Chapter 28: The Week before Christmas
  During the next week Owen painted a sign on the outer wall of one of the workshops at the yard, and he also wrote the name of the firm on three of the handcarts.
 These and other odd jobs kept him employed a few hours every day, so that he was not actually out of work.
 One afternoon - there being nothing to do - he went home at three o’clock, but almost as soon as he reached the house Bert White came with a coffin-plate which had to be written at once. The lad said he had been instructed to wait for it.
 Nora gave the boy some tea and bread and butter to eat whilst Owen was doing the coffin-plate, and presently Frankie - who had been playing out in the street - made his appearance. The two boys were already known to each other, for Bert had been there several times before - on errands similar to the present one, or to take lessons on graining and letter-painting from Owen.
 ‘I’m going to have a party next Monday - after Christmas,’ remarked Frankie. ‘Mother told me I might ask you if you’ll come?’
 ‘All right,’ said Bert; ‘and I’ll bring my Pandoramer.’
 ‘What is it? Is it alive?’ asked Frankie with a puzzled look.
 ‘Alive! No, of course not,’ replied Bert with a superior air. ‘It’s a show, like they have at the Hippodrome or the Circus.’
 ‘How big is it?’
 ‘Not very big: it’s made out of a sugar-box. I made it myself. It’s not quite finished yet, but I shall get it done this week. There’s a band as well, you know. I do that part with this.’
 ‘This’ was a large mouth organ which he produced from the inner pocket of his coat.
 ‘Play something now.’
 Bert accordingly played, and Frankie sang at the top of his voice a selection of popular songs, including ‘The Old Bull and Bush’, ‘Has Anyone seen a German Band?’, ‘Waiting at the Church’ and finally - possibly as a dirge for the individual whose coffin-plate Owen was writing - ‘Goodbye, Mignonette’ and ‘I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you’.
 ‘You don’t know what’s in that,’ said Frankie, referring to a large earthenware bread-pan which Nora had just asked Owen to help her to lift from the floor on to one of the chairs. The vessel in question was covered with a clean white cloth.
 ‘Christmas pudding,’ replied Bert, promptly.
 ‘Guessed right first time!’ cried Frankie. ‘We got the things out of the Christmas Club on Saturday. We’ve been paying in ever since last Christmas. We’re going to mix it now, and you can have a stir too if you like, for luck.’
 Whilst they were stirring the pudding, Frankie several times requested the others to feel his muscle: he said he felt sure that he would soon be strong enough to go out to work, and he explained to Bert that the extraordinary strength he possessed was to be attributed to the fact that he lived almost exclusively on porridge and milk.
 
 For the rest of the week, Owen continued to work down at the yard with Sawkins, Crass, and Slynie, painting some of the ladders, steps and other plant belonging to the firm. These things had to have two coats of paint and the name Rushton & Co. written on them. As soon as they had got some of them second-coated, Owen went on with the writing, leaving the painting for the others, so as to share the work as fairly as possible. Several times during the week one or other of them was taken away to do some other work; once Crass and Slyme had to go and wash off and whiten a ceiling somewhere, and several times Sawkins was sent out to assist the plumbers.
 Every day some of the men who had been ‘stood off’ called at the yard to ask if any other ‘jobs’ had ‘come in’. From these callers they heard all the news. Old Jack Linden had not succeeded in getting anything to do at the trade since he was discharged from Rushton’s, and it was reported that he was trying to earn a little money by hawking bloaters from house to house. As for Philpot, he said that he had been round to nearly all the firms in the town and none of them had any work to speak of.
 Newman - the man whom the reader will remember was sacked for taking too much pains with his work - had been arrested and sentenced to a month’s imprisonment because he had not been able to pay his poor rates, and the Board of Guardians were allowing his wife three shillings a week to maintain herself and the three children. Philpot had been to see them, and she told him that the landlord was threatening to turn them into the street; he would have seized their furniture and sold it if it had been worth the expense of the doing.
 ‘I feel ashamed of meself,’ Philpot added in confidence to Owen, ‘when I think of all the money I chuck away on beer. If it wasn’t for that, I shouldn’t be in such a hole meself now, and I might be able to lend ’em a ’elpin’ ’and.’
 ‘It ain’t so much that I likes the beer, you know,’ he continued; ‘it’s the company. When you ain’t got no ’ome, in a manner o’ speakin’, like me, the pub’s about the only place where you can get a little enjoyment. But you ain’t very welcome there unless you spends your money.’
 ‘Is the three shillings all they have to live on?’
 ‘I think she goes out charin’ when she can get it,’ replied Philpot, ‘but I don’t see as she can do a great deal o’ that with three young ’uns to look after, and from what I hear of it she’s only just got over a illness and ain’t fit to do much.’
 ‘My God!’ said Owen.
 ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Philpot. ‘I’ve been thinking we might get up a bit of a subscription for ’em. There’s several chaps in work what knows Newman, and if they was each to give a trifle we could get enough to pay for a Christmas dinner, anyway. I’ve brought a sheet of foolscap with me, and I was goin’ to ask you to write out the heading for me.’
 As there was no pen available at the workshop, Philpot waited till four o’clock and then accompanied Owen home, where the heading of the list was written. Owen put his name down for a shilling and Philpot his for a similar amount.
 Philpot stayed to tea and accepted an invitation to spend Christmas Day with them, and to come to Frankie’s party on the Monday after.
 The next morning Philpot brought the list to the yard and Crass and Slyme put their names down for a shilling each, and Sawkins for threepence, it being arranged that the money was to be paid on payday - Christmas Eve. In the meantime, Philpot was to see as many as he could of those who were in work, at other firms and get as many subscriptions as possible.
 At pay-time on Christmas Eve Philpot turned up with the list and Owen and the others paid him the amounts they had put their names down for. From other men he had succeeded in obtaining nine and sixpence, mostly in sixpences and threepences. Some of this money he had already received, but for the most part he had made appointments with the subscribers to call at their homes that evening. It was decided that Owen should accompany him and also go with him to hand over the money to Mrs Newman.
 It took them nearly three hours to get in all the money, for the places they had to go to were in different localities, and in one or two cases they had to wait because their man had not yet come home, and sometimes it was not possible to get away without wasting a little time in talk. In three instances those who had put their names down for threepence increased the amount to sixpence and one who had promised sixpence gave a shilling. There were two items of threepence each which they did not get at all, the individuals who had put their names down having gone upon the drunk. Another cause of delay was that they met or called on several other men who had not yet been asked for a subscription, and there were several others - including some members of the Painters Society whom Owen had spoken to during the week - who had promised him to give a subscription. In the end they succeeded in increasing the total amount to nineteen and ninepence, and they then put three-halfpence each to make it up to a pound.
 The Newmans lived in a small house the rent of which was six shillings per week and taxes. To reach the house one had to go down a dark and narrow passage between two shops, the house being in a kind of well, surrounded by the high walls of the back parts of larger buildings - chiefly business premises and offices. The air did not circulate very freely in this place, and the rays of the sun never reached it. In the summer the atmosphere was close and foul with the various odours which came from the back-yards of the adjoining buildings, and in the winter it was dark and damp and gloomy, a culture-ground for bacteria and microbes. The majority of those who profess to be desirous of preventing and curing the disease called consumption must be either hypocrites or fools, for they ridicule the suggestion that it is necessary first to cure and prevent the poverty that compels badly clothed and half-starved human beings to sleep in such dens as this.
 The front door opened into the living-room or, rather, kitchen, which was dimly lighted by a small paraffin lamp on the table, where were also some tea-cups and saucers, each of a different pattern, and the remains of a loaf of bread. The wallpaper was old and discoloured; a few almanacs and unframed prints were fixed to the walls, and on the mantelshelf were some cracked and worthless vases and ornaments. At one time they had possessed a clock and an overmantel and some framed pictures, but they had all been sold to obtain money to buy food. Nearly everything of any value had been parted with for the same reason - the furniture, the pictures, the bedclothes, the carpet and the oilcloth, piece by piece, nearly everything that had once constituted the home - had been either pawned or sold to buy food or to pay rent during the times when Newman was out of work - periods that had recurred during the last few years with constantly increasing frequency and duration. Now there was nothing left but these few old broken chairs and the deal table which no one would buy; and upstairs, the wretched bedsteads and mattresses whereon they slept at night, covering themselves with worn-out remnants of blankets and the clothes they wore during the day.
 In answer to Philpot’s knock, the door was opened by a little girl about seven years old, who at once recognized Philpot, and called out his name to her mother, and the latter came also to the door, closely followed by two other children, a little, fragile-looking girl about three, and a boy about five years of age, who held on to her skirt and peered curiously at the visitors. Mrs Newman was about thirty, and her appearance confirmed the statement of Philpot that she had only just recovered from an illness; she was very white and thin and dejected-looking. When Philpot explained the object of their visit and handed her the money, the poor woman burst into tears, and the two smaller children - thinking that this piece of paper betokened some fresh calamity - began to cry also. They remembered that all their troubles had been preceded by the visits of men who brought pieces of paper, and it was rather difficult to reassure them.
 That evening, after Frankie was asleep, Owen and Nora went out to do their Christmas marketing. They had not much money to spend, for Owen had brought home only seventeen shillings. He had worked thirty-three hours - that came to nineteen and threepence - one shilling and threehalfpence had gone on the subscription list, and he had given the rest of the coppers to a ragged wreck of a man who was singing a hymn in the street. The other shilling had been deducted from his wages in repayment of a ‘sub’ he had had during the week.
 There was a great deal to be done with this seventeen shillings. First of all there was the rent - seven shillings - that left ten. Then there was the week’s bread bill - one and threepence. They had a pint of milk every day, chiefly for the boy’s sake - that came to one and two. Then there was one and eight for a hundredweight of coal that had been bought on credit. Fortunately, there were no groceries to buy, for the things they had obtained with their Christmas Club money would be more than sufficient for the ensuing week.
 Frankie’s stockings were all broken and beyond mending, so it was positively necessary to buy him another pair for fivepence three-farthings. These stockings were not much good - a pair at double the price would have been much cheaper, for they would have lasted three or four times longer; but they could not afford to buy the dearer kind. It was just the same with the coal: if they had been able to afford it, they could have bought a ton of the same class of coal for twenty-six shillings, but buying it as they did, by the hundredweight, they had to pay at the rate of thirty-three shillings and fourpence a ton. It was just the same with nearly everything else. This is how the working classes are robbed. Although their incomes are the lowest, they are compelled to buy the most expensive articles - that is, the lowest-priced articles. Everybody knows that good clothes, boots or furniture are really the cheapest in the end, although they cost more money at first; but the working classes can seldom or never afford to buy good things; they have to buy cheap rubbish which is dear at any price.
 Six weeks previously Owen bought a pair of second-hand boots for three shillings and they were now literally falling to pieces. Nora’s shoes were in much the same condition, but, as she said, it did not matter so much about hers because there was no need for her to go out if the weather were not fine.
 In addition to the articles already mentioned, they had to spend fourpence for half a gallon of paraffin oil, and to put sixpence into the slot of the gas-stove. This reduced the money to five and sevenpence farthing, and of this it was necessary to spend a shilling on potatoes and other vegetables.
 They both needed some new underclothing, for what they had was so old and worn that it was quite useless for the purpose it was supposed to serve; but there was no use thinking of these things, for they had now only four shillings and sevenpence farthing left, and all that would be needed for toys. They had to buy something special for Frankie for Christmas, and it would also be necessary to buy something for each of the children who were coming to the party on the following Monday. Fortunately, there was no meat to buy, for Nora had been paying into the Christmas Club at the butcher’s as well as at the grocer’s. So this necessary was already paid for.
 They stopped to look at the display of toys at Sweater’s Emporium. For several days past Frankie had been talking of the wonders contained in these windows, so they wished if possible to buy him something here. They recognized many of the things from the description the boy had given of them, but nearly everything was so dear that for a long time they looked in vain for something it would be possible to buy.
 ‘That’s the engine he talks so much about,’ said Non, indicating a model railway locomotive; that one marked five shillings.’
 ‘It might just as well be marked five pounds as far as we’re concerned,’ replied Owen.
 As they were speaking, one of the salesmen appeared at the back of the window and, reaching forward, removed the engine. It was probably the last one of the kind and had evidently just been sold. Owen and Nora experienced a certain amount of consolation in knowing that even if they had the money they would not have been able to buy it.
 After lengthy consideration, they decided on a clockwork engine at a shilling, but the other toys they resolved to buy at a cheaper shop. Nora went into the Emporium to get the toy and whilst Owen was waiting for her Mr and Mrs Rushton came out. They did not appear to see Owen, who observed that the shape of one of several parcels they carried suggested that it contained the engine that had been taken from the window a little while before.
 When Nora returned with her purchase, they went in search of a cheaper place and after a time they found what they wanted. For sixpence they bought a cardboard box that had come all the way from Japan and contained a whole family of dolls - father, mother and four children of different sizes. A box of paints, threepence: a sixpenny tea service, a threepenny drawing slate, and a rag doll, sixpence.
 On their way home they called at a greengrocer’s where Owen had ordered and paid for a small Christmas tree a few weeks before; and as they were turning the corner of the street where they lived they met Crass, half-drunk, with a fine fat goose slung over his shoulder by its neck. He greeted Owen jovially and held up the bird for their inspection.
 ‘Not a bad tanner’s-worth, eh?’ he hiccoughed. ‘This makes two we’ve got. I won this and a box of cigars - fifty - for a tanner, and the other one I got out of the Club at our Church Mission ’all: threepence a week for twenty-eight weeks; that makes seven bob. But,’ he added, confidentially,‘’you couldn’t buy ’em for that price in a shop, you know. They costs the committee a good bit more nor that - wholesale; but we’ve got some rich gents on our committee and they makes up the difference,’ and with a nod and a cunning leer he lurched off.
 Frankie was sleeping soundly when they reached home, and so was the kitten, which was curled up on the quilt on the foot of the bed. After they had had some supper, although it was after eleven o’clock, Owen fixed the tree in a large flower-pot that had served a similar purpose before, and Nora brought out from the place where it had been stored away since last Christmas a cardboard box containing a lot of glittering tinsel ornaments - globes of silvered or gilded or painted glass, birds, butterflies and stars. Some of these things had done duty three Christmases ago and although they were in some instances slightly tarnished most of them were as good as new. In addition to these and the toys they had bought that evening they had a box of bon-bons and a box of small coloured wax candles, both of which had formed part of the things they got from the grocer’s with the Christmas Club money; and there were also a lot of little coloured paper bags of sweets, and a number of sugar and chocolate toys and animals which had been bought two or three at a time for several weeks past and put away for this occasion. There was something suitable for each child that was coming, with the exception of Bert White; they had intended to include a sixpenny pocket knife for him in their purchases that evening, but as they had not been able to afford this Owen decided to give him an old set of steel paining combs which he knew the lad had often longed to possess. The tin case containing these tools was accordingly wrapped in some red tissue paper and hung on the tree with the other things.
 They moved about as quietly as possible so as not to disturb those who were sleeping in the rooms beneath, because long before they were finished the people in the other parts of the house had all retired to rest, and silence had fallen on the deserted streets outside. As they were putting the final touches to their work the profound stillness of the night was suddenly broken by the voices of a band of carol- singers.
 The sound overwhelmed them with memories of other and happier times, and Nora stretched out her hands impulsively to Owen, who drew her close to his side.
