broken window was repeatedly told amid jeering laughter. It really seemed as if a certain amount of indignation was felt that a stranger – especially such an inferior person as this chap who did not know how to use a lamp – should have had the cheek to try to earn his living at all! One thing was very certain – they said, gleefully – he would never get another job at Rushton’s: that was one good thing.
And yet they all knew that this accident might have happened to any one of them.
Once a couple of men got the sack because a ceiling they distempered had to be washed off and done again. It was not really the men’s fault at all: it was a ceiling that needed special treatment and they had not been allowed to do it properly.
But all the same, when they got the sack most of the others laughed and sneered and were glad. Perhaps because they thought that the fact that these two unfortunates had been disgraced, increased their own chances of being ‘kept on’. And so it was with nearly everything. With a few exceptions, they had an immense amount of respect for Rushton and Hunter, and very little respect or sympathy for each other.
Exactly the same lack of feeling for each other prevailed amongst the members of all the different trades. Everybody seemed glad if anybody got into trouble for any reason whatever.
There was a garden gate that had been made at the carpenter’s shop: it was not very well put together, and for the usual reason; the man had not been allowed the time to do it properly. After it was fixed, one of his shopmates wrote upon it with lead pencil in big letters: ‘This is good work for a joiner. Order one ton of putty.’
But to hear them talking in the pub of a Saturday afternoon just after pay-time one would think them the best friends and mates and the most independent spirits in the world, fellows whom it would be very dangerous to trifle with, and who would stick up for each other through thick and thin. All sorts of stories were related of the wonderful things they had done and said; of jobs they had ‘chucked up’, and masters they had ‘told off’: of pails of whitewash thrown over offending employers, and of horrible assaults and batteries committed upon the same. But strange to say, for some reason or other, it seldom happened that a third party ever witnessed any of these prodigies. It seemed as if a chivalrous desire to spare the feelings of their victims had always prevented them from doing or saying anything to them in the presence of witnesses.
When he had drunk a few pints, Crass was a very good hand at these stories. Here is one that he told in the bar of the Cricketers on the Saturday afternoon of the same week that Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk got the sack. The Cricketers was only a few minutes walk from the shop and at pay-time a number of the men used to go in there to take a drink before going home.
‘Last Thursday night about five o’clock, ’Unter comes inter the paint-shop an’ ses to me, “I wants a pail o’ wash made up tonight, Crass,” ’e ses, “ready for fust thing in the mornin’,” ’e ses. “Oh,” I ses, lookin’ ’im straight in the bloody eye, “Oh, yer do, do yer?” – just like that. “Yes,” ’e ses. “Well, you can bloody well make it yerself!” I ses, “’cos I ain’t agoin’ to,” I ses – just like that. “Wot the ’ell do yer mean,” I ses, “by comin’ ’ere at this time o’ night with a order like that?” I ses. You’d a larfed,’ continued Crass, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking another drink out of his glass, and looking round to note the effect of the story, ‘you’d a larfed if you’d bin there. ’E was fairly flabbergasted! And wen I said that to ’im I see ’is jaw drop! An’ then ’e started apoligizing and said as ’e ’adn’t meant no offence, but I told ’im bloody straight not to come no more of it. “You bring the horder at a reasonable time,” I ses – just like that – “and I’ll attend to it,” I ses, “but not otherwise,” I ses.’
As he concluded this story, Crass drained his glass and gazed round upon the audience, who were full of admiration. They looked at each other and at Crass and nodded their heads approvingly. Yes, undoubtedly, that was the proper way to deal with such bounders as Nimrod; take up a strong attitude, an’ let ’em see as you’ll stand no nonsense!
‘Yer don’t blame me, do yer?’ continued Crass. ‘Why should we put up with a lot of old buck from the likes of ’im! We’re not a lot of bloody Chinamen, are we?’
So far from blaming him, they all assured him that they would have acted in precisely the same way under similar circumstances.
‘For my part, I’m a bloke like this,’ said a tall man with a very loud voice – a chap who nearly fell down dead every time Rushton or Misery looked at him. ‘I’m a bloke like this ’ere: I never stands no cheek from no gaffers! If a guv’nor ses two bloody words to me, I downs me tools and I ses to ’im, “Wot! Don’t I suit yer, guv’ner? Ain’t I done enuff for yer? Werry good! Gimmie me bleedin’ a’pence.”’
‘Quite right too,’ said everybody. That was the way to serve ’em. If only everyone would do the same as the tall man – who had just paid for another round of drinks – things would be a lot more comfortable than they was.