 They had been married just over eight years, and although during all that time they had never been really free from anxiety for the future, yet on no previous Christmas had they been quite so poor as now. During the last few years periods of unemployment had gradually become more frequent and protracted, and the attempt he had made in the early part of the year to get work elsewhere had only resulted in plunging them into even greater poverty than before. But all the same there was much to be thankful for: poor though they were, they were far better off than many thousands of others: they still had food and shelter, and they had each other and the boy.
 Before they went to bed Owen carried the tree into Frankie’s bedroom and placed it so that he would be able to see it in all its glittering glory as soon as he awoke on Christmas morning.
 
 Chapter 29: The Pandorama
  Although the party was not supposed to begin till six o’clock, Bert turned up at half past four, bringing the ‘Pandoramer’ with him.
 At about half past five the other guests began to arrive. Elsie and Charley Linden came first, the girl in a pretty blue frock trimmed with white lace, and Charley resplendent in a new suit, which, like his sister’s dress, had been made out of somebody’s cast-off clothes that had been given to their mother by a visiting lady. It had taken Mrs Linden many hours of hard work to contrive these garments; in fact, more time than the things were worth, for although they looked all right - especially Elsie’s - the stuff was so old that it would not wear very long: but this was the only way in which she could get clothes for the children at all: she certainly could not afford to buy them any. So she spent hours and hours making things that she knew would fall to pieces almost as soon as they were made.
 After these came Nellie, Rosie and Tommy Newman. These presented a much less prosperous appearance than the other two. Their mother was not so skilful at contriving new clothes out of old. Nellie was wearing a grown-up woman’s blouse, and by way of ulster she had on an old-fashioned jacket of thick cloth with large pearl buttons. This was also a grown-up woman’s garment: it was shaped to fit the figure of a tall woman with wide shoulders and a small waist; consequently, it did not fit Nellie to perfection. The waist reached below the poor child’s hips.
 Tommy was arrayed in the patched remains of what had once been a good suit of clothes. They had been purchased at a second-hand shop last summer and had been his ‘best’ for several months, but they were now much too small for him.
 Little Rosie - who was only just over three years old - was better off than either of the other two, for she had a red cloth dress that fitted her perfectly: indeed, as the district visitor who gave it to her mother had remarked, it looked as if it had been made for her.
 ‘It’s not much to look at,’ observed Nellie, referring to her big jacket, but all the same we was very glad of it when the rain came on.’
 The coat was so big that by withdrawing her arms from the sleeves and using it as a cloak or shawl she had managed to make it do for all three of them.
 Tommy’s boots were so broken that the wet had got in and saturated his stockings, so Nora made him take them all off and wear some old ones of Frankie’s whilst his own were drying at the fire.
 Philpot, with two large paper bags full of oranges and nuts, arrived just as they were sitting down to tea - or rather cocoa - for with the exception of Bert all the children expressed a preference for the latter beverage. Bert would have liked to have cocoa also, but hearing that the grown-ups were going to have tea, he thought it would be more manly to do the same. This question of having tea or cocoa for tea became a cause of much uproarious merriment on the part of the children, who asked each other repeatedly which they liked best, ‘tea tea?’ or ‘cocoa tea?’ They thought it so funny that they said it over and over again, screaming with laughter all the while, until Tommy got a piece of cake stuck in his throat and became nearly black in the face, and then Philpot had to turn him upside down and punch him in the back to save him from choking to death. This rather sobered the others, but for some time afterwards whenever they looked at each other they began to laugh afresh because they thought it was such a good joke.
 When they had filled themselves up with the ‘cocoa-tea’ and cakes and bread and jam, Elsie Linden and Nellie Newman helped to clear away the cups and saucers, and then Owen lit the candles on the Christmas tree and distributed the toys to the children, and a little while afterwards Philpot - who had got a funny-looking mask out of one of the bon-bons - started a fine game pretending to be a dreadful wild animal which he called a Pandroculus, and crawling about on all fours, rolled his goggle eyes and growled out he must have a little boy or girl to eat for his supper.
 He looked so terrible that although they knew it was only a joke they were almost afraid of him, and ran away laughing and screaming to shelter themselves behind Nora or Owen; but all the same, whenever Philpot left off playing, they entreated him to ‘be it again’, and so he had to keep on being a Pandroculus, until exhaustion compelled him to return to his natural form.
 After this they all sat round the table and had a game of cards; ‘Snap’, they called it, but nobody paid much attention to the rules of the game: everyone seemed to think that the principal thing to do was to kick up as much row as possible. After a while Philpot suggested a change to ‘Beggar my neighbour’, and won quite a lot of cards before they found out that he had hidden all the jacks in the pocket of his coat, and then they mobbed him for a cheat. He might have been seriously injured if it had not been for Bert, who created a diversion by standing on a chair and announcing that he was about to introduce to their notice ‘Bert White’s World-famed Pandorama’ as exhibited before all the nobility and crowned heads of Europe, England, Ireland and Scotland, including North America and Wales.
 Loud cheers greeted the conclusion of Bert’s speech. The box was placed on the table, which was then moved to the end of the room, and the chairs were ranged in two rows in front.
 The ‘Pandorama’ consisted of a stage-front made of painted cardboard and fixed on the front of a wooden box about three feet long by two feet six inches high, and about one foot deep from back to front. The ‘Show’ was a lot of pictures cut out of illustrated weekly papers and pasted together, end to end, so as to form a long strip or ribbon. Bert had coloured all the pictures with water-colours.
 Just behind the wings of the stage-front at each end of the box - was an upright roller, and the long strip of pictures was rolled up on this. The upper ends of the rollers came through the top of the box and had handles attached to them. When these handles were turned the pictures passed across the stage, unrolling from one roller and rolling on to the other, and were illuminated by the light of three candles placed behind.
 The idea of constructing this machine had been suggested to Bert by a panorama entertainment he had been to see some time before.
 ‘The Style of the decorations,’ he remarked, alluding to the painted stage-front, ’is Moorish.’
 He lit the candles at the back of the stage and, having borrowed a tea-tray from Nora, desired the audience to take their seats. When they had all done so, he requested Owen to put out the lamp and the candles on the tree, and then he made another speech, imitating the manner of the lecturer at the panorama entertainment before mentioned.
 ‘Ladies and Gentlemen: with your kind permission I am about to hinterduce to your notice some pitchers of events in different parts of the world. As each pitcher appears on the stage I will give a short explanation of the subject, and afterwards the band will play a suitable collection of appropriated music, consisting of hymns and all the latest and most popular songs of the day, and the audience is kindly requested to join in the chorus.
 ‘Our first scene,’ continued Bert as he turned the handles and brought the picture into view, ‘represents the docks at Southampton; the magnificent steamer which you see lying alongside the shore is the ship which is waiting to take us to foreign parts. As we have already paid our fare, we will now go on board and set sail.’
 As an accompaniment to this picture Bert played the tune of ‘Goodbye, Dolly, I must leave you’, and by the time the audience had finished singing the chorus he had rolled on another scene, which depicted a dreadful storm at sea, with a large ship evidently on the point of foundering. The waves were running mountains high and the inky clouds were riven by forked lightning. To increase the terrifying effect, Bert rattled the tea tray and played ‘The Bay of Biscay’, and the children sung the chorus whilst he rolled the next picture into view. This scene showed the streets of a large city; mounted police with drawn swords were dispersing a crowd: several men had been ridden down and were being trampled under the hoofs of the horses, and a number of others were bleeding profusely from wounds on the head and face.
 ‘After a rather stormy passage we arrives safely at the beautiful city of Berlin, in Germany, just in time to see a procession of unemployed workmen being charged by the military police. This picture is hintitled "Tariff Reform means Work for All".’
 As an appropriate musical selection Bert played the tune of a well-known song, and the children sang the words:
  ‘To be there! to be there! Oh, I knew what it was to be there! And when they tore me clothes, Blacked me eyes and broke me nose, Then I knew what it was to be there!’
 During the singing Bert turned the handles backwards and again brought on the picture of the storm at sea.
 ‘As we don’t want to get knocked on the ’ed, we clears out of Berlin as soon as we can - whiles we’re safe - and once more embarks on our gallint ship’ and after a few more turns of the ’andle we finds ourselves back once more in Merry Hingland, where we see the inside of a blacksmith’s shop with a lot of half-starved women making iron chains. They work seventy hours a week for seven shillings. Our next scene is hintitled "The Hook and Eye Carders". ’Ere we see the inside of a room in Slumtown, with a mother and three children and the old grandmother sewin’ hooks and eyes on cards to be sold in drapers’ shops. It ses underneath the pitcher that 384 hooks and 384 eyes has to be joined together and sewed on cards for one penny.’
 While this picture was being rolled away the band played and the children sang with great enthusiasm:
  ‘Rule, Brittania, Brittania rules the waves! Britons, never, never, never shall be slaves!’
 ‘Our next picture is called "An Englishman’s Home". ’Ere we see the inside of another room in Slumtown, with the father and mother and four children sitting down to dinner - bread and drippin’ and tea. It ses underneath the pitcher that there’s Thirteen millions of people in England always on the verge of starvation. These people that you see in the pitcher might be able to get a better dinner than this if it wasn’t that most of the money wot the bloke earns ’as to pay the rent. Again we turns the ’andle and presently we comes to another very beautiful scene - "Early Morning in Trafalgar Square". ’Ere we see a lot of Englishmen who have been sleepin’ out all night because they ain’t got no ’omes to go to.’
 As a suitable selection for this picture, Bert played the tune of a music-hall song, the words of which were familiar to all the youngsters, who sang at the top of their voices:
  ‘I live in Trafalgar Square, With four lions to guard me, Pictures and statues all over the place, Lord Nelson staring me straight in the face, Of course it’s rather draughty, But still I’m sure you’ll agree, If it’s good enough for Lord Nelson, It’s quite good enough for me.’
 ‘Next we ’ave a view of the dining-hall at the Topside Hotel in London, where we see the tables set for a millionaires’ banquet. The forks and spoons is made of solid gold and the plates is made of silver. The flowers that you see on the tables and ’angin’ down from the ceilin’ and on the walls is worth £2,000 and it cost the bloke wot give the supper over £30,000 for this one beano. A few more turns of the ’andle shows us another glorious banquet - the King of Rhineland being entertained by the people of England. Next we finds ourselves looking on at the Lord Mayor’s supper at the Mansion House. All the fat men that you see sittin’ at the tables is Liberal and Tory Members of Parlimint. After this we ’ave a very beautiful pitcher hintitled "Four footed Haristocrats". ’Ere you see Lady Slumrent’s pet dogs sittin’ up on chairs at their dinner table with white linen napkins tied round their necks, eatin’ orf silver plates like human people and being waited on by real live waiters in hevening dress. Lady Slumrent is very fond of her pretty pets and she does not allow them to be fed on anything but the very best food; they gets chicken, rump steak, mutton chops, rice pudding, jelly and custard.’
 ‘I wished I was a pet dog, don’t you?’ remarked Tommy Newman to Charley Linden.
 ‘Not arf!’ replied Charley.
 ‘Here we see another unemployed procession,’ continued Bert as he rolled another picture into sight; ‘2,000 able-bodied men who are not allowed to work. Next we see the hinterior of a Hindustrial ’Ome - Blind children and cripples working for their living. Our next scene is called "Cheap Labour". ’Ere we see a lot of small boys about twelve and thirteen years old bein’ served out with their Labour Stifficats, which gives ’em the right to go to work and earn money to help their unemployed fathers to pay the slum rent.
 ‘Once more we turns the ’andle and brings on one of our finest scenes. This lovely pitcher is hintitled "The Hangel of Charity", and shows us the beautiful Lady Slumrent seated at the table in a cosy corner of ’er charmin’ boodore, writin’ out a little cheque for the relief of the poor of Slumtown.
 ‘Our next scene is called "The Rival Candidates, or, a Scene during the General Election". On the left you will observe, standin’ up in a motor car, a swell bloke with a eyeglass stuck in one eye, and a overcoat with a big fur collar and cuffs, addressing the crowd: this is the Honourable Augustus Slumrent, the Conservative candidate. On the other side of the road we see another motor car and another swell bloke with a round pane of glass in one eye and a overcoat with a big fur collar and cuffs, standing up in the car and addressin’ the crowd. This is Mr Mandriver, the Liberal candidate. The crowds of shabby- lookin’ chaps standin’ round the motor cars wavin’ their ’ats and cheerin’ is workin’ men. Both the candidates is tellin’ ’em the same old story, and each of ’em is askin’ the workin’ men to elect ’im to Parlimint, and promisin’ to do something or other to make things better for the lower horders.’
 As an appropriate selection to go with this picture, Bert played the tune of a popular song, the words being well known to the children, who sang enthusiastically, clapping their hands and stamping their feet on the floor in time with the music:
  ‘We’ve both been there before, Many a time, many a time! We’ve both been there before, Many a time! Where many a gallon of beer has gone. To colour his nose and mine, We’ve both been there before, Many a time, many a time!’
 At the conclusion of the singing, Bert turned another picture into view.
 ‘’Ere we ’ave another election scene. At each side we see the two candidates the same as in the last pitcher. In the middle of the road we see a man lying on the ground, covered with blood, with a lot of Liberal and Tory working men kickin’ ’im, jumpin’ on ’im, and stampin’ on ’is face with their ’obnailed boots. The bloke on the ground is a Socialist, and the reason why they’re kickin’ ’is face in is because ’e said that the only difference between Slumrent and Mandriver was that they was both alike.’
 While the audience were admiring this picture, Bert played another well-known tune, and the children sang the words:
  ‘Two lovely black eyes, Oh what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.’
 Bert continued to turn the handles of the rollers and a long succession of pictures passed across the stage, to the delight of the children, who cheered and sang as occasion demanded, but the most enthusiastic outburst of all greeted the appearance of the final picture, which was a portrait of the King. Directly the children saw it - without waiting for the band - they gave three cheers and began to sing the chorus of the National Anthem.
 A round of applause for Bert concluded the Pandorama performance; the lamp and the candles of the Christmas tree were relit - for although all the toys had been taken off, the tree still made a fine show with the shining glass ornaments - and then they had some more games; blind man’s buff, a tug-of-war - in which Philpot was defeated with great laughter - and a lot of other games. And when they were tired of these, each child ‘said a piece’ or sung a song, learnt specially for the occasion. The only one who had not come prepared in this respect was little Rosie, and even she - so as to be the same as the others - insisted on reciting the only piece she knew. Kneeling on the hearthrug, she put her hands together, palm to palm, and shutting her eyes very tightly she repeated the verse she always said every night before going to bed:
  ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look on me, a little child. Pity my simplicity, Suffer me to come to Thee.’
 Then she stood up and kissed everyone in turn, and Philpot crossed over and began looking out of the window, and coughed, and blew his nose, because a nut that he had been eating had gone down the wrong way.
 Most of them were by this time quite tired out, so after some supper the party broke up. Although they were nearly all very sleepy, none of them were very willing to go, but they were consoled by the thought of another entertainment to which they were going later on in the week - the Band of Hope Tea and Prize Distribution at the Shining Light Chapel.
 Bert undertook to see Elsie and Charley safely home, and Philpot volunteered to accompany Nellie and Tommy Newman, and to carry Rosie, who was so tired that she fell asleep on his shoulder before they left the house.
 As they were going down the stairs Frankie held a hurried consultation with his mother, with the result that he was able to shout after them an invitation to come again next Christmas.
 
Chapter 30: The Brigands hold a Council of War
  It being now what is usually called the festive season - possibly because at this period of the year a greater number of people are suffering from hunger and cold than at any other time - the reader will not be surprised at being invited to another little party which took place on the day after the one we have just left. The scene was Mr Sweater’s office. Mr Sweater was seated at his desk, but with his chair swung round to enable him to face his guests - Messrs Rushton, Didlum, and Grinder, who were also seated.
 ‘Something will ’ave to be done, and that very soon,’ Grinder was saying. ‘We can’t go on much longer as we’re doing at present. For my part, I think the best thing to do is to chuck up the sponge at once; the company is practically bankrupt now, and the longer we waits the worser it will be.’
 ‘That’s just my opinion,’ said Didlum dejectedly. ‘If we could supply the electric light at the same price as gas, or a little cheaper, we might have some chance; but we can’t do it. The fact is that the machinery we’ve got is no dam good; it’s too small and it’s wore out, consequently the light we supply is inferior to gas and costs more.’
 ‘Yes, I think we’re fairly beaten this time,’ said Rushton. ‘Why, even if the Gas Coy hadn’t moved their works beyond the borough boundary, still we shouldn’t ’ave been hable to compete with ’em.’
 ‘Of course not,’ said Grinder. ‘The truth of the matter is just wot Didlum says. Our machinery is too small, it’s worn hout, and good for nothing but to be throwed on the scrap-heap. So there’s only one thing left to do and that is - go into liquidation.’
 ‘I don’t see it,’ remarked Sweater.
 ‘Well, what do you propose, then?’ demanded Grinder. ‘Reconstruct the company? Ask the shareholders for more money? Pull down the works and build fresh, and buy some new machinery? And then most likely not make a do of it after all? Not for me, old chap! I’ve ’ad enough. You won’t catch me chuckin’ good money after bad in that way.’
 ‘Nor me neither,’ said Rushton.
 ‘Dead orf!’ remarked Didlum, very decidedly.
 Sweater laughed quietly. ‘I’m not such a fool as to suggest anything of that sort,’ he said. ‘You seem to forget that I am one of the largest shareholders myself. No. What I propose is that we Sell Out.’
 ‘Sell out!’ replied Grinder with a contemptuous laugh in which the others joined. ‘Who’s going to buy the shares of a concern that’s practically bankrupt and never paid a dividend?’
 ‘I’ve tried to sell my little lot several times already,’ said Didlum with a sickly smile, ‘but nobody won’t buy ’em.’
 ‘Who’s to buy?’ repeated Sweater, replying to Grinder. ‘The municipality of course! The ratepayers. Why shouldn’t Mugsborough go in for Socialism as well as other towns?’
 Rushton, Didlum and Grinder fairly gasped for breath: the audacity of the chief’s proposal nearly paralysed them.
 ‘I’m afraid we should never git away with it,’ ejaculated Didlum, as soon as he could speak. ‘When the people tumbled to it, there’d be no hend of a row.’
 ‘PEOPLE! ROW!’ replied Sweater, scornfully. ‘The majority of the people will never know anything about it! Listen to me -’
 ‘Are you quite sure as we can’t be over’eard?’ interrupted Rushton, glancing nervously at the door and round the office.
 ‘It’s all right,’ answered Sweater, who nevertheless lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and the others drew their chairs closer and bent forward to listen.
 ‘You know we still have a little money in hand: well, what I propose is this: At the annual meeting, which, as you know, comes off next week, we’ll arrange for the Secretary to read a highly satisfactory report, and we’ll declare a dividend of 15 per cent - we can arrange it somehow between us. Of course, we’ll have to cook the accounts a little, but I’ll see that it’s done properly. The other shareholders are not going to ask any awkward questions, and we all understand each other.’
 Sweater paused, and regarded the other three brigands intently. ‘Do you follow me?’ he asked.
 ‘Yes, yes,’ said Didlum eagerly. ‘Go on with it.’ And Rushton and Grinder nodded assent.
 ‘Afterwards,’ resumed Sweater, ‘I’ll arrange for a good report of the meeting to appear in the Weekly Ananias. I’ll instruct the Editor to write it himself, and I’ll tell him just what to say. I’ll also get him to write a leading article about it, saying that electricity is sure to supersede gas for lighting purposes in the very near future. Then the article will go on to refer to the huge profits made by the Gas Coy and to say how much better it would have been if the town had bought the gasworks years ago, so that those profits might have been used to reduce the rates, the same as has been done in other towns. Finally, the article will declare that it’s a great pity that the Electric Light Supply should be in the hands of a private company, and to suggest that an effort be made to acquire it for the town.
 ‘In the meantime we can all go about - in a very quiet and judicious way, of course - bragging about what a good thing we’ve got, and saying we don’t mean to sell. We shall say that we’ve overcome all the initial expenses and difficulties connected with the installation of the works - that we are only just beginning to reap the reward of our industry and enterprise, and so on.
 ‘Then,’ continued the Chief, ‘we can arrange for it to be proposed in the Council that the Town should purchase the Electric Light Works.’
 ‘But not by one of us four, you know,’ said Grinder with a cunning leer.
 ‘Certainly not; that would give the show away at once. There are, as you know - several members of the Band who are not shareholders in the company; we’ll get some of them to do most of the talking. We, being the directors of the company, must pretend to be against selling, and stick out for our own price; and when we do finally consent we must make out that we are sacrificing our private interests for the good of the Town. We’ll get a committee appointed - we’ll have an expert engineer down from London - I know a man that will suit our purpose admirably - we’ll pay him a trifle and he’ll say whatever we tell him to - and we’ll rush the whole business through before you can say "Jack Robinson", and before the rate-payers have time to realize what’s being done. Not that we need worry ourselves much about them. Most of them take no interest in public affairs, but even if there is something said, it won’t matter much to us once we’ve got the money. It’ll be a nine days’ wonder and then we’ll hear no more of it.’
 As the Chief ceased speaking, the other brigands also remained silent, speechless with admiration of his cleverness.
 ‘Well, what do you think of it?’ he asked.
 ‘Think of it!’ cried Grinder, enthusiastically. ‘I think it’s splendid! Nothing could be better. If we can honly git away with it, I reckon it’ll be one of the smartest thing we’ve ever done.’
 ‘Smart ain’t the word for it,’ observed Rushton.
 ‘There’s no doubt it’s a grand idear!’ exclaimed Didlum, ‘and I’ve just thought of something else that might be done to help it along. We could arrange to ’ave a lot of letters sent "To the Editor of the Obscurer" and "To the Editor of the Ananias," and "To the Editor of the Weekly Chloroform" in favour of the scheme.’
 ‘Yes, that’s a very good idea,’ said Grinder. ‘For that matter the editors could write them to themselves and sign them "Progress", "Ratepayer", "Advance Mugsborough", and sich-like.’
 ‘Yes, that’s all right,’ said the Chief, thoughtfully, ‘but we must be careful not to overdo it; of course there will have to be a certain amount of publicity, but we don’t want to create too much interest in it.’ ‘Come to think of it,’ observed Rushton arrogantly, ‘why should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the ratepayers at all? Why should we trouble to fake the books, or declare a dividend or ’ave the harticles in the papers or anything else? We’ve got the game in our own ’ands; we’ve got a majority in the Council, and, as Mr Sweater ses, very few people even take the trouble to read the reports of the meetings.’
 ‘Yes, that’s right enough,’ said Grinder. ‘But it’s just them few wot would make a lot of trouble and talk; THEY’RE the very people we ’as to think about. If we can only manage to put THEM in a fog we’ll be all right, and the way to do it is as Mr Sweater proposes.’
 ‘Yes, I think so,’ said the Chief. ‘We must be very careful. I can work it all right in the Ananias and the Chloroform, and of course you’ll see that the Obscurer backs us up.’
 ‘I’ll take care of that,’ said Grinder, grimly.
 The three local papers were run by limited companies. Sweater held nearly all the shares of the Ananias and of the Weekly Chloroform, and controlled their policy and contents. Grinder occupied the same position with regard to the Obscurer. The editors were a sort of marionettes who danced as Sweater and Grinder pulled the strings.
 ‘I wonder how Dr Weakling will take it?’ remarked Rushton.
 ‘That’s the very thing I was just thinkin’ about,’ cried Didlum. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good plan if we could arrange to ’ave somebody took bad - you know, fall down in a fit or something in the street just outside the Town ’All just before the matter is brought forward in the Council, and then ’ave someone to come and call ’im out to attend to the party wot’s ill, and keep ’im out till the business is done.’
 ‘Yes, that’s a capital idear,’ said Grinder thoughtfully. ‘But who could we get to ’ave the fit? It would ’ave to be someone we could trust, you know.’
 ‘’Ow about Rushton? You wouldn’t mind doin’ it, would yer?’ inquired Didlum.
 ‘I should strongly object,’ said Rushton haughtily. He regarded the suggestion that he should act such an undignified part, as a kind of sacrilege.
 ‘Then I’ll do it meself if necessary,’ said Didlum. ‘I’m not proud when there’s money to be made; anything for an honest living.’
 ‘Well, I think we’re all agreed, so far,’ remarked Sweater. The others signified assent.
 ‘And I think we all deserve a drink,’ the Chief continued, producing a decanter and a box of cigars from a cupboard by the side of his desk. ‘Pass that water bottle from behind you, Didlum.’
 ‘I suppose nobody won’t be comin’ in?’ said the latter, anxiously. ‘I’m a teetotaler, you know.’
 ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ said Sweater, taking four glasses out of the cupboard and pouring out the whisky. ‘I’ve given orders that we’re not to be disturbed for anyone. Say when.’
 ‘Well, ’ere’s success to Socialism,’ cried Grinder, raising his glass, and taking a big drink.
 ‘Amen - ’ear, ’ear, I mean,’ said Didlum, hastily correcting himself.
 ‘Wot I likes about this ’ere business is that we’re not only doin’ ourselves a bit of good,’ continued Grinder with a laugh, ‘we’re not only doin’ ourselves a bit of good, but we’re likewise doin’ the Socialists a lot of ’arm. When the ratepayers ’ave bought the Works, and they begins to kick up a row because they’re losin’ money over it - we can tell ’em that it’s Socialism! And then they’ll say that if that’s Socialism they don’t want no more of it.’
 The other brigands laughed gleefully, and some of Didlum’s whisky went down the wrong way and nearly sent him into a fit.
 ‘You might as well kill a man at once,’ he protested as he wiped the tears from his eyes, ‘you might as well kill a man at once as choke ’im to death.’
 ‘And now I’ve got a bit of good news for you,’ said the Chief as he put his empty glass down.
 The others became serious at once.
 ‘Although we’ve had a very rough time of it in our contest with the Gasworks Company, and although we’ve got the worst of it, it hasn’t been all lavender for them, you know. They’ve not enjoyed themselves either: we hit them pretty hard when we put up the coal dues.’
 ‘A damn good job too,’ said Grinder malignantly.
 ‘Well,’ continued Sweater, ‘they’re just as sick of the fight as they want to be, because of course they don’t know exactly how badly we’ve been hit. For all they know, we could have continued the struggle indefinitely: and - well, to make a long story short, I’ve had a talk with the managing director and one or two others, and they’re willing to let us in with them. So that we can put the money we get for the Electric Light Works into gas shares!’
 This was such splendid news that they had another drink on the strength of it, and Didlum said that one of the first things they would have to do would be to totally abolish the Coal Dues, because they pressed so hard on the poor.
 
Chapter 31: The Deserter
  About the end of January, Slyme left Easton’s. The latter had not succeeded in getting anything to do since the work at ‘The Cave’ was finished, and latterly the quality of the food had been falling off. The twelve shillings Slyme paid for his board and lodging was all that Ruth had to keep house with. She had tried to get some work to do herself, but generally without success; there were one or two jobs that she might have had if she had been able to give her whole time to them, but of course that was not possible; the child and the housework had to be attended to, and Slyme’s meals had to be prepared. Nevertheless, she contrived to get away several times when she had a chance of earning a few shillings by doing a day’s charing for some lady or other, and then she left everything in such order at home that Easton was able to manage all right while she was away. On these occasions, she usually left the baby with Owen’s wife, who was an old schoolmate of hers. Nora was the more willing to render her this service because Frankie used to be so highly delighted whenever it happened. He never tired of playing with the child, and for several days afterwards he used to worry his mother with entreaties to buy a baby of their own.
 Easton earned a few shillings occasionally; now and then he got a job to clean windows, and once or twice he did a few days’ or hours’ work with some other painter who had been fortunate enough to get a little job ‘on his own’ - such as a ceiling to wash and whiten, or a room or two to paint; but such jobs were few.
 Sometimes, when they were very hard up, they sold something; the Bible that used to lie on the little table in the bay window was one of the first things to be parted with. Ruth erased the inscription from the fly-leaf and then they sold the book at a second-hand shop for two shillings. As time went on, they sold nearly everything that was saleable, except of course, the things that were obtained on the hire system.
 Slyme could see that they were getting very much into debt and behind with the rent, and on two occasions already Easton had borrowed five shillings from him, which he might never be able to pay back. Another thing was that Slyme was always in fear that Ruth - who had never wholly abandoned herself to wrongdoing - might tell Easton what had happened; more than once she had talked of doing so, and the principal reason why she refrained was that she knew that even if he forgave her, he could never think the same of her as before. Slyme repeatedly urged this view upon her, pointing out that no good could result from such a confession.
 Latterly the house had become very uncomfortable. It was not only that the food was bad and that sometimes there was no fire, but Ruth and Easton were nearly always quarrelling about something or other. She scarcely spoke to Slyme at all, and avoided sitting at the table with him whenever possible. He was in constant dread that Easton might notice her manner towards him, and seek for some explanation. Altogether the situation was so unpleasant that Slyme determined to clear out. He made the excuse that he had been offered a few weeks’ work at a place some little distance outside the town. After he was gone they lived for several weeks in semi-starvation on what credit they could get and by selling the furniture or anything else they possessed that could be turned into money. The things out of Slyme’s room were sold almost directly he left.
 
Chapter 32: The Veteran
  Old Jack Linden had tried hard to earn a little money by selling bloaters, but they often went bad, and even when he managed to sell them all the profit was so slight that it was not worth doing.
 Before the work at ‘The Cave’ was finished, Philpot was a good friend to them; he frequently gave old Jack sixpence or a shilling and often brought a bag off cakes or buns for the children. Sometimes he came to tea with them on Sundays as an excuse for bringing a tin of salmon.
 Elsie and Charley frequently went to Owen’s house to take tea with Frankie; in fact, whilst Owen had anything to do, they almost lived there, for both Owen and Nora, knowing that the Lindens had nothing to live on except the earnings of the young woman, encouraged the children to come often.
 Old Jack made some hopeless attempts to get work - work of any kind, but nobody wanted him; and to make things worse, his eyesight, which had been failing for a long time, became very bad. Once he was given a job by a big provision firm to carry an advertisement about the streets. The man who had been carrying it before - an old soldier - had been sacked the previous day for getting drunk while on duty. The advertisement was not an ordinary pair of sandwich boards, but a sort of box without any bottom or lid, a wooden frame, four sides covered with canvas, an which were pasted printed bills advertising margarine. Each side of this box or frame was rather larger than an ordinary sandwich board.
 Old Linden had to get inside this thing and carry it about the streets; two straps fixed across the top of the frame and passing one over each of his shoulders enabled him to carry it. It swayed about a good deal as he walked along, especially when the wind caught it, but there were two handles inside to hold it steady by. The pay was eighteenpence a day, and he had to travel a certain route, up and down the busiest streets.
 At first the frame did not feel very heavy, but the weight seemed to increase as the time went on, and the straps hurt his shoulders. He felt very much ashamed, also, whenever he encountered any of his old mates, some of whom laughed at him.