‘Last summer I was workin’ for ole Buncer,’ said a little man with a cutaway coat several sizes too large for him. ‘I was workin’ for ole Buncer, over at Windley, an’ you all knows as ’e don’t arf lower it. Well, one day, when I knowed ’e was on the drunk, I ’ad to first coat a room out – white; so thinks I to meself, »If I buck up I shall be able to get this lot done by about four o’clock, an’ then I can clear orf ’ome. ’Cos I reckoned as ’e’d be about flattened out by that time, an’ you know ’e ain’t got no foreman. So I tears into it an’ gets this ’ere room done about a quarter past four, an’ I’d just got me things put away for the night w’en ’oo should come fallin’ up the bloody stairs but ole Buncer, drunk as a howl! An’ no sooner ’e gits inter the room than ’e starts yappin’ an’ rampin’. “Is this ’ere hall you’ve done?” ’e shouts out. “Wotcher bin up to hall day?” ’e ses, an’ ’e keeps on shouting’ an’ swearin’ till at last I couldn’t stand it no longer, ’cos you can guess I wasn’t in a very good temper with ’im comin’ along jist then w’en I thought I was goin’ to get orf a bit early – so w’en ’e kept on shoutin’ I never made no answer to ’im, but ups with me fist an’ I gives ’im a slosh in the dial an’ stopped ’is clock! Then I chucked the pot o’ w’ite paint hover ’im, an’ kicked ’im down the bloody stairs.’
‘Serve ’im blooming well right, too,’ said Crass as he took a fresh glass of beer from one of the others, who had just ‘stood’ another round.
‘What did the b—r say to that?’ inquired the tall man.
‘Not a bloody word!’ replied the little man, ‘’E picked ’isself up, and called a keb wot was passin’ an’ got inter it an’ went ’ome; an’ I never seen no more of ’im until about ’arf-past eleven the next day, w’en I was second-coatin’ the room, an’ ’e comes up with a noo suit o’ clothes on, an’ arsts me if I’d like to come hover to the pub an’ ’ave a drink? So we goes hover, an’ ’e calls for a w’iskey an’ soda for isself an’ arsts me wot I’d ’ave, so I ’ad the same. An’ w’ile we was gettin’ it down us, ’e ses to me, “Ah, Garge,” ’e ses. “You losed your temper with me yesterday,”’ ’e ses.’
‘There you are, you see!’ said the tall man. ‘There’s an example for yer! If you ’adn’t served ’im as you did you’d most likely ’ave ’ad to put up with a lot more ole buck.’
They all agreed that the little man had done quite right: they all said that they didn’ blame him in the least: they would all have done the same: in fact, this was the way they all conducted themselves whenever occasion demanded it. To hear them talk, one would imagine that such affairs as the recent exploit of Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk were constantly taking place, instead of only occurring about once in a blue moon.
Crass stood the final round of drinks, and as he evidently thought that circumstance deserved to be signalized in some special manner, he proposed the following toast, which was drunk with enthusiasm:
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‘To hell with the man, |
Rushton & Co. did a lot of work that summer. They did not have many big jobs, but there were a lot of little ones, and the boy Bert was kept busy running from one to the other. He spent most of his time dragging a handcart with loads of paint, or planks and steps, and seldom went out to work with the men, for when he was not taking things out to the various places where the philanthropists were working, he was in the paintshop at the yard, scraping out dirty paint-pots or helping Crass to mix up colours. Although scarcely anyone seemed to notice it, the boy presented a truly pitiable spectacle. He was very pale and thin. Dragging the handcart did not help him to put on flesh, for the weather was very hot and the work made him sweat.
His home was right away on the other side of Windley. It took him more than three-quarters of an hour to walk to the shop, and as he had to be at work at six, that meant that he had to leave home at a few minutes past five every morning, so that he always got up about half past four.
He was wearing a man’s coat – or rather jacket – which gave the upper part of his body a bulky appearance. The trousers were part of a suit of his own, and were somewhat narrowly cut, as is the rule with boys’ cheap ready-made trousers. These thin legs appearing under the big jacket gave him a rather grotesque appearance, which was heightened by the fact that all his clothes, cap, coat, waistcoat, trousers and boots, were smothered with paint and distemper of various colours, and there were generally a few streaks of paint of some sort or other upon his face, and of course his hands – especially round the fingernails – were grimed with it. But the worst of all were the dreadful hobnailed boots: the leather of the uppers of these was an eighth of an inch thick, and very stiff. Across the fore part of the boot this hard leather had warped into ridges and valleys, which chafed his feet, and made them bleed. The soles were five-eighths of an inch thick, covered with hobnails, and were as hard and inflexible and almost as heavy as iron. These boots hurt his feet dreadfully and made him feel very tired and miserable, for he had such a lot of walking to do. He used to be jolly glad when dinner-time came, for then he used to get out of sight in some quiet spot and lie down for the whole hour. His favourite dining-place was up in the loft over the carpenter’s shop, where they stored the mouldings and architraves. No one ever came there at that hour, and after he had eaten his dinner he used to lie down and think and rest.