 In consequence of the frame requiring so much attention to keep it steady, and being unused to the work, and his sight so bad, he several times narrowly escaped being run over. Another thing that added to his embarrassment was the jeering of the other sandwichmen, the loafers outside the public houses, and the boys, who shouted ‘old Jack in the box’ after him. Sometimes the boys threw refuse at the frame, and once a decayed orange thrown by one of them knocked his hat off.
 By the time evening came he was scarcely able to stand for weariness. His shoulders, his legs and his feet ached terribly, and as he was taking the thing back to the shop he was accosted by a ragged, dirty- looking, beer-sodden old man whose face was inflamed with drink and fury. ‘This was the old soldier who had been discharged the previous day. He cursed and swore in the most awful manner and accused Linden of ‘taking the bread out of his mouth’, and, shaking his fist fiercely at him, shouted that he had a good mind to knock his face through his head and out of the back of his neck. He might possibly have tried to put this threat into practice but for the timely appearance of a policeman, when he calmed down at once and took himself off.
 Jack did not go back the next day; he felt that he would rather starve than have any more of the advertisement frame, and after this he seemed to abandon all hope of earning money: wherever he went it was the same - no one wanted him. So he just wandered about the streets aimlessly, now and then meeting an old workmate who asked him to have a drink, but this was not often, for nearly all of them were out of work and penniless.
 
Chapter 33: The Soldier’s Children
  During most of this time, Jack Linden’s daughter-in-law had ‘Plenty of Work’, making blouses and pinafores for Sweater & Co. She had so much to do that one might have thought that the Tory Millennium had arrived, and that Tariff Reform was already an accomplished fact.
 She had Plenty of Work.
 At first they had employed her exclusively on the cheapest kind of blouses - those that were paid for at the rate of two shillings a dozen, but they did not give her many of that sort now. She did the work so neatly that they kept her busy on the better qualities, which did not pay her so well, because although she was paid more per dozen, there was a great deal more work in them than in the cheaper kinds. Once she had a very special one to make, for which she was paid six shillings; but it took her four and a half days - working early and late - to do it. The lady who bought this blouse was told that it came from Paris, and paid three guineas for it. But of course Mrs Linden knew nothing of that, and even if she had known, it would have made no difference to her.
 Most of the money she earned went to pay the rent, and sometimes there was only two or three shillings left to buy food for all of them: sometimes not even so much, because although she had Plenty of Work she was not always able to do it. There were times when the strain of working the machine was unendurable: her shoulders ached, her arms became cramped, and her eyes pained so that it was impossible to continue. Then for a change she would leave the sewing and do some housework.
 Once, when they owed four weeks’ rent, the agent was so threatening that they were terrified at the thought of being sold up and turned out of the house, and so she decided to sell the round mahogany table and some of the other things out of the sitting-room. Nearly all the furniture that was in the house now belonged to her, and had formed her home before her husband died. The old people had given most of their things away at different times to their other sons since she had come to live there. These men were all married and all in employment. One was a fitter at the gasworks; the second was a railway porter, and the other was a butcher; but now that the old man was out of work they seldom came to the house. The last time they had been there was on Christmas Eve, and then there had been such a terrible row between them that the children had been awakened by it and frightened nearly out of their lives. The cause of the row was that some time previously they had mutually agreed to each give a shilling a week to the old people. They had done this for three weeks and after that the butcher had stopped his contribution: it had occurred to him that he was not to be expected to help to keep his brother’s widow and her children. If the old people liked to give up the house and go to live in a room somewhere by themselves, he would continue paying his shilling a week, but not otherwise. Upon this the railway porter and the gas-fitter also ceased paying. They said it wasn’t fair that they should pay a shilling a week each when the butcher - who was the eldest and earned the best wages - paid nothing. Provided he paid, they would pay; but if he didn’t pay anything, neither would they. On Christmas Eve they all happened to come to the house at the same time; each denounced the others, and after nearly coming to blows they all went away raging and cursing and had not been near the place since.
 As soon as she decided to sell the things, Mary went to Didlum’s second-hand furniture store, and the manager said he would ask Mr Didlum to call and see the table and other articles. She waited anxiously all the morning, but he did not appear, so she went once more to the shop to remind him. When he did come at last he was very contemptuous of the table and of everything else she offered to sell. Five shillings was the very most he could think of giving for the table, and even then he doubted whether he would ever get his money back. Eventually he gave her thirty shillings for the table, the overmantel, the easy chair, three other chairs and the two best pictures - one a large steel engraving of ‘The Good Samaritan’ and the other ‘Christ Blessing Little Children’.
 He paid the money at once; half an hour afterwards the van came to take the things away, and when they were gone, Mary sank down on the hearthrug in the wrecked room and sobbed as if her heart would break.
 This was the first of several similar transactions. Slowly, piece by piece, in order to buy food and to pay the rent, the furniture was sold. Every time Didlum came he affected to be doing them a very great favour by buying the things at all. Almost an act of charity. He did not want them. Business was so bad: it might be years before he could sell them again, and so on. Once or twice he asked Mary if she did not want to sell the clock - the one that her late husband had made for his mother, but Mary shrank from the thought of selling this, until at last there was nothing else left that Didlum would buy, and one week, when Mary was too ill to do any needlework - it had to go. He gave them ten shillings for it.
 Mary had expected the old woman to be heartbroken at having to part with this clock, but she was surprised to see her almost indifferent. The truth was, that lately both the old people seemed stunned, and incapable of taking an intelligent interest in what was happening around them, and Mary had to attend to everything.
 From time to time nearly all their other possessions - things of inferior value that Didlum would not look at, she carried out and sold at small second-hand shops in back streets or pledged at the pawn-broker’s. The feather pillows, sheets, and blankets: bits of carpet or oilcloth, and as much of their clothing as was saleable or pawnable. They felt the loss of the bedclothes more than anything else, for although all the clothes they wore during the day, and all the old clothes and dresses in the house, and even an old coloured tablecloth, were put on the beds at night, they did not compensate for the blankets, and they were often unable to sleep on account of the intense cold.
 A lady district visitor who called occasionally sometimes gave Mary an order for a hundredweight of coal or a shillingsworth of groceries, or a ticket for a quart of soup, which Elsie fetched in the evening from the Soup Kitchen. But this was not very often, because, as the lady said, there were so many cases similar to theirs that it was impossible to do more than a very little for any one of them.
 Sometimes Mary became so weak and exhausted through overwork, worry, and lack of proper food that she broke down altogether for the time being, and positively could not do any work at all. Then she used to lie down on the bed in her room and cry.
 Whenever she became like this, Elsie and Charley used to do the housework when they came home from school, and make tea and toast for her, and bring it to the bedside on a chair so that she could eat lying down. When there was no margarine or dripping to put on the toast, they made it very thin and crisp and pretended it was biscuit.
 The children rather enjoyed these times; the quiet and leisure was so different from other days when their mother was so busy she had no time to speak to them.
 They would sit on the side of the bed, the old grandmother in her chair opposite with the cat beside her listening to the conversation and purring or mewing whenever they stroked it or spoke to it. They talked principally of the future. Elsie said she was going to be a teacher and earn a lot of money to bring home to her mother to buy things with. Charley was thinking of opening a grocer’s shop and having a horse and cart. When one has a grocer’s shop, there is always plenty to eat; even if you have no money, you can take as much as you like out of your shop - good stuff, too, tins of salmon, jam, sardines, eggs, cakes, biscuits and all those sorts of things - and one was almost certain to have some money every day, because it wasn’t likely that a whole day would go by without someone or other coming into the shop to buy something. When delivering the groceries with the horse and cart, he would give rides to all the boys he knew, and in the summertime, after the work was done and the shop shut up, Mother and Elsie and Granny could also come for long rides into the country.
 The old grandmother - who had latterly become quite childish - used to sit and listen to all this talk with a superior air. Sometimes she argued with the children about their plans, and ridiculed them. She used to say with a chuckle that she had heard people talk like that before - lots of times - but it never came to nothing in the end.
 One week about the middle of February, when they were in very sore straits indeed, old Jack applied to the secretary of the Organized Benevolence Society for assistance. It was about eleven o’clock in the morning when he turned the corner of the street where the office of the society was situated and saw a crowd of about thirty men waiting for the doors to be opened in order to apply for soup tickets. Some of these men were of the tramp or the drunken loafer class; some were old, broken-down workmen like himself, and others were labourers wearing corduroy or moleskin trousers with straps round their legs under their knees.
 Linden waited at a distance until all these were gone before he went in. The secretary received him sympathetically and gave him a big form to fill up, but as Linden’s eyes were so bad and his hand so unsteady the secretary very obligingly wrote in the answers himself, and informed him that he would inquire into the case and lay his application before the committee at the next meeting, which was to be held on the following Thursday - it was then Monday.
 Linden explained to him that they were actually starving. He had been out of work for sixteen weeks, and during all that time they had lived for the most part on the earnings of his daughter-in-law, but she had not done anything for nearly a fortnight now, because the firm she worked for had not had any work for her to do. There was no food in the house and the children were crying for something to eat. All last week they had been going to school hungry, for they had had nothing but dry bread and tea every day: but this week - as far as he could see - they would not get even that. After some further talk the secretary gave him two soup tickets and an order for a loaf of bread, and repeated his promise to inquire into the case and bring it before the committee.
 As Jack was returning home he passed the Soup Kitchen, where he saw the same lot of men who had been to the office of the Organized Benevolence Society for the soup tickets. They were waiting in a long line to be admitted. The premises being so small, the proprietor served them in batches of ten at a time.
 On Wednesday the secretary called at the house, and on Friday Jack received a letter from him to the effect that the case had been duly considered by the committee, who had come to the conclusion that as it was a ‘chronic’ case they were unable to deal with it, and advised him to apply to the Board of Guardians. This was what Linden had hitherto shrunk from doing, but the situation was desperate. They owed five weeks’ rent, and to crown their misfortune his eyesight had become so bad that even if there had been any prospect of obtaining work it was very doubtful if he could have managed to do it. So Linden, feeling utterly crushed and degraded, swallowed all that remained of his pride and went like a beaten dog to see the relieving officer, who took him before the Board, who did not think it a suitable case for out-relief, and after some preliminaries it was arranged that Linden and his wife were to go into the workhouse, and Mary was to be allowed three shillings a week to help her to support herself and the two children. As for Linden’s sons, the Guardians intimated their Intention of compelling them to contribute towards the cost of their parents’ maintenance.
 Mary accompanied the old people to the gates of their future dwelling-place, and when she returned home she found there a letter addressed to J. Linden. It was from the house agent and contained a notice to leave the house before the end of the ensuing week. Nothing was said about the rent that was due. Perhaps Mr Sweater thought that as he had already received nearly six hundred pounds in rent from Linden he could afford to be generous about the five weeks that were still owing - or perhaps he thought there was no possibility of getting the money. However that may have been, there was no reference to it in the letter - it was simply a notice to clear out, addressed to Linden, but meant for Mary.
 It was about half past three o’clock in the afternoon when she returned home and found this letter on the floor in the front passage. She was faint with fatigue and hunger, for she had had nothing but a cup of tea and a slice of bread that day, and her fare had not been much better for many weeks past. The children were at school, and the house - now almost destitute of furniture and without carpets or oilcloth on the floors - was deserted and cold and silent as a tomb. On the kitchen table were a few cracked cups and saucers, a broken knife, some lead teaspoons, a part of a loaf, a small basin containing some dripping and a brown earthenware teapot with a broken spout. Near the table were two broken kitchen chairs, one with the top cross-piece gone from the back, and the other with no back to the seat at all. The bareness of the walls was relieved only by a coloured almanac and some paper pictures which the children had tacked upon them, and by the side of the fireplace was the empty wicker chair where the old woman used to sit. There was no fire in the grate, and the cold hearth was untidy with an accumulation of ashes, for during the trouble of these last few days she had not had time or heart to do any housework. The floor was unswept and littered with scraps of paper and dust: in one corner was a heap of twigs and small branches of trees that Charley had found somewhere and brought home for the fire.
 The same disorder prevailed all through the house: all the doors were open, and from where she stood in the kitchen she could see the bed she shared with Elsie, with its heterogeneous heap of coverings. The sitting-room contained nothing but a collection of odds and ends of rubbish which belonged to Charley - his ‘things’ as he called them - bits of wood, string and rope; one wheel of a perambulator, a top, an iron hoop and so on. Through the other door was visible the dilapidated bedstead that had been used by the old people, with a similar lot of bedclothes to those on her own bed, and the torn, ragged covering of the mattress through the side of which the flock was protruding and falling in particles on to the floor.
 As she stood there with the letter in her hand - faint and weary in the midst of all this desolation, it seemed to her as if the whole world were falling to pieces and crumbling away all around her.
 
Chapter 34: The Beginning of the End
  During the months of January and February, Owen, Crass, Slyme and Sawkins continued to work at irregular intervals for Rushton & Co., although - even when there was anything to do - they now put in only six hours a day, commencing in the morning and leaving off at four, with an hour’s interval for dinner between twelve and one. They finished the ‘plant’ and painted the front of Rushton’s shop. When all this was completed, as no other work came in, they all had to ‘stand off’ with the exception of Sawkins, who was kept on because he was cheap and able to do all sorts of odd jobs, such as unstopping drains, repairing leaky roofs, rough painting or lime-washing, and he was also useful as a labourer for the plumbers, of whom there were now three employed at Rushton’s, the severe weather which had come in with January having made a lot of work in that trade. With the exception of this one branch, practically all work was at a standstill.
 During this time Rushton & Co. had had several ‘boxing-up’ jobs to do, and Crass always did the polishing of the coffins on these occasions, besides assisting to take the ‘box’ home when finished and to ‘lift in’ the corpse, and afterwards he always acted as one of the bearers at the funerals. For an ordinary class funeral he usually put in about three hours for the polishing; that came to one and nine. Taking home the coffin and lifting in the corpse, one shilling - usually there were two men to do this besides Hunter, who always accompanied them to superintend the work - attending the funeral and acting as bearer, four shillings: so that altogether Crass made six shillings and ninepence out of each funeral, and sometimes a little more. For instance, when there was an unusually good-class corpse they had a double coffin and then of course there were two ‘lifts in’, for the shell was taken home first and the outer coffin perhaps a day or two later: this made another shilling. No matter how expensive the funeral was, the bearers never got any more money. Sometimes the carpenter and Crass were able to charge an hour or two more on the making and polishing of a coffin for a good job, but that was all. Sometimes, when there was a very cheap job, they were paid only three shillings for attending as bearers, but this was not often: as a rule they got the same amount whether it was a cheap funeral or an expensive one. Slyme earned only five shillings out of each funeral, and Owen only one and six - for writing the coffin plate.
 Sometimes there were three or four funerals in a week, and then Crass did very well indeed. He still had the two young men lodgers at his house, and although one of them was out of work he was still able to pay his way because he had some money in the bank.
 One of the funeral jobs led to a terrible row between Crass and Sawkins. The corpse was that of a well-to-do woman who had been ill for a long time with cancer of the stomach, and after the funeral Rushton & Co. had to clean and repaint and paper the room she had occupied during her illness. Although cancer is not supposed to be an infectious disease, they had orders to take all the bedding away and have it burnt. Sawkins was instructed to take a truck to the house and get the bedding and take it to the town Refuse Destructor to be destroyed. There were two feather beds, a bolster and two pillows: they were such good things that Sawkins secretly resolved that instead of taking them to the Destructor he would take them to a second-hand dealer and sell them.
 As he was coming away from the house with the things he met Hunter, who told him that he wanted him for some other work; so he was to take the truck to the yard and leave it there for the present; he could take the bedding to the Destructor later on in the day. Sawkins did as Hunter ordered, and in the meantime Crass, who happened to be working at the yard painting some venetian blinds, saw the things on the truck, and, hearing what was to be done with them, he also thought it was a pity that such good things should be destroyed: so when Sawkins came in the afternoon to take them away Crass told him he need not trouble; ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave that lot, he said; ‘they’re too good to chuck away; there’s nothing wrong with ’em.’
 This did not suit Sawkins at all. He said he had been told to take them to the Destructor, and he was going to do so. He was dragging the cart out of the yard when Crass rushed up and lifted the bundle off and carried it into the paint-shop. Sawkins ran after him and they began to curse and swear at each other; Crass accusing Sawkins of intending to take the things to the marine stores and sell them. Sawkins seized hold of the bundle with the object of replacing it on the cart, but Crass got hold of it as well and they had a tussle for it - a kind of tug of war - reeling and struggling all over the shop. cursing and swearing horribly all the time. Finally, Sawkins - being the better man of the two - succeeded in wrenching the bundle away and put it on the cart again, and then Crass hurriedly put on his coat and said he was going to the office to ask Mr Rushton if he might have the things. Upon hearing this, Sawkins became so infuriated that he lifted the bundle off the cart and, throwing it upon the muddy ground, right into a pool of dirty water, trampled it underfoot; and then, taking out his clasp knife, began savagely hacking and ripping the ticking so that the feathers all came falling out. In a few minutes he had damaged the things beyond hope of repair, while Crass stood by, white and trembling, watching the proceedings but lacking the courage to interfere.
 ‘Now go to the office and ask Rushton for ’em, if you like!’ shouted Sawkins. ‘You can ’ave ’em now, if you want ’em.’
 Crass made no answer and, after a moment’s hesitation, went back to his work, and Sawkins piled the things on the cart once more and took them away to the Destructor. He would not be able to sell them now, but at any rate he had stopped that dirty swine Crass from getting them.
 When Crass went back to the paint-shop he found there one of the pillows which had fallen out of the bundle during the struggle. He took it home with him that evening and slept upon it. It was a fine pillow, much fuller and softer and more cosy than the one he had been accustomed to.
 A few days afterwards when he was working at the room where the woman died, they gave him some other things that had belonged to her to do away with, and amongst them was a kind of wrap of grey knitted wool. Crass kept this for himself: it was just the thing to wrap round one’s neck when going to work on a cold morning, and he used it for that purpose all through the winter. In addition to the funerals, there was a little other work: sometimes a room or two to be painted and papered and ceilings whitened, and once they had the outside of two small cottages to paint - doors and windows - two coats. All four of them worked at this job and it was finished in two days. And so they went on.
 Some weeks Crass earned a pound or eighteen shillings; sometimes a little more, generally less and occasionally nothing at all.
 There was a lot of jealousy and ill-feeling amongst them about the work. Slyme and Crass were both aggrieved about Sawkins whenever they were idle, especially if the latter were painting or whitewashing, and their indignation was shared by all the others who were ‘off’. Harlow swore horribly about it, and they all agreed that it was disgraceful that a bloody labourer should be employed doing what ought to be skilled work for fivepence an hour, while properly qualified men were ‘walking about’. These other men were also incensed against Slyme and Crass because the latter were given the preference whenever there was a little job to do, and it was darkly insinuated that in order to secure this preference these two were working for sixpence an hour. There was no love lost between Crass and Slyme either: Crass was furious whenever it happened that Slyme had a few hours’ work to do if he himself were idle, and if ever Crass was working while Slyme was ‘standing still’ the latter went about amongst the other unemployed men saying ugly things about Crass, whom he accused of being a ‘crawler’. Owen also came in for his share of abuse and blame: most of them said that a man like him should stick out for higher wages whether employed on special work or not, and then he would not get any preference. But all the same, whatever they said about each other behind each other’s backs, they were all most friendly to each other when they met face to face.
 Once or twice Owen did some work - such as graining a door or writing a sign - for one or other of his fellow workmen who had managed to secure a little job ‘on his own’, but putting it all together, the coffin-plates and other work at Rushton’s and all, his earnings had not averaged ten shillings a week for the last six weeks. Often they had no coal and sometimes not even a penny to put into the gas meter, and then, having nothing left good enough to pawn, he sometimes obtained a few pence by selling some of his books to second-hand book dealers. However, bad as their condition was, Owen knew that they were better off than the majority of the others, for whenever he went out he was certain to meet numbers of men whom he had worked with at different times, who said - some of them - that they had been idle for ten, twelve, fifteen and in some cases for twenty weeks without having earned a shilling.
 Owen used to wonder how they managed to continue to exist. Most of them were wearing other people’s cast-off clothes, hats, and boots, which had in some instances been given to their wives by ‘visiting ladies’, or by the people at whose houses their wives went to work, charing. As for food, most of them lived on such credit as they could get, and on the scraps of broken victuals and meat that their wives brought home from the places they worked at. Some of them had grown-up sons and daughters who still lived with them and whose earnings kept their homes together, and the wives of some of them eked out a miserable existence by letting lodgings.
 The week before old Linden went into the workhouse Owen earned nothing, and to make matters worse the grocer from whom they usually bought their things suddenly refused to let them have any more credit. Owen went to see him, and the man said he was very sorry, but he could not let them have anything more without the money; he did not mind waiting a few weeks for what was already owing, but he could not let the amount get any higher; his books were full of bad debts already. In conclusion, he said that he hoped Owen would not do as so many others had done and take his ready money elsewhere. People came and got credit from him when they were hard up, and afterwards spent their ready money at the Monopole Company’s stores on the other side of the street, because their goods were a trifle cheaper, and it was not fair. Owen admitted that it was not fair, but reminded him that they always bought their things at his shop. The grocer, however, was inexorable; he repeated several times that his books were full of bad debts and his own creditors were pressing him. During their conversation the shopkeeper’s eyes wandered continually to the big store on the other side of the street; the huge, gilded letters of the name ‘Monopole Stores’ seemed to have an irresistible attraction for him. Once he interrupted himself in the middle of a sentence to point out to Owen a little girl who was just coming out of the Stores with a small parcel in her hand.
 ‘Her father owes me nearly thirty shillings,’ he said, ‘but they spend their ready money there.’
 The front of the grocer’s shop badly needed repainting, and the name on the fascia, ‘A. Smallman’, was so faded as to be almost indecipherable. It had been Owen’s intention to offer to do this work - the cost to go against his account - but the man appeared to be so harassed that Owen refrained from making the suggestion.
 They still had credit at the baker’s, but they did not take much bread: when one has had scarcely anything else but bread to eat for nearly a month one finds it difficult to eat at all. That same day, when he returned home after his interview with the grocer, they had a loaf of beautiful fresh bread, but none of them could eat it, although they were hungry: it seemed to stick in their throats, and they could not swallow it even with the help of a drink of tea. But they drank the tea, which was the one thing that enabled them to go on living.
 The next week Owen earned eight shillings altogether: a few hours he put in assisting Crass to wash off and whiten a ceiling and paint a room, and there was one coffin-plate. He wrote the latter at home, and while he was doing it he heard Frankie - who was out in the scullery with Nora - say to her:
 ‘Mother, how many more days to you think we’ll have to have only dry bread and tea?’
 Owen’s heart seemed to stop as he heard the child’s question and listened for Nora’s answer, but the question was not to be answered at all just then, for at that moment they heard someone running up the stairs and presently the door was unceremoniously thrown open and Charley Linden rushed into the house, out of breath, hatless, and crying piteously. His clothes were old and ragged; they had been patched at the knees and elbows, but the patches were tearing away from the rotting fabric into which they had been sewn. He had on a pair of black stockings full of holes through which the skin was showing. The soles of his boots were worn through at one side right to the uppers, and as he walked the sides of his bare heels came into contact with the floor, the front part of the sole of one boot was separated from the upper, and his bare toes, red with cold and covered with mud, protruded through the gap. Some sharp substance - a nail or a piece of glass or flint - had evidently lacerated his right foot, for blood was oozing from the broken heel of his boot on to the floor.
 They were unable to make much sense of the confused story he told them through his sobs as soon as he was able to speak. All that was clear was that there was something very serious the matter at home: he thought his mother must be either dying or dead, because she did not speak or move or open her eyes, and ‘please, please, please will you come home with me and see her?’
 
 While Nora was getting ready to go with the boy, Owen made him sit on a chair, and having removed the boot from the foot that was bleeding, washed the cut with some warm water and bandaged it with a piece of clean rag, and then they tried to persuade him to stay there with Frankie while Nora went to see his mother, but the boy would not hear of it. So Frankie went with them instead. Owen could not go because he had to finish the coffin-plate, which was only just commenced.
 It will be remembered that we left Mary Linden alone in the house after she returned from seeing the old people away. When the children came home from school, about half an hour afterwards, they found her sitting in one of the chairs with her head resting on her arms on the table, unconscious. They were terrified, because they could not awaken her and began to cry, but presently Charley thought of Frankie’s mother and, telling his sister to stay there while he was gone, he started off at a run for Owen’s house, leaving the front door wide open after him.
 When Nora and the two boys reached the house they found there two other women neighbours, who had heard Elsie crying and had come to see what was wrong. Mary had recovered from her faint and was lying down on the bed. Nora stayed with her for some time after the other women went away. She lit the fire and gave the children their tea - there was still some coal and food left of what had been bought with the three shillings obtained from the Board of Guardians - and afterwards she tidied the house.
 Mary said that she did not know exactly what she would have to do in the future. If she could get a room somewhere for two or three shillings a week, her allowance from the Guardians would pay the rent, and she would be able to earn enough for herself and the children to live on.
 This was the substance of the story that Nora told Owen when she returned home. He had finished writing the coffin-plate, and as it was now nearly dry he put on his coat and took it down to the carpenter’s shop at the yard.
 On his way back he met Easton, who had been hanging about in the vain hope of seeing Hunter and finding out if there was any chance of a job. As they walked along together, Easton confided to Owen that he had earned scarcely anything since he had been stood off at Rushton’s, and what he had earned had gone, as usual, to pay the rent. Slyme had left them some time ago. Ruth did not seem able to get on with him; she had been in a funny sort of temper altogether, but since he had gone she had had a little work at a boarding-house on the Grand Parade. But things had been going from bad to worse. They had not been able to keep up the payments for the furniture they had hired, so the things had been seized and carted off. They had even stripped the oilcloth from the floor. Easton remarked he was sorry he had not tacked the bloody stuff down in such a manner that they would not have been able to take it up without destroying it. He had been to see Didlum, who said he didn’t want to be hard on them, and that he would keep the things together for three months, and if Easton had paid up arrears by that time he could have them back again, but there was, in Easton’s opinion, very little chance of that.
 Owen listened with contempt and anger. Here was a man who grumbled at the present state of things, yet took no trouble to think for himself and try to alter them, and who at the first chance would vote for the perpetuation of the System which produced his misery.
 ‘Have you heard that old Jack Linden and his wife went to the workhouse today,’ he said.
 ‘No,’ replied Easton, indifferently. ‘It’s only what I expected.’
 Owen then suggested it would not be a bad plan for Easton to let his front room, now that it was empty, to Mrs Linden, who would be sure to pay her rent, which would help Easton to pay his. Easton agreed and said he would mention it to Ruth, and a few minutes later they parted.
 The next morning Nora found Ruth talking to Mary Linden about the room and as the Eastons lived only about five minutes’ walk away, they all three went round there in order that Mary might see the room. The appearance of the house from outside was unaltered: the white lace curtains still draped the windows of the front room; and in the centre of the bay was what appeared to be a small round table covered with a red cloth, and upon it a geranium in a flowerpot standing in a saucer with a frill of coloured tissue paper round it. These things and the curtains, which fell close together, made it impossible for anyone to see that the room was, otherwise, unfurnished. The ‘table’ consisted of an empty wooden box - procured from the grocer’s - stood on end, with the lid of the scullery copper placed upside down upon it for a top and covered with an old piece of red cloth. The purpose of this was to prevent the neighbours from thinking that they were hard up; although they knew that nearly all those same neighbours were in more or less similar straits.
 It was not a very large room, considering that it would have to serve all purposes for herself and the two children, but Mrs Linden knew that it was not likely that she would be able to get one as good elsewhere for the same price, so she agreed to take it from the following Monday at two shillings a week.
 As the distance was so short they were able to carry most of the smaller things to their new home during the next few days, and on the Monday evening, when it was dark. Owen and Easton brought the remainder on a truck they borrowed for the purpose from Hunter.
 During the last weeks of February the severity of the weather increased. There was a heavy fall of snow on the 20th followed by a hard frost which lasted several days.
 About ten o’clock one night a policeman found a man lying unconscious in the middle of a lonely road. At first he thought the man was drunk, and after dragging him on to the footpath out of the way of passing vehicles he went for the stretcher. They took the man to the station and put him into a cell, which was already occupied by a man who had been caught in the act of stealing a swede turnip from a barn. When the police surgeon came he pronounced the supposed drunken man to be dying from bronchitis and want of food; and he further said that there was nothing to indicate that the man was addicted to drink. When the inquest was held a few days afterwards, the coroner remarked that it was the third case of death from destitution that had occurred in the town within six weeks.
 The evidence showed that the man was a plasterer who had walked from London with the hope of finding work somewhere in the country. He had no money in his possession when he was found by the policeman; all that his pockets contained being several pawn-tickets and a letter from his wife, which was not found until after he died, because it was in an inner pocket of his waistcoat. A few days before this inquest was held, the man who had been arrested for stealing the turnip had been taken before the magistrates. The poor wretch said he did it because he was starving, but Aldermen Sweater and Grinder, after telling him that starvation was no excuse for dishonesty, sentenced him to pay a fine of seven shillings and costs, or go to prison for seven days with hard labour. As the convict had neither money nor friends, he had to go to jail, where he was, after all, better off than most of those who were still outside because they lacked either the courage or the opportunity to steal something to relieve their sufferings.
 As time went on the long-continued privation began to tell upon Owen and his family. He had a severe cough: his eyes became deeply sunken and of remarkable brilliancy, and his thin face was always either deathly pale or dyed with a crimson flush.
 Frankie also began to show the effects of being obliged to go so often without his porridge and milk; he became very pale and thin and his long hair came out in handfuls when his mother combed or brushed it. This was a great trouble to the boy, who, since hearing the story of Samson read out of the Bible at school, had ceased from asking to have his hair cut short, lest he should lose his strength in consequence. He used to test himself by going through a certain exercise he had himself invented, with a flat iron, and he was always much relieved when he found that, notwithstanding the loss of the porridge, he was still able to lift the iron the proper number of times. But after a while, as he found that it became increasingly difficult to go through the exercise, he gave it up altogether, secretly resolving to wait until ‘Dad’ had more work to do, so that he could have the porridge and milk again. He was sorry to have to discontinue the exercise, but he said nothing about it to his father or mother because he did not want to ‘worry’ them ...
 Sometimes Nora managed to get a small job of needlework. On one occasion a woman with a small son brought a parcel of garments belonging to herself or her husband, an old ulster, several coats, and so on - things that although they were too old-fashioned or shabby to wear, yet might look all right if turned and made up for the boy.
 Nora undertook to do this, and after working several hours every day for a week she earned four shillings: and even then the woman thought it was so dear that she did not bring any more.
 Another time Mrs Easton got her some work at a boarding-house where she herself was employed. The servant was laid up, and they wanted some help for a few days. The pay was to be two shillings a day, and dinner. Owen did not want her to go because he feared she was not strong enough to do the work, but he gave way at last and Nora went. She had to do the bedrooms, and on the evening of the second day, as a result of the constant running up and down the stairs carrying heavy cans and pails of water, she was in such intense pain that she was scarcely able to walk home, and for several days afterwards had to lie in bed through a recurrence of her old illness, which caused her to suffer untold agony whenever she tried to stand.