He nearly always had an hour for dinner, but he did not always have it at the same time: sometimes he had it at twelve o’clock and sometimes not till two. It all depended upon what stuff had to be taken to the job.
Often it happened that some men at a distant job required some material to use immediately after dinner, and perhaps Crass was not able to get it ready till twelve o’clock, so that it was not possible to take it before dinner-time, and if Bert left it till after dinner the men would be wasting their time waiting for it: so in such cases he took it there first and had his dinner when he came back.
Sometimes he got back about half past twelve, and it was necessary for him to take out another lot of material at one o’clock.
In such a case he ‘charged’ half an hour overtime on his time sheet – he used to get twopence an hour for overtime.
Sometimes Crass sent him with a handcart to one job to get a pair of steps or tressels, or a plank, or some material or other, and take them to another job, and on these occasions it was often very late before he was able to take his meals. Instead of getting his breakfast at eight, it was often nearly nine before he got back to the shop, and frequently he had to go without dinner until half past one or two.
Sometimes he could scarcely manage to carry the pots of paint to the jobs; his feet were so hot and sore. When he had to push the cart it was worse still, and often when knocking-off time came he felt so tired that he could scarcely manage to walk home.
But the weather was not always hot or fine: sometimes it was quite cold, almost like winter, and there was a lot of rain that summer. At such times the boy frequently got wet through several times a day as he went from one job to another, and he had to work all the time in his wet clothes and boots, which were usually old and out of repair and let in the water.
One of the worst jobs that he had to do was when a new stock of white lead came in. This stuff came in wooden barrels containing two hundredweight, and he used to have to dig it out of these barrels with a trowel, and put it into a metal tank, where it was kept covered with water, and the empty barrels were returned to the makers.
When he was doing this work he usually managed to get himself smeared all over with the white lead, and this circumstance, and the fact that he was always handling paint or some poisonous material or other was doubtless the cause of the terrible pains he often had in his stomach – pains that sometimes caused him to throw himself down and roll on the ground in agony.
One afternoon Crass sent him with a handcart to a job that Easton, Philpot, Harlow and Owen were just finishing. He got there about half past four and helped the men to load up the things, and afterwards walked alongside the cart with them back to the shop.
On the way they all noticed and remarked to each other that the boy looked tired and pale and that he seemed to limp: but he did not say anything, although be guessed that they were talking about him. They arrived at the shop a little before knocking-off time – about ten minutes past five. Bert helped them to unload, and afterwards, while they were putting their things away and ‘charging up’ the unused materials they had brought back, he pushed the cart over to the shed where it was kept, on the other side of the yard. He did not return to the shop at once and a few minutes later when Harlow came out into the yard to get a bucket of water to wash their hands with, he saw the boy leaning on the side of the cart, crying, and holding one foot off the ground.
Harlow asked him what was the matter, and while he was speaking to him the others came out to see what was up: the boy said he had rheumatism or growing pains or something in his leg, ‘just here near the knee’. But he didn’t say much, he just cried miserably, and turned his head slowly from side to side, avoiding the looks of the men because he felt ashamed that they should see him cry.
When they saw how ill and miserable he looked, the men all put their hands in their pockets to get some coppers to give to him so that he could ride home on the tram. They gave him fivepence altogether, more than enough to ride all the way; and Crass told him to go at once – there was no need to wait till half past; but before he went Philpot got a small glass bottle out of his tool bag and filled it with oil and turps – two of turps and one of oil – which he gave to Bert to rub into his leg before going to bed: The turps – he explained – was to cure the pain and the oil was to prevent it from hurting the skin. He was to get his mother to rub it in for him if he were too tired to do it himself. Bert promised to observe these directions, and, drying his tears, took his dinner basket and limped off to catch the tram.