 Owen was alternately dejected and maddened by the knowledge of his own helplessness: when he was not doing anything for Rushton he went about the town trying to find some other work, but usually with scant success. He did some samples of showcard and window tickets and endeavoured to get some orders by canvassing the shops in the town, but this was also a failure, for these people generally had a ticket-writer to whom they usually gave their work. He did get a few trifling orders, but they were scarcely worth doing at the price he got for them. He used to feel like a criminal when he went into the shops to ask them for the work, because he realized fully that, in effect, he was saying to them: ‘Take your work away from the other man, and employ me.’ He was so conscious of this that it gave him a shamefaced manner, which, coupled as it was with his shabby clothing, did not create a very favourable impression upon those he addressed, who usually treated him with about as much courtesy as they would have extended to any other sort of beggar. Generally, after a day’s canvassing, he returned home unsuccessful and faint with hunger and fatigue.
 Once, when there was a bitterly cold east wind blowing, he was out on one of these canvassing expeditions and contracted a severe cold: his chest became so bad that he found it almost impossible to speak, because the effort to do so often brought on a violent fit of coughing. It was during this time that a firm of drapers, for whom he had done some showcards, sent him an order for one they wanted in a hurry, it had to be delivered the next morning, so he stayed up by himself till nearly midnight to do it. As he worked, he felt a strange sensation in his chest: it was not exactly a pain, and he would have found it difficult to describe it in words - it was just a sensation. He did not attach much importance to it, thinking it an effect of the cold he had taken, but whatever it was he could not help feeling conscious of it all the time.
 Frankie had been put to bed that evening at the customary hour, but did not seem to be sleeping as well as usual. Owen could hear him twisting and turning about and uttering little cries in his sleep.
 He left his work several times to go into the boy’s room and cover him with the bedclothes which his restless movements had disordered. As the time wore on, the child became more tranquil, and about eleven o’clock, when Owen went in to look at him, he found him in a deep sleep, lying on his side with his head thrown back on the pillow, breathing so softly through his slightly parted lips that the sound was almost imperceptible. The fair hair that clustered round his forehead was damp with perspiration, and he was so still and pale and silent that one might have thought he was sleeping the sleep that knows no awakening.
 About an hour later, when he had finished writing the showcard, Owen went out into the scullery to wash his hands before going to bed: and whilst he was drying them on the towel, the strange sensation he had been conscious of all the evening became more intense, and a few seconds afterwards he was terrified to find his mouth suddenly filled with blood.
 For what seemed an eternity he fought for breath against the suffocating torrent, and when at length it stopped, he sank trembling into a chair by the side of the table, holding the towel to his mouth and scarcely daring to breathe, whilst a cold sweat streamed from every pore and gathered in large drops upon his forehead.
 Through the deathlike silence of the night there came from time to time the chimes of the clock of a distant church, but he continued to sit there motionless, taking no heed of the passing hours, and possessed with an awful terror.
 So this was the beginning of the end! And afterwards the other two would be left by themselves at the mercy of the world. In a few years’ time the boy would be like Bert White, in the clutches of some psalm-singing devil like Hunter or Rushton, who would use him as if he were a beast of burden. He imagined he could see him now as he would be then: worked, driven, and bullied, carrying loads, dragging carts, and running here and there, trying his best to satisfy the brutal tyrants, whose only thought would be to get profit out of him for themselves. If he lived, it would be to grow up with his body deformed and dwarfed by unnatural labour and with his mind stultified, degraded and brutalized by ignorance and poverty. As this vision of the child’s future rose before him, Owen resolved that it should never be! He would not leave them alone and defenceless in the midst of the ‘Christian’ wolves who were waiting to rend them as soon as he was gone. If he could not give them happiness, he could at least put them out of the reach of further suffering. If he could not stay with them, they would have to come with him. It would be kinder and more merciful.
 
Chapter 35:  Facing the ‘Problem’
  Nearly every other firm in the town was in much the same plight as Rushton & Co.; none of them had anything to speak of to do, and the workmen no longer troubled to go to the different shops asking for a job. They knew it was of no use. Most of them just walked about aimlessly or stood talking in groups in the streets, principally in the neighbourhood of the Wage Slave Market near the fountain on the Grand Parade. They congregated here in such numbers that one or two residents wrote to the local papers complaining of the ‘nuisance’, and pointing out that it was calculated to drive the ‘better-class’ visitors out of the town. After this two or three extra policemen were put on duty near the fountain with instructions to ‘move on’ any groups of unemployed that formed. They could not stop them from coming there, but they prevented them standing about.
 The processions of unemployed continued every day, and the money they begged from the public was divided equally amongst those who took part. Sometimes it amounted to one and sixpence each, sometimes it was a little more and sometimes a little less. These men presented a terrible spectacle as they slunk through the dreary streets, through the rain or the snow, with the slush soaking into their broken boots, and, worse still, with the bitterly cold east wind penetrating their rotten clothing and freezing their famished bodies.
 The majority of the skilled workers still held aloof from these processions, although their haggard faces bore involuntary testimony to their sufferings. Although privation reigned supreme in their desolate homes, where there was often neither food nor light nor fire, they were too ‘proud’ to parade their misery before each other or the world. They secretly sold or pawned their clothing and their furniture and lived in semi-starvation on the proceeds, and on credit, but they would not beg. Many of them even echoed the sentiments of those who had written to the papers, and with a strange lack of class-sympathy blamed those who took part in the processions. They said it was that sort of thing that drove the ‘better class’ away, injured the town, and caused all the poverty and unemployment. However, some of them accepted charity in other ways; district visitors distributed tickets for coal and groceries. Not that that sort of thing made much difference; there was usually a great deal of fuss and advice, many quotations of Scripture, and very little groceries. And even what there was generally went to the least-deserving people, because the only way to obtain any of this sort of ‘charity’ is by hypocritically pretending to be religious: and the greater the hypocrite, the greater the quantity of coal and groceries. These ‘charitable’ people went into the wretched homes of the poor and - in effect - said: ‘Abandon every particle of self- respect: cringe and fawn: come to church: bow down and grovel to us, and in return we’ll give you a ticket that you can take to a certain shop and exchange for a shillingsworth of groceries. And, if you’re very servile and humble we may give you another one next week.’
 They never gave the ‘case’ the money. The ticket system serves three purposes. It prevents the ‘case’ abusing the ‘charity’ by spending the money on drink. It advertises the benevolence of the donors: and it enables the grocer - who is usually a member of the church - to get rid of any stale or damaged stock he may have on hand.
 When these visiting ladies’ went into a workman’s house and found it clean and decently furnished, and the children clean and tidy, they came to the conclusion that those people were not suitable ‘cases’ for assistance. Perhaps the children had had next to nothing to eat, and would have been in rags if the mother had not worked like a slave washing and mending their clothes. But these were not the sort of cases that the visiting ladies assisted; they only gave to those who were in a state of absolute squalor and destitution, and then only on condition that they whined and grovelled.
 In addition to this district visitor business, the well-to-do inhabitants and the local authorities attempted - or rather, pretended - to grapple with the poverty ‘problem’ in many other ways, and the columns of the local papers were filled with letters from all sorts of cranks who suggested various remedies. One individual, whose income was derived from brewery shares, attributed the prevailing distress to the drunken and improvident habits of the lower orders. Another suggested that it was a Divine protest against the growth of Ritualism and what he called ‘fleshly religion’, and suggested a day of humiliation and prayer. A great number of well-fed persons thought this such an excellent proposition that they proceeded to put it into practice. They prayed, whilst the unemployed and the little children fasted.
 If one had not been oppressed by the tragedy of Want and Misery, one might have laughed at the farcical, imbecile measures that were taken to relieve it. Several churches held what they called ‘Rummage’ or ‘jumble’ sales. They sent out circulars something like this:
  JUMBLE SALEin aid of the Unemployed.
  If you have any articles of any description which are of no further use to you, we should be grateful for them, and if you will kindly fill in annexed form and post it to us, we will send and collect them.
 On the day of the sale the parish room was transformed into a kind of Marine Stores, filled with all manner of rubbish, with the parson and the visiting ladies grinning in the midst. The things were sold for next to nothing to such as cared to buy them, and the local rag-and-bone man reaped a fine harvest. The proceeds of these sales were distributed in ‘charity’ and it was usually a case of much cry and little wool.
 There was a religious organization, called ‘The Mugsborough Skull and Crossbones Boys’, which existed for the purpose of perpetuating the great religious festival of Guy Fawkes. This association also came to the aid of the unemployed and organized a Grand Fancy Dress Carnival and Torchlight Procession. When this took place, although there was a slight sprinkling of individuals dressed in tawdry costumes as cavaliers of the time of Charles I, and a few more as highwaymen or footpads, the majority of the processionists were boys in women’s clothes, or wearing sacks with holes cut in them for their heads and arms, and with their faces smeared with soot. There were also a number of men carrying frying-pans in which they burnt red and blue fire. The procession - or rather, mob - was headed by a band, and the band was headed by two men, arm in arm, one very tall, dressed to represent Satan, in red tights, with horns on his head, and smoking a large cigar, and the other attired in the no less picturesque costume of a bishop of the Established Church.
 This crew paraded the town, howling and dancing, carrying flaring torches, burning the blue and red fire, and some of them singing silly or obscene songs; whilst the collectors ran about with the boxes begging for money from people who were in most cases nearly as poverty-stricken as the unemployed they were asked to assist. The money thus obtained was afterwards handed over to the Secretary of the Organized Benevolence Society, Mr Sawney Grinder.
 Then there was the Soup Kitchen, which was really an inferior eating-house in a mean street. The man who ran this was a relative of the secretary of the OBS. He cadged all the ingredients for the soup from different tradespeople: bones and scraps of meat from butchers: pea meal and split peas from provision dealers: vegetables from greengrocers: stale bread from bakers, and so on. Well-intentioned, charitable old women with more money than sense sent him donations in cash, and he sold the soup for a penny a basin - or a penny a quart to those who brought jugs.
 He had a large number of shilling books printed, each containing thirteen penny tickets. The Organized Benevolence Society bought a lot of these books and resold them to benevolent persons, or gave them away to ‘deserving cases’. It was this connection with the OBS that gave the Soup Kitchen a semi-official character in the estimation of the public, and furnished the proprietor with the excuse for cadging the materials and money donations.
 In the case of the Soup Kitchen, as with the unemployed processions, most of those who benefited were unskilled labourers or derelicts: with but few exceptions the unemployed artisans - although their need was just as great as that of the others - avoided the place as if it were infected with the plague. They were afraid even to pass through the street where it was situated lest anyone seeing them coming from that direction should think they had been there. But all the same, some of them allowed their children to go there by stealth, by night, to buy some of this charity-tainted food.
 Another brilliant scheme, practical and statesmanlike, so different from the wild projects of demented Socialists, was started by the Rev. Mr Bosher, a popular preacher, the Vicar of the fashionable Church of the Whited Sepulchre. He collected some subscriptions from a number of semi-imbecile old women who attended his church. With some of this money he bought a quantity of timber and opened what he called a Labour Yard, where he employed a number of men sawing firewood. Being a clergyman, and because he said he wanted it for a charitable purpose, of course he obtained the timber very cheaply - for about half what anyone else would have had to pay for it.
 The wood-sawing was done piecework. A log of wood about the size of a railway sleeper had to be sawn into twelve pieces, and each of these had to be chopped into four. For sawing and chopping one log in this manner the worker was paid ninepence. One log made two bags of firewood, which were sold for a shilling each - a trifle under the usual price. The men who delivered the bags were paid three half-pence for each two bags.
 As there were such a lot of men wanting to do this work, no one was allowed to do more than three lots in one day - that came to two shillings and threepence - and no one was allowed to do more than two days in one week.
 The Vicar had a number of bills printed and displayed in shop windows calling attention to what he was doing, and informing the public that orders could be sent to the Vicarage by post and would receive prompt attention and the fuel could be delivered at any address - Messrs Rushton & Co. having very kindly lent a handcart for the use of the men employed at the Labour Yard.
 As a result of the appearance of this bill, and of the laudatory notices in the columns of the Ananias, the Obscurer, and the Chloroform - the papers did not mind giving the business a free advertisement, because it was a charitable concern - many persons withdrew their custom from those who usually supplied them with firewood, and gave their orders to the Yard; and they had the satisfaction of getting their fuel cheaper than before and of performing a charitable action at the same time.
 As a remedy for unemployment this scheme was on a par with the method of the tailor in the fable who thought to lengthen his cloth by cutting a piece off one end and sewing it on to the other; but there was one thing about it that recommended it to the Vicar - it was self-supporting. He found that there would be no need to use all the money he had extracted from the semi-imbecile old ladies for timber, so he bought himself a Newfoundland dog, an antique set of carved ivory chessmen, and a dozen bottles of whisky with the remainder of the cash.
 The reverend gentleman hit upon yet another means of helping the poor. He wrote a letter to the Weekly Chloroform appealing for cast-off boots for poor children. This was considered such a splendid idea that the editors of all the local papers referred to it in leading articles, and several other letters were written by prominent citizens extolling the wisdom and benevolence of the profound Bosher. Most of the boots that were sent in response to this appeal had been worn until they needed repair - in a very large proportion of instances, until they were beyond repair. The poor people to whom they were given could not afford to have them mended before using them, and the result was that the boots generally began to fall to pieces after a few days’ wear.
 This scheme amounted to very little. It did not increase the number of cast-off boots, and most of the people who ‘cast off’ their boots generally gave them to someone or other. The only difference It can have made was that possibly a few persons who usually threw their boots away or sold them to second-hand dealers may have been induced to send them to Mr Bosher instead. But all the same nearly everybody said it was a splendid idea: its originator was applauded as a public benefactor, and the pettifogging busybodies who amused themselves with what they were pleased to term ‘charitable work’ went into imbecile ecstasies over him.
 
Chapter 36: The OBS
  One of the most important agencies for the relief of distress was the Organized Benevolence Society. This association received money from many sources. The proceeds of the fancy-dress carnival; the collections from different churches and chapels which held special services in aid of the unemployed; the weekly collections made by the employees of several local firms and business houses; the proceeds of concerts, bazaars, and entertainments, donations from charitable persons, and the subscriptions of the members. The society also received large quantities of cast-off clothing and boots, and tickets of admission to hospitals, convalescent homes and dispensaries from subscribers to those institutions, or from people like Rushton & Co., who had collecting-boxes in their workshops and offices.
 Altogether during the last year the Society had received from various sources about three hundred pounds in hard cash. This money was devoted to the relief of cases of distress.
 The largest item in the expenditure of the Society was the salary of the General Secretary, Mr Sawney Grinder - a most deserving case - who was paid one hundred pounds a year.