It was a few days after this that Hunter met with an accident. He was tearing off on his bicycle to one of the jobs about five minutes to twelve to see if he could catch anyone leaving off for dinner before before the proper time, and while going down a rather steep hill the front brake broke – the rubbers of the rear one were worn out and failed to act – so Misery to save himself from being smashed against the railings of the houses at the bottom of the hill, threw himself off the machine, with the result that his head and face and hands were terribly cut and bruised. He was so badly knocked about that he had to remain at home for nearly three weeks, much to the delight of the men and the annoyance – one might even say the indignation – of Mr. Rushton, who did not know enough about the work to make out estimates without assistance. There were several large jobs to be tendered for at the same time, so Rushton sent the specifications round to Hunter’s house for him to figure out the prices, and nearly all the time that Misery was at home he was sitting up in bed, swathed in bandages, trying to calculate the probable cost of these jobs. Rushton did not come to see him, but he sent Bert nearly every day, either with some specifications, or some accounts, or something of that sort, or with a note inquiring when Hunter thought he would be able to return to work.
All sorts of rumours became prevalent amongst the men concerning Hunter’s condition. He had ‘broken his spiral column’, he had ‘conjunction of the brain’, or he had injured his ‘innards’ and would probably never be able to ‘do no more slave-drivin’’. Crass – who had helped Mr. Rushton to ‘price up’ several small jobs – began to think it might not be altogether a bad thing for himself if something were to happen to Hunter, and he began to put on side and to assume airs of authority. He got one of the light-weights to assist him in his work of colourman and made him do all the hard work, while he spent part of his own time visiting the different jobs to see how the work progressed.
Crass’s appearance did him justice. He was wearing a pair of sporting trousers the pattern of which consisted of large black and white squares. The previous owner of these trousers was taller and slighter than Crass, so although the legs were about a couple of inches too long, they fitted him rather tightly, so much so that it was fortunate that he had his present job of colourman, for if he had had to do any climbing up and down ladders or steps, the trousers would have burst. His jacket was also two or three sizes too small, and the sleeves were so short that the cuffs of his flanelette shirt were visible. This coat was made of serge, and its colour had presumably once been blue, but it was now a sort of heliotrope and violet: the greater part being of the former tint, and the parts under the sleeves of the latter. This jacket fitted very tightly across the shoulders and back and being much too short left his tightly clad posteriors exposed to view.
He however seemed quite unconscious of anything peculiar in his appearance and was so bumptious and offensive that most of the men were almost glad when Nimrod came back. They said that if Crass ever got the job he would be a dam’ sight worse than Hunter. As for the latter, for a little while after his return to work it was said that his illness had improved his character: he had had time to think things over; and in short, he was ever so much better than before: but it was not long before this story began to be told the other way round. He was worse than ever! and a thing that happened about a fortnight after his return caused more ill feeling and resentment against him and Rushton than had ever existed previously. What led up to it was something that was done by Bundy’s mate, Ted Dawson.
This poor wretch was scarcely ever seen without a load of some sort or other: carrying a sack of cement or plaster, a heavy ladder, a big bucket of mortar, or dragging a load of scaffolding on a cart. He must have been nearly as strong as a horse, because after working in this manner for Rushton & Co. from six in the morning till half past five at night, he usually went to work in his garden for two or three hours after tea, and frequently went there for an hour or so in the morning before going to work. The poor devil needed the produce of his garden to supplement his wages, for he had a wife and three children to provide for and he earned only – or rather, to be correct, he was paid only – fourpence an hour.
There was an old house to which they were making some alterations and repairs, and there was a lot of old wood taken out of it: old, decayed floorboards and stuff of that kind, wood that was of no use whatever except to burn.
Bundy and his mate were working there, and one night, Misery came a few minutes before half past five and caught Dawson in the act of tying up a small bundle of this wood. When Hunter asked him what he was going to do with it he made no attempt at prevarication or concealment: he said he was going to take it home for fire-wood, because it was of no other use. Misery kicked up a devil of a row and ordered him to leave the wood where it was: it had to be taken to the yard, and it was nothing to do with Dawson or anyone else whether it was any use or not! If he caught anyone taking wood away he would sack them on the spot. Hunter shouted very loud so that all the others might hear, and as they were all listening attentively in the next room, where they were taking their aprons off preparatory to going home, they got the full benefit of his remarks.
The following Saturday when the hands went to the office for their money they were each presented with a printed card bearing the following legend:
Under no circumstances is any article or material, however trifling, to be taken away by workmen for their private use, whether waste material or not, from any workshop or place where work is being done. Foremen are hereby instructed to see that this order is obeyed and to report any such act coming to their knowledge. Any man breaking this rule will be either dismissed without notice or given into custody.
Rushton & Co.
Most of the men took these cards with the envelopes containing their wages and walked away without making any comment – in fact, most of them were some distance away before they realized exactly what the card was about. Two or three of them stood a few steps away from the pay window in full view of Rushton and Misery and ostentatiously tore the thing into pieces and threw them into the street. One man remained at the pay window while he read the card – and then flung it with an obscene curse into Rushton’s face, and demanded his back day, which they gave him without any remark or delay, the other men who were not yet paid having to wait while he made out his time-sheet for that morning.