 After the death of the previous secretary there were so many candidates for the vacant post that the election of the new secretary was a rather exciting affair. The excitement was all the more intense because it was restrained. A special meeting of the society was held: the Mayor, Alderman Sweater, presided, and amongst those present were Councillors Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, Mrs Starvem, Rev. Mr Bosher, a number of the rich, semi-imbecile old women who had helped to open the Labour Yard, and several other ‘ladies’. Some of these were the district visitors already alluded to, most of them the wives of wealthy citizens and retired tradesmen, richly dressed, ignorant, insolent, overbearing frumps, who - after filling themselves with good things in their own luxurious homes - went flouncing into the poverty-stricken dwellings of their poor ‘sisters’ and talked to them of ‘religion’, lectured them about sobriety and thrift, and - sometimes - gave them tickets for soup or orders for shillingsworths of groceries or coal. Some of these overfed females - the wives of tradesmen, for instance - belonged to the Organized Benevolence Society, and engaged in this ‘work’ for the purpose of becoming acquainted with people of superior social position - one of the members was a colonel, and Sir Graball D’Encloseland - the Member of Parliament for the borough - also belonged to the Society and occasionally attended its meetings. Others took up district visiting as a hobby; they had nothing to do, and being densely ignorant and of inferior mentality, they had no desire or capacity for any intellectual pursuit. So they took up this work for the pleasure of playing the grand lady and the superior person at a very small expense. Other of these visiting ladies were middle-aged, unmarried women with small private incomes - some of them well-meaning, compassionate, gentle creatures who did this work because they sincerely desired to help others, and they knew of no better way. These did not take much part in the business of the meetings; they paid their subscriptions and helped to distribute the cast-off clothing and boots to those who needed them, and occasionally obtained from the secretary an order for provisions or coal or bread for some poverty-stricken family; but the poor, toil-worn women whom they visited welcomed them more for their sisterly sympathy than for the gifts they brought. Some of the visiting ladies were of this character - but they were not many. They were as a few fragrant flowers amidst a dense accumulation of noxious weeds. They were examples of humility and kindness shining amidst a vile and loathsome mass of hypocrisy, arrogance, and cant.
 When the Chairman had opened the meeting, Mr Rushton moved a vote of condolence with the relatives of the late secretary whom he eulogized in the most extraordinary terms.
 ‘The poor of Mugsborough had lost a kind and sympathetic friend’, ‘One who had devoted his life to helping the needy’, and so on and so forth. (As a matter of fact, most of the time of the defunct had been passed in helping himself, but Rushton said nothing about that.)
 Mr Didlum seconded the vote of condolence in similar terms, and it was carried unanimously. Then the Chairman said that the next business was to elect a successor to the departed paragon; and immediately no fewer than nine members rose to propose a suitable person - they each had a noble-minded friend or relative willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the poor.
 The nine Benevolent stood looking at each other and at the Chairman with sickly smiles upon their hypocritical faces. It was a dramatic moment. No one spoke. It was necessary to be careful. It would never do to have a contest. The Secretary of the OBS was usually regarded as a sort of philanthropist by the outside public, and it was necessary to keep this fiction alive.
 For one or two minutes an awkward silence reigned. Then, one after another they all reluctantly resumed their seats with the exception of Mr Amos Grinder, who said he wished to propose his nephew, Mr Sawney Grinder, a young man of a most benevolent disposition who was desirous of immolating himself upon the altar of charity for the benefit of the poor - or words to that effect.
 Mr Didlum seconded, and there being no other nomination - for they all knew that it would give the game away to have a contest - the Chairman put Mr Grinder’s proposal to the meeting and declared it carried unanimously.
 Another considerable item in the expenditure of the society was the rent of the offices - a house in a back street. The landlord of this place was another very deserving case.
 There were numerous other expenses: stationery and stamps, printing, and so on, and what was left of the money was used for the purpose for which it had been given - a reasonable amount being kept in hand for future expenses. All the details were of course duly set forth in the Report and Balance Sheet at the annual meetings. No copy of this document was ever handed to the reporters for publication; it was read to the meeting by the Secretary; the representatives of the Press took notes, and in the reports of the meeting that subsequently appeared in the local papers the thing was so mixed up and garbled together that the few people who read it could not make head or tail of it. The only thing that was clear was that the society had been doing a great deal of good to someone or other, and that more money was urgently needed to carry on the work. It usually appeared something like this:

HELPING THE NEEDY Mugsborough Organized Benevolence Society Annual Meeting at the Town Hall
A Splendid record of Miscellaneous and Valuable Work.

  The annual meeting of the above Society was held yesterday at the Town Hall. The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, presided, and amongst those present were Sir Graball D’Encloseland, Lady D’Encloseland, Lady Slumrent. Rev. Mr Bosher, Mr Cheeseman, Mrs Bilder, Mrs Grosare, Mrs Daree, Mrs Butcher, Mrs Taylor, Mrs Baker, Mrs Starvem, Mrs Slodging, Mrs M. B. Sile, Mrs Knobrane, Mrs M. T. Head, Mr Rushton, Mr Didlum, Mr Grinder and (here followed about a quarter of a column of names of other charitable persons, all subscribers to the Society).
  The Secretary read the annual report which contained the following amongst other interesting items:
  During the year, 1,972 applications for assistance have been received, and of this number 1,302 have been assisted as follows: Bread or grocery orders, 273. Coal or coke orders, 57. Nourishment 579. (Applause.) Pairs of boots granted, 29. Clothing, 105. Crutch granted to poor man, 1. Nurses provided, 2. Hospital tickets, 26. Sent to Consumption Sanatorium, 1. Twenty-nine persons, whose cases being chronic, were referred to the Poor Law Guardians. Work found for 19 persons. (Cheers.) Pedlar’s licences, 4. Dispensary tickets, 24. Bedding redeemed, 1. Loans granted to people to enable them to pay their rent, 8. (Loud cheers.) Dental tickets, 2. Railway fares for men who were going away from the town to employment elsewhere, 12. (Great cheering.) Loans granted, 5. Advertisements for employment, 4 - and so on.
 There was about another quarter of a column of these details, the reading of which was punctuated with applause and concluded with: ‘Leaving 670 cases which for various reasons the Society was unable to assist’. The report then went on to explain that the work of inquiring into the genuineness of the applications entailed a lot of labour on the part of the Secretary, some cases taking several days. No fewer than 649 letters had been sent out from the office, and 97 postcards. (Applause.) Very few cash gifts were granted, as it was most necessary to guard against the Charity being abused. (Hear, hear.)
 Then followed a most remarkable paragraph headed ‘The Balance Sheet’, which - as it was put - ‘included the following’. ‘The following’ was a jumbled list of items of expenditure, subscriptions, donations, legacies, and collections, winding up with ‘the general summary showed a balance in hand of £178.4.6’. (They always kept a good balance in hand because of the Secretary’s salary and the rent of the offices.)
 After this very explicit financial statement came the most important part of the report: ‘Thanks are expressed to Sir Graball D’Encloseland for a donation of 2 guineas. Mrs Grosare, 1 guinea. Mrs Starvem, Hospital tickets. Lady Slumrent, letter of admission to Convalescent Home. Mrs Knobrane, 1 guinea. Mrs M.B. Sile, 1 guinea. Mrs M.T. Head, 1 guinea. Mrs Sledging, gifts of clothing - and so on for another quarter of a column, the whole concluding with a vote of thanks to the Secretary and an urgent appeal to the charitable public for more funds to enable the Society to continue its noble work.
 Meantime, in spite of this and kindred organizations the conditions of the under-paid poverty stricken and unemployed workers remained the same. Although the people who got the grocery and coal orders, the ‘Nourishment’, and the cast-off clothes and boots, were very glad to have them, yet these things did far more harm than good. They humiliated, degraded and pauperized those who received them, and the existence of the societies prevented the problem being grappled with in a sane and practical manner. The people lacked the necessaries of life: the necessaries of life are produced by Work: these people were willing to work, but were prevented from doing so by the idiotic system of society which these ‘charitable’ people are determined to do their best to perpetuate.
 If the people who expect to be praised and glorified for being charitable were never to give another farthing it would be far better for the industrious poor, because then the community as a whole would be compelled to deal with the absurd and unnecessary state of affairs that exists today - millions of people living and dying in wretchedness and poverty in an age when science and machinery have made it possible to produce such an abundance of everything that everyone might enjoy plenty and comfort. It if were not for all this so-called charity the starving unemployed men all over the country would demand to be allowed to work and produce the things they are perishing for want of, instead of being - as they are now - content to wear their masters’ cast-off clothing and to eat the crumbs that fall from his table.
 
 Chapter 37
 A Brilliant Epigram
  All through the winter, the wise, practical, philanthropic, fat persons whom the people of Mugsborough had elected to manage their affairs - or whom they permitted to manage them without being elected - continued to grapple, or to pretend to grapple, with the ‘problem’ of unemployment and poverty. They continued to hold meetings, rummage and jumble sales, entertainments and special services. They continued to distribute the rotten cast-off clothing and boots, and the nourishment tickets. They were all so sorry for the poor, especially for the ‘dear little children’. They did all sorts of things to help the children. In fact, there was nothing that they would not do for them except levy a halfpenny rate. It would never do to do that. It might pauperize the parents and destroy parental responsibility. They evidently thought that it would be better to destroy the health or even the lives of the ‘dear little children’ than to pauperize the parents or undermine parental responsibility. These people seemed to think that the children were the property of their parents. They did not have sense enough to see that the children are not the property of their parents at all, but the property of the community. When they attain to manhood and womanhood they will be, if mentally or physically inefficient, a burden on the community; if they become criminals, they will prey upon the community, and if they are healthy, educated and brought up in good surroundings, they will become useful citizens, able to render valuable service, not merely to their parents, but to the community. Therefore the children are the property of the community, and it is the business and to the interest of the community to see that their constitutions are not undermined by starvation. The Secretary of the local Trades Council, a body formed of delegates from all the different trades unions in the town, wrote a letter to the Obscurer, setting forth this view. He pointed out that a halfpenny rate in that town would produce a sum of £800, which would be more than sufficient to provide food for all the hungry schoolchildren. In the next issue of the paper several other letters appeared from leading citizens, including, of course, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, ridiculing the proposal of the Trades Council, who were insultingly alluded to as ‘pothouse politicians’, ‘beer-sodden agitators’ and so forth. Their right to be regarded as representatives of the working men was denied, and Grinder, who, having made inquiries amongst working men, was acquainted with the facts, stated that there was scarcely one of the local branches of the trades unions which had more than a dozen members; and as Grinder’s statement was true, the Secretary was unable to contradict it. The majority of the working men were also very indignant when they heard about the Secretary’s letter: they said the rates were quite high enough as it was, and they sneered at him for presuming to write to the papers at all:
 ‘Who the bloody ’ell was ’e?’ they said. ‘’E was not a Gentleman! ’E was only a workin’ man the same as themselves - a common carpenter! What the ’ell did ’e know about it? Nothing. ’E was just trying to make ’isself out to be Somebody, that was all. The idea of one of the likes of them writing to the papers!’
 One day, having nothing better to do, Owen was looking at some books that were exposed for sale on a table outside a second-hand furniture shop. One book in particular took his attention: he read several pages with great interest, and regretted that he had not the necessary sixpence to buy it. The title of the book was: Consumption: Its Causes and Its Cure. The author was a well-known physician who devoted his whole attention to the study of that disease. Amongst other things, the book gave rules for the feeding of delicate children, and there were also several different dietaries recommended for adult persons suffering from the disease. One of these dietaries amused him very much, because as far as the majority of those who suffer from consumption are concerned, the good doctor might just as well have prescribed a trip to the moon:
 ‘Immediately on waking in the morning, half a pint of milk - this should be hot, if possible - with a small slice of bread and butter.
 ‘At breakfast: half a pint of milk, with coffee, chocolate, or oatmeal: eggs and bacon, bread and butter, or dry toast.
 ‘At eleven o’clock: half a pint of milk with an egg beaten up in it or some beef tea and bread and butter.
 ‘At one o’clock: half a pint of warm milk with a biscuit or sandwich.
 ‘At two o’clock: fish and roast mutton, or a mutton chop, with as much fat as possible: poultry, game, etc., may be taken with vegetables, and milk pudding.
 ‘At five o’clock: hot milk with coffee or chocolate, bread and butter, watercress, etc.
 ‘At eight o’clock: a pint of milk, with oatmeal or chocolate, and gluten bread, or two lightly boiled eggs with bread and butter.
 ‘Before retiring to rest: a glass of warm milk.
 ‘During the night: a glass of milk with a biscuit or bread and butter should be placed by the bedside and be eaten if the patient awakes.’
 Whilst Owen was reading this book, Crass, Harlow, Philpot and Easton were talking together on the other side of the street, and presently Crass caught sight of him. They had been discussing the Secretary’s letter re the halfpenny rate, and as Owen was one of the members of the Trades Council, Crass suggested that they should go across and tackle him about it.
 ‘How much is your house assessed at?’ asked Owen after listening for about a quarter of an hour to Crass’s objection.
 ‘Fourteen pound,’ replied Crass.
 ‘That means that you would have to pay sevenpence per year if we had a halfpenny rate. Wouldn’t it be worth sevenpence a year to you to know that there were no starving children in the town?’
 ‘Why should I ’ave to ’elp to keep the children of a man who’s too lazy to work, or spends all ’is money on drink?’ shouted Crass. ‘’Ow are yer goin’ to make out about the likes o’ them?’
 ‘If his children are starving we should feed them first, and punish him afterwards.’
 ‘The rates is quite high enough as it is,’ grumbled Harlow, who had four children himself.
 ‘That’s quite true, but you must remember that the rates the working classes at present pay are spent mostly for the benefit of other people. Good roads are maintained for people who ride in motor cars and carriages; the Park and the Town Band for those who have leisure to enjoy them; the Police force to protect the property of those who have something to lose, and so on. But if we pay this rate we shall get something for our money.’
 ‘We gets the benefit of the good roads when we ’as to push a ’andcart with a load o’ paint and ladders,’ said Easton.
 ‘Of course,’ said Crass, ‘and besides, the workin’ class gets the benefit of all the other things too, because it all makes work.’
 ‘Well, for my part,’ said Philpot, ‘I wouldn’t mind payin’ my share towards a ’appeny rate, although I ain’t got no kids o’ me own.’
 The hostility of most of.the working men to the proposed rate was almost as bitter as that of the ‘better’ classes - the noble-minded philanthropists who were always gushing out their sympathy for the ‘dear little ones’, the loathsome hypocrites who pretended that there was no need to levy a rate because they were willing to give sufficient money in the form of charity to meet the case: but the children continued to go hungry all the same.
 ‘Loathsome hypocrites’ may seem a hard saying, but it was a matter of common knowledge that the majority of the children attending the local elementary schools were insufficiently fed. It was admitted that the money that could be raised by a halfpenny rate would be more than sufficient to provide them all with one good meal every day. The charity-mongers who professed such extravagant sympathy with the ‘dear little children’ resisted the levying of the rate ‘because it would press so heavily on the poorer ratepayers’, and said that they were willing to give more in voluntary charity than the rate would amount to: but, the ‘dear little children’ - as they were so fond of calling them - continued to go to school hungry all the same.
 To judge them by their profession. and their performances, it appeared that these good kind persons were willing to do any mortal thing for the ‘dear little children’ except allow them to be fed.
 If these people had really meant to do what they pretended, they would not have cared whether they paid the money to a rate-collector or to the secretary of a charity society and they would have preferred to accomplish their object in the most efficient and economical way.
 But although they would not allow the children to be fed, they went to church and to chapel, glittering with jewellery, their fat carcases clothed in rich raiment, and sat with smug smiles upon their faces listening to the fat parsons reading out of a Book that none of them seemed able to understand, for this was what they read:
 ‘And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst of them, and said: Whosoever shall receive one such little child in My name, receiveth Me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.
 ‘Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of My Father.’
 And this: ‘Then shall He say unto them: Depart from me, ye cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels: for I was an hungered and ye gave Me no meat: I was thirsty and ye gave Me no drink: I was a stranger and ye took Me not in; naked, and ye clothed Me not.