The story of this card spread all over the place in a very short time. It became the talk of every shop in the town. Whenever any of Rushton’s men encountered the employees of another firm, the latter used to shout after them – ‘However trifling!’ – or ‘Look out, chaps! ’Ere comes some of Rushton’s pickpockets.’
Amongst Rushton’s men themselves it became a standing joke or form of greeting to say when one met another – ‘Remember! However trifling!’
If one of their number was seen going home with an unusual amount of paint or whitewash on his hands or clothes, the others would threaten to report him for stealing the material. They used to say that however trifling the quantity, it was against orders to take it away.
Harlow drew up a list of rules which he said Mr. Rushton had instructed him to communicate to the men. One of these rules provided that everybody was to be weighed upon arrival at the job in the morning and again at leaving-off time: any man found to have increased in weight was to be discharged.
There was also much cursing and covert resentment about it; the men used to say that such a thing as that looked well coming from the likes of Rushton and Hunter, and they used to remind each other of the affair of the marble-topped console table, the barometer, the venetian blinds and all the other robberies.
None of them ever said anything to either Misery or Rushton about the cards, but one morning when the latter was reading his letters at the breakfast table, on opening one of them he found that it contained one of the notices, smeared with human excrement. He did not eat any more breakfast that morning.
It was not to be much wondered at that none of them had the courage to openly resent the conditions under which they had to work, for although it was summer, there were many men out of employment, and it was much easier to get the sack than it was to get another job.
None of the men were ever caught stealing anything, however trifling, but all the same during the course of the summer five or six of them were captured by the police and sent to jail – for not being able to pay their poor rates.
All through the summer Owen continued to make himself objectionable and to incur the ridicule of his fellow workmen by talking about the causes of poverty and of ways to abolish it.
Most of the men kept two shillings or half a crown of their wages back from their wives for pocket money, which they spent on beer and tobacco. There were a very few who spent a little more than this, and there were a still smaller number who spent so much in this way that their families had to suffer in consequence.
Most of those who kept back half a crown or three shillings from their wives did so on the understanding that they were to buy their clothing out of it. Some of them had to pay a shilling a week to a tallyman or credit clothier. These were the ones who indulged in shoddy new suits – at long intervals. Others bought – or got their wives to buy for them – their clothes at second-hand shops, ‘paying off’ about a shilling or so a week and not receiving the things till they were paid for.
There were a very large proportion of them who did not spend even a shilling a week for drink: and there were numerous others who, while not being formally total abstainers, yet often went for weeks together without either entering a public house or tasting intoxicating drink in any form.
Then there were others who, instead of drinking tea or coffee or cocoa with their dinners or suppers, drank beer. This did not cost more than the teetotal drinks, but all the same there are some persons who say that those who swell the ‘Nation’s Drink Bill’ by drinking beer with their dinners or suppers are a kind of criminal, and that they ought to be compelled to drink something else: that is, if they are working people. As for the idle classes, they of course are to be allowed to continue to make merry, ‘drinking whisky, wine and sherry’, to say nothing of having their beer in by the barrel and the dozen – or forty dozen – bottles. But of course that’s a different matter, because these people make so much money out of the labour of the working classes that they can afford to indulge in this way without depriving their children of the necessaries of life.
There is no more cowardly, dastardly slander than is contained in the assertion that the majority or any considerable proportion of working men neglect their families through drink. It is a condemned lie. There are some who do, but they are not even a large minority. They are few and far between, and are regarded with contempt by their fellow workmen.
It will be said that their families had to suffer for want of even the little that most of them spent in that way: but the persons that use this argument should carry it to its logical conclusion. Tea is an unnecessary and harmful drink; it has been condemned by medical men so often that to enumerate its evil qualities here would be waste of time. The same can be said of nearly all the cheap temperance drinks; they are unnecessary and harmful and cost money, and, like beer, are drunk only for pleasure.
What right has anyone to say to working men that when their work is done they should not find pleasure in drinking a glass or two of beer together in a tavern or anywhere else? Let those who would presume to condemn them carry their argument to its logical conclusion and condemn pleasure of every kind. Let them persuade the working classes to lead still simpler lives; to drink water instead of such unwholesome things as tea, coffee, beer, lemonade and all the other harmful and unnecessary stuff. They would then be able to live ever so much more cheaply, and as wages are always and everywhere regulated by the cost of living, they would be able to work for lower pay.
These people are fond of quoting the figures of the ‘Nation’s Drink Bill,’ as if all this money were spent by the working classes! But if the amount of money spent in drink by the ‘aristocracy’, the clergy and the middle classes were deducted from the ‘Nation’s Drink Bill’, it would be seen that the amount spent per head by the working classes is not so alarming after all; and would probably not be much larger than the amount spent on drink by those who consume tea and coffee and all the other unwholesome and unnecessary ‘temperance’ drinks.
The fact that some of Rushton’s men spent about two shillings a week on drink while they were in employment was not the cause of their poverty. If they had never spent a farthing for drink, and if their wretched wages had been increased fifty percent, they would still have been in a condition of the most abject and miserable poverty, for nearly all the benefits and privileges of civilization, nearly everything that makes life worth living, would still have been beyond their reach.
It is inevitable, so long as men have to live and work under such heartbreaking, uninteresting conditions as at present that a certain proportion of them will seek forgetfulness and momentary happiness in the tavern, and the only remedy for this evil is to remove the cause; and while that is in process, there is something else that can be done and that is, instead of allowing filthy drinking dens, presided over by persons whose interest it is to encourage men to drink more bad beer than is good for them or than they can afford, – to have civilized institutions run by the State or the municipalities for use and not merely for profit. Decent pleasure houses, where no drunkenness or filthiness would be tolerated – where one could buy real beer or coffee or tea or any other refreshments; where men could repair when their day’s work was over and spend an hour or two in rational intercourse with their fellows or listen to music and singing. Taverns to which they could take their wives and children without fear of defilement, for a place that is not fit for the presence of a woman or a child is not fit to exist at all.
Owen, being a teetotaller, did not spend any of his money on drink; but he spent a lot on what he called ‘The Cause’. Every week he bought some penny or twopenny pamphlets or some leaflets about Socialism, which he lent or gave to his mates; and in this way and by means of much talk he succeeded in converting a few to his party. Philpot, Harlow and a few others used to listen with interest, and some of them even paid for the pamphlets they obtained from Owen, and after reading them themselves, passed them on to others, and also occasionally ‘got up’ arguments on their own accounts. Others were simply indifferent, or treated the subject as a kind of joke, ridiculing the suggestion that it was possible to abolish poverty. They repeated that there had ‘always been rich and poor in the world and there always would be, so there was an end of it’. But the majority were bitterly hostile; not to Owen, but to Socialism. For the man himself most of them had a certain amount of liking, especially the ordinary hands because it was known that he was not a ‘master’s man’ and that he had declined to ‘take charge’ of jobs which Misery had offered to him. But to Socialism they were savagely and malignantly opposed. Some of those who had shown some symptoms of Socialism during the past winter when they were starving had now quite recovered and were stout defenders of the Present System.
Barrington was still working for the firm and continued to maintain his manner of reserve, seldom speaking unless addressed but all the same, for several reasons, it began to be rumoured that he shared Owen’s views. He always paid for the pamphlets that Owen gave him, and on one occasion, when Owen bought a thousand leaflets to give away, Barrington contributed a shilling towards the half-crown that Owen paid for them. But he never took any part in the arguments that sometimes raged during the dinner-hour or at breakfast-time.
It was a good thing for Owen that he had his enthusiasm for ‘the cause’ to occupy his mind. Socialism was to him what drink was to some of the others – the thing that enable them to forget and tolerate the conditions under which they were forced to exist. Some of them were so muddled with beer, and others so besotted with admiration of their Liberal and Tory masters, that they were oblivious of the misery of their own lives, and in a similar way, Owen was so much occupied in trying to rouse them from their lethargy and so engrossed in trying to think out new arguments to convince them of the possibility of bringing about an improvement in their condition that he had no time to dwell upon his own poverty; the money that he spent on leaflets and pamphlets to give away might have been better spent on food and clothing for himself, because most of those to whom he gave them were by no means grateful; but he never thought of that; and after all, nearly everyone spends money on some hobby or other. Some people deny themselves the necessaries or comforts of life in order that they may be able to help to fatten a publican. Others deny themselves in order to enable a lazy parson to live in idleness and luxury; and others spend much time and money that they really need for themselves in buying Socialist literature to give away to people who don’t want to know about Socialism.
One Sunday morning towards the end of July, a band of about twenty-five men and women on bicycles invaded the town. Two of them – who rode a few yards in front of the others, had affixed to the handlebars of each of their machines a slender, upright standard from the top of one of which fluttered a small flag of crimson silk with ‘International Brotherhood and Peace’ in gold letters. The other standard was similar in size and colour, but with a different legend: ‘One for all and All for one.’