 ‘Then shall they answer: "Lord, when saw we Thee an hungered or athirst or a stranger or naked, or sick, and did not minister unto Thee?" and He shall answer them, "Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me."’
 These were the sayings that the infidel parsons mouthed in the infidel temples to the richly dressed infidel congregations, who heard but did not understand, for their hearts were become gross and their ears dull of hearing. And meantime, all around them, in the alley and the slum, and more terrible still - because more secret - in the better sort of streets where lived die respectable class of skilled artisans, the little children became thinner and paler day by day for lack of proper food, and went to bed early because there was no fire.
 Sir Graball D’Encloseland, the Member of Parliament for the borough, was one of the bitterest opponents of the halfpenny rate, but as he thought it was probable that there would soon be another General Election and he wanted the children’s fathers to vote for him again, he was willing to do something for them in another way. He had a ten-year-old daughter whose birthday was in that month, so the kind- hearted Baronet made arrangements to give a Tea to all the school children in the town in honour of the occasion. The tea was served in the schoolrooms and each child was presented with a gilt-edged card on which was a printed portrait of the little hostess, with ‘From your loving little friend, Honoria D’Encloseland’, in gold letters. During the evening the little girl, accompanied by Sir Graball and Lady D’Encloseland, motored round to all the schools where the tea was being consumed: the Baronet made a few remarks, and Honoria made a pretty little speech, specially learnt for the occasion, at each place, and they were loudly cheered and greatly admired in response. The enthusiasm was not confined to the boys and girls, for while the speechmaking was going on inside, a little crowd of grown-up children were gathered round outside the entrance, worshipping the motor car: and when the little party came out the crowd worshipped them also, going into imbecile ecstasies of admiration of their benevolence and their beautiful clothes.
 For several weeks everybody in the town was in raptures over this tea - or, rather, everybody except a miserable little minority of Socialists, who said it was bribery, an electioneering dodge, that did no real good, and who continued to clamour for a halfpenny rate.
 Another specious fraud was the ‘Distress Committee’. This body - or corpse, for there was not much vitality in it - was supposed to exist for the purpose of providing employment for ‘deserving cases’. One might be excused for thinking that any man - no matter what his past may have been - who is willing to work for his living is a ‘deserving case’: but this was evidently not the opinion of the persons who devised the regulations for the working of this committee. Every applicant for work was immediately given a long job, and presented with a double sheet of foolscap paper to do it with. Now, if the object of the committee had been to furnish the applicant with material for the manufacture of an appropriate headdress for himself, no one could reasonably have found fault with them: but the foolscap was not to be utilized in that way; it was called a ‘Record Paper’, three pages of it were covered with insulting, inquisitive, irrelevant questions concerning the private affairs and past life of the ‘case’ who wished to be permitted to work for his living, and all these had to be answered to the satisfaction of Messrs D’Encloseland, Bosher, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and the other members of the committee, before the case stood any chance of getting employment.
 However, notwithstanding the offensive nature of the questions on the application form, during the five months that this precious committee was in session, no fewer than 1,237 broken-spirited and humble ‘lion’s whelps’ filled up the forms and answered the questions as meekly as if they had been sheep. The funds of the committee consisted of £500, obtained from the Imperial Exchequer, and about £250 in charitable donations. This money was used to pay wages for certain work - some of which would have had to be done even if the committee had never existed - and if each of the 1,237 applicants had had an equal share of the work, the wages they would have received would have amounted to about twelve shillings each. This was what the ‘practical’ persons, the ‘business-men’, called ‘dealing with the problem of unemployment’. Imagine having to keep your family for five months with twelve shillings!
 And, if you like, imagine that the Government grant had been four times as much as it was, and that the charity had amounted to four times as much as it did, and then fancy having to keep your family for five months with two pounds eight shillings!
 It is true that some of the members of the committee would have been very glad if they had been able to put the means of earning a living within the reach of every man who was willing to work; but they simply did not know what to do, or how to do it. They were not ignorant of the reality of the evil they were supposed to be ‘dealing with’ - appalling evidences of it faced them on every side, and as, after all, these committee men were human beings and not devils, they would have been glad to mitigate it if they could have done so without hurting themselves: but the truth was that they did not know what to do!
 These are the ‘practical’ men; the monopolists of intelligence, the wise individuals who control the affairs of the world: it is in accordance with the ideas of such men as these that the conditions of human life are regulated.
 This is the position:
 It is admitted that never before in the history of mankind was it possible to produce the necessaries of life in such abundance as at present.
 The management of the affairs of the world - the business of arranging the conditions under which we live - is at present in the hands of Practical, Level-headed, Sensible Business-men.
 The result of their management is, that the majority of the people find it a hard struggle to live. Large numbers exist in perpetual poverty: a great many more periodically starve: many actually die of want: hundreds destroy themselves rather than continue to live and suffer.
 When the Practical, Level-headed, Sensible Business-men are asked why they do not remedy this state of things, they reply that they do not know what to do! or, that it is impossible to remedy it!
 And yet it is admitted that it is now possible to produce the necessaries of life, in greater abundance than ever before!
 With lavish kindness, the Supreme Being had provided all things necessary for the existence and happiness of his creatures. To suggest that it is not so is a blasphemous lie: it is to suggest that the Supreme Being is not good or even just. On every side there is an overflowing superfluity of the materials requisite for the production of all the necessaries of life: from these materials everything we need may be produced in abundance - by Work. Here was an army of people lacking the things that may be made by work, standing idle. Willing to work; clamouring to be allowed to work, and the Practical, Level-headed, Sensible Business-men did not know what to do!
 Of course, the real reason for the difficulty is that the raw materials that were created for the use and benefit of all have been stolen by a small number, who refuse to allow them to be used for the purposes for which they were intended. This numerically insignificant minority refused to allow the majority to work and produce the things they need; and what work they do graciously permit to be done is not done with the object of producing the necessaries of life for those who work, but for the purpose of creating profit for their masters.
 And then, strangest fact of all, the people who find it a hard struggle to live, or who exist in dreadful poverty and sometimes starve, instead of trying to understand the causes of their misery and to find out a remedy themselves, spend all their time applauding the Practical, Sensible, Level-headed Business-men, who bungle and mismanage their affairs, and pay them huge salaries for doing so. Sir Graball D’Encloseland, for instance, was a ‘Secretary of State’ and was paid £5,000 a year. When he first got the job the wages were only a beggarly £2,000, but as he found it impossible to exist on less than £100 a week he decided to raise his salary to that amount; and the foolish people who find it a hard struggle to live paid it willingly, and when they saw the beautiful motor car and the lovely clothes and jewellery he purchased for his wife with the money, and heard the Great Speech he made - telling them how the shortage of everything was caused by Over-production and Foreign Competition, they clapped their hands and went frantic with admiration. Their only regret was that there were no horses attached to the motor car, because if there had been, they could have taken them out and harnessed themselves to it instead.
 Nothing delighted the childish minds of these poor people so much as listening to or reading extracts from the speeches of such men as these; so in order to amuse them, every now and then, in the midst of all the wretchedness, some of the great statesmen made ‘great speeches’ full of cunning phrases intended to hoodwink the fools who had elected them. The very same week that Sir Graball’s salary was increased to £5,000 a year, all the papers were full of a very fine one that he made. They appeared with large headlines like this:
  GREAT SPEECH BY SIR GRABALL D’ENCLOSELAND
 Brilliant Epigram!
  None should have more than they need, whilst any have less than they need!
 The hypocrisy of such a saying in the mouth of a man who was drawing a salary of five thousand pounds a year did not appear to occur to anyone. On the contrary, the hired scribes of the capitalist Press wrote columns of fulsome admiration of the miserable claptrap, and the working men who had elected this man went into raptures over the ‘Brilliant Epigram’ as if it were good to eat. They cut it out of the papers and carried it about with them: they showed it to each other: they read it and repeated it to each other: they wondered at it and were delighted with it, grinning and gibbering at each other in the exuberance of their imbecile enthusiasm.
 The Distress Committee was not the only body pretending to ‘deal’ with the poverty ‘problem’: its efforts were supplemented by all the other agencies already mentioned - the Labour Yard, the Rummage Sales, the Organized Benevolence Society, and so on, to say nothing of a most benevolent scheme originated by the management of Sweater’s Emporium, who announced in a letter that was published in the local Press that they were prepared to employ fifty men for one week to carry sandwich boards at one shilling - and a loaf of bread - per day.
 They got the men; some unskilled labourers, a few old, worn out artisans whom misery had deprived of the last vestiges of pride or shame; a number of habitual drunkards and loafers, and a non-descript lot of poor ragged old men - old soldiers and others of whom it would be impossible to say what they had once been.
 The procession of sandwich men was headed by the Semi-drunk and the Besotted Wretch, and each board was covered with a printed poster: ‘Great Sale of Ladies’ Blouses now Proceeding at Adam Sweater’s Emporium.’
 Besides this artful scheme of Sweater’s for getting a good advertisement on the cheap, numerous other plans for providing employment or alleviating the prevailing misery were put forward in the columns of the local papers and at the various meetings that were held. Any foolish, idiotic, useless suggestion was certain to receive respectful attention; any crafty plan devised in his own interest or for his own profit by one or other of the crew of sweaters and landlords who controlled the town was sure to be approved of by the other inhabitants of Mugsborough, the majority of whom were persons of feeble intellect who not only allowed themselves to be robbed and exploited by a few cunning scoundrels, but venerated and applauded them for doing it.
 
 Chapter 38
 The Brigands’ Cave
  One evening in the drawing-room at ‘The Cave’ there was a meeting of a number of the ‘Shining Lights’ to arrange the details of a Rummage Sale, that was to be held in aid of the unemployed. It was an informal affair, and while they were waiting for the other luminaries, the early arrivals, Messrs Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, Mr Oyley Sweater, the Borough Surveyor, Mr Wireman, the electrical engineer who had been engaged as an ‘expert’ to examine and report on the Electric Light Works, and two or three other gentlemen - all members of the Band - took advantage of the opportunity to discuss a number of things they were mutually interested in, which were to be dealt with at the meeting of the Town Council the next day. First, there was the affair of the untenanted Kiosk on the Grand Parade. This building belonged to the Corporation, and ‘The Cosy Corner Refreshment Coy.’ of which Mr Grinder was the managing director, was thinking of hiring it to open as a high-class refreshment lounge, provided the Corporation would make certain alterations and let the place at a reasonable rent. Another item which was to be discussed at the Council meeting was Mr Sweater’s generous offer to the Corporation respecting the new drain connecting ‘The Cave’ with the Town Main.
 The report of Mr Wireman, the electrical expert, was also to be dealt with, and afterwards a resolution in favour of the purchase of the Mugsborough Electric light and Installation Co. Ltd by the town, was to be proposed.
 In addition to these matters, several other items, including a proposal by Mr Didlum for an important reform in the matter of conducting the meetings of the Council, formed subjects for animated conversation between the brigands and their host.
 During this discussion other luminaries arrived, including several ladies and the Rev. Mr Bosher, of the Church of the Whited Sepulchre.
 The drawing-room of ‘The Cave’ was now elaborately furnished. A large mirror in a richly gilt frame reached from the carved marble mantelpiece to the cornice. A magnificent clock in an alabaster case stood in the centre of the mantelpiece and was flanked by two exquisitely painted and gilded vases of Dresden ware. The windows were draped with costly hangings, the floor was covered with a luxurious carpet and expensive rugs. Sumptuously upholstered couches and easy chairs added to the comfort of the apartment, which was warmed by the immense fire of coal and oak logs that blazed and crackled in the grate.
 The conversation now became general and at times highly philosophical in character, although Mr Bosher did not take much part, being too busily engaged gobbling up the biscuits and tea, and only occasionally spluttering out a reply when a remark or question was directly addressed to him.
 This was Mr Grinder’s first visit at the house, and he expressed his admiration of the manner in which the ceiling and the walls were decorated, remarking that he had always liked this ’ere Japanese style.
 Mr Bosher, with his mouth full of biscuit, mumbled that it was sweetly pretty - charming - beautifully done - must have cost a lot of money.
 ‘Hardly wot you’d call Japanese, though, is it?’ observed Didlum, looking round with the air of a connoisseur. ‘I should be inclined to say it was rather more of the - er - Chinese or Egyptian.’
 ‘Moorish,’ explained Mr Sweater with a smile. ‘I got the idear at the Paris Exhibition. It’s simler to the decorations in the "Halambara", the palace of the Sultan of Morocco. That clock there is in the same style.’
 The case of the clock referred to - which stood on a table in a corner of the room - was of fretwork, in the form of an Indian Mosque, with a pointed dome and pinnacles. This was the case that Mary Linden had sold to Didlum; the latter had had it stained a dark colour and polished and further improved it by substituting a clock of more suitable design than the one it originally held. Mr Sweater had noticed it in Didlum’s window and, seeing that the design was similar in character to the painted decorations on the ceiling and walls of his drawing-room, had purchased it.
 ‘I went to the Paris Exhibition meself,’ said Grinder, when everyone had admired the exquisite workmanship of the clock-case. ‘I remember ’avin’ a look at the moon through that big telescope. I was never so surprised in me life: you can see it quite plain, and it’s round!’
 ‘Round?’ said Didlum with a puzzled look. ‘Round? Of course it’s round! You didn’t used to think it was square, did yer?’
 ‘No, of course not, but I always used to think it was flat - like a plate, but it’s round like a football.’
 ‘Certainly: the moon is a very simler body to the earth,’ explained Didlum, describing an aerial circle with a wave of his hand. They moves through the air together, but the earth is always nearest to the sun and consequently once a fortnight the shadder of the earth falls on the moon and darkens it so that it’s invisible to the naked eye. The new moon is caused by the moon movin’ a little bit out of the earth’s shadder, and it keeps on comin’ more and more until we gets the full moon; and then it goes back again into the shadder; and so it keeps on.’
 For about a minute everyone looked very solemn, and the profound silence was disturbed only the the crunching of the biscuits between the jaws of Mr Bosher, and by certain gurglings in the interior of that gentleman.
 ‘Science is a wonderful thing,’ said Mr Sweater at length, wagging his head gravely, ‘wonderful!’
 ‘Yes: but a lot of it is mere theory, you know,’ observed Rushton. ‘Take this idear that the world is round, for instance; I fail to see it! And then they say as Hawstralia is on the other side of the globe, underneath our feet. In my opinion it’s ridiculous, because if it was true, wot’s to prevent the people droppin’ orf?’
 ‘Yes: well, of course it’s very strange,’ admitted Sweater. ‘I’ve often thought of that myself. If it was true, we ought to be able to walk on the ceiling of this room, for instance; but of course we know that’s impossible, and I really don’t see that the other is any more reasonable.’
 ‘I’ve often noticed flies walkin’ on the ceilin’,’ remarked Didlum, who felt called upon to defend the globular theory.
 ‘Yes; but they’re different,’ replied Rushton. ‘Flies is provided by nature with a gluey substance which oozes out of their feet for the purpose of enabling them to walk upside down.’
 ‘There’s one thing that seems to me to finish that idear once for all,’ said Grinder, ‘and that is - water always finds its own level. You can’t get away from that; and if the world was round, as they want us to believe, all the water would run off except just a little at the top. To my mind, that settles the whole argymint.’
 ‘Another thing that gets over me,’ continued Rushton, ‘is this: according to science, the earth turns round on its axle at the rate of twenty miles a minit. Well, what about when a lark goes up in the sky and stays there about a quarter of an hour? Why, if it was true that the earth was turnin’ round at that rate all the time, when the bird came down it would find itself ’undreds of miles away from the place where it went up from! But that doesn’t ’appen