As they rode along they gave leaflets to the people in the streets, and whenever they came to a place where there were many people they dismounted and walked about, giving their leaflets to whoever would accept them. They made several long halts during their progress along the Grand Parade, where there was a considerable crowd, and then they rode over the hill to Windley, which they reached a little before opening time. There were little crowds waiting outside the several public houses and a number of people passing through the streets on their way home from Church and Chapel. The strangers distributed leaflets to all those who would take them, and they went through a lot of the side streets, putting leaflets under the doors and in the letter-boxes. When they had exhausted their stock they remounted and rode back the way they came.
Meantime the news of their arrival had spread, and as they returned through the town they were greeted with jeers and booing. Presently someone threw a stone, and as there happened to be plenty of stones just there several others followed suit and began running after the retreating cyclists, throwing stones, hooting and cursing.
The leaflet which had given rise to all this fury read as follows:
At present the workers, with hand and brain produce continually food, clothing and all useful and beautiful things in great abundance.
But they labour in vain – for they are mostly poor and often in want. They find it a hard struggle to live. Their women and children suffer, and their old age is branded with pauperism.
Socialism is a plan by which poverty will be abolished, and everyone enabled to live in plenty and comfort, with leisure and opportunity for ampler life.
If you wish to hear more of this plan, come to the field at the Cross Roads on the hill at Windley, on Tuesday evening next at 8 p.m. and
The cyclists rode away amid showers of stones without sustaining much damage. One had his hand cut and another, who happened to look round, was struck on the forehead, but these were the only casualties.
On the following Tuesday evening, long before the appointed time, there was a large crowd assembled at the cross roads or the hill at Windley, waiting for the appearance of the van, and they were evidently prepared to give the Socialists a warm reception. There was only one policeman in uniform there but there were several in plain clothes amongst the crowd ...
Crass, Dick Wantley, the Semi-drunk, Sawkins, Bill Bates and several other frequenters of the Cricketers were amongst the crowd, and there were also a sprinkling of tradespeople, including the Old Dear and Mr. Smallman, the grocer, and a few ladies and gentlemen – wealthy visitors – but the bulk of the crowd were working men, labourers, mechanics and boys.
As it was quite evident that the crowd meant mischief – many of them had their pockets filled with stones and were armed with sticks – several of the Socialists were in favour of going to meet the van to endeavour to persuade those in charge from coming, and with that object they withdrew from the crowd, which was already regarding them with menacing looks, and went down the road in the direction from which the van was expected to come. They had not gone very far, however, before the people, divining what they were going to do, began to follow them and while they were hesitating what course to pursue, the Socialist van, escorted by five or six men on bicycles, appeared round the corner at the bottom of the hill.
As soon as the crowd saw it, they gave an exultant cheer, or, rather, yell, and began running down the hilt to meet it, and in a few minutes it was surrounded by a howling mob. The van was drawn by two horses; there was a door and a small platform at the back and over this was a sign with white letters on a red ground: ‘Socialism, the only hope of the Workers.’
The driver pulled up, and another man on the platform at the rear attempted to address the crowd, but his voice was inaudible in the din of howls, catcalls, hooting and obscene curses. After about an hour of this, as the crowd began pushing against the van and trying to overturn it, the terrified horses commenced to get restive and uncontrollable, and the man on the box attempted to drive up the hill. This seemed to still further infuriate the horde of savages who surrounded the van. Numbers of them clutched the wheels and turned them the reverse way, screaming that it must go back to where it came from; several of them accordingly seized the horses’ heads and, amid cheers, turned them round.
The man on the platform was still trying to make himself heard, but without success. The strangers who had come with the van and the little group of local Socialists, who had forced their way through the crowd and gathered together close to the platform in front of the would-be speaker, only increased the din by their shouts of appeal to the crowd to ‘give the man a fair chance’. This little bodyguard closed round the van as it began to move slowly downhill, but they were not sufficiently numerous to protect it from the crowd, which, not being satisfied with the rate at which the van was proceeding, began to shout to each other to ‘Run it away!’ ‘Take the brake off!’ and several savage rushes were made with the intention of putting these suggestions into execution.
Some of the defenders were hampered with their bicycles, but they resisted as well as they were able, and succeeded in keeping the crowd off until the foot of the hill was reached, and then someone threw the first stone, which by a strange chance happened to strike one of the cyclists whose head was already bandaged – it was the same man who had been hit on the Sunday. This stone was soon followed by others, and the man on the platform was the next to be struck. He got it right on the mouth, and as he put up his handkerchief to staunch the blood another struck him on the forehead just above the temple, and he dropped forward on his face on to the platform as if he had been shot.
As the speed of the vehicle increased, a regular hail of stones fell upon the roof and against the sides of the van and whizzed past the retreating cyclists, while the crowd followed close behind, cheering, shrieking out volleys of obscene curses, and howling like wolves.
‘We’ll give the b—rs Socialism!’ shouted Crass, who was literally foaming at the mouth.
‘We’ll teach ’em to come ’ere trying to undermined our bloody morality,’ howled Dick Wantley as he hurled a lump of granite that he had torn up from the macadamized road at one of the cyclists.
They ran on after the van until it was out of range, and then they bethought themselves of the local Socialists; but they were nowhere to be seen; they had prudently withdrawn as soon as the van had got fairly under way, and the victory being complete, the upholders of the present system returned to the piece of waste ground on the top of the hill, where a gentleman in a silk hat and frockcoat stood up on a little hillock and made a speech. He said nothing about the Distress Committee or the Soup Kitchen or the children who went to school without proper clothes or food, and made no reference to what was to be done next winter, when nearly everybody would be out of work. These were matters he and they were evidently not at all interested in. But he said a good deal about the Glorious Empire! and the Flag! and the Royal Family. The things he said were received with rapturous applause, and at the conclusion of his address, the crowd sang the National Anthem with great enthusiasm and dispersed, congratulating themselves that they had shown to the best of their ability what Mugsborough thought of Socialism and the general opinion of the crowd was that they would hear nothing more from the Socialist van.
But in this they were mistaken, for the very next Sunday evening a crowd of Socialists suddenly materialized at the Cross Roads. Some of them had come by train, others had walked from different places and some had cycled.
A crowd gathered and the Socialists held a meeting, two speeches being delivered before the crowd recovered from their surprise at the temerity of these other Britishers who apparently had not sense enough to understand that they had been finally defeated and obliterated last Tuesday evening: and when the cyclist with the bandaged head got up on the hillock some of the crowd actually joined in the hand-clapping with which the Socialists greeted him.
In the course of his speech he informed them that the man who had come with the van and who had been felled whilst attempting to speak from the platform was now in hospital. For some time it had been probable that he would not recover, but he was now out of danger, and as soon as he was well enough there was no doubt that he would come there again.
Upon this Crass shouted out that if ever the Vanners did return, they would finish what they had begun last Tuesday. He would not get off so easy next time. But when he said this, Crass – not being able to see into the future – did not know what the reader will learn in due time, that the man was to return to that place under different circumstances.
When they had finished their speech-making one of the strangers who was acting as chairman invited the audience to put questions, but as nobody wanted to ask any, he invited anyone who disagreed with what had been said to get up on the hillock and state his objections, so that the audience might have an opportunity of judging for themselves which side was right; but this invitation was also neglected. Then the chairman announced that they were coming there again next Sunday at the same time, when a comrade would speak on Unemployment and Poverty, the Cause and the Remedy, and then the strangers sang a song called England Arise, the first verse being:
|
England Arise, the long, long night is over, |
During the progress of the meeting several of the strangers had been going out amongst the crowd giving away leaflets, which many of the people gloomily refused to accept, and selling penny pamphlets, of which they managed to dispose of about three dozen.
Before declaring the meeting closed, the chairman said that the speaker who was coming next week resided in London: he was not a millionaire, but a workman, the same as nearly all those who were there present. They were not going to pay him anything for coming, but they intended to pay his railway fare. Therefore next Sunday after the meeting there would be a collection, and anything over the amount of the fare would be used for the purchase of more leaflets such as those they were now giving away. He hoped that anyone who thought that any of the money went into the pockets of those who held the meeting would come and join: then they could have their share.
The meeting now terminated and the Socialists were suffered to depart in peace. Some of them, however, lingered amongst the crowd after the main body had departed, and for a long time after the meeting was over little groups remained on the field excitedly discussing the speeches or the leaflets.
The next Sunday evening when the Socialists came they found the field at the Cross Roads in the possession of a furious, hostile mob, who refused to allow them to speak, and finally they had to go away without having held a meeting. They came again the next Sunday, and on this occasion they had a speaker with a very loud – literally a stentorian – voice, and he succeeded in delivering an address, but as only those who were very close were able to hear him, and as they were all Socialists, it was not of much effect upon those for whom it was intended.
They came again the next Sunday and nearly every other Sunday during the summer: sometimes they were permitted to hold their meeting in comparative peace and at other times there was a row. They made several converts, and many people declared themselves in favour of some of the things advocated, but they were never able to form a branch of their society there, because nearly all those who were convinced were afraid to publicly declare themselves lest they should lose their employment or customers.
Last updated on 6 March 2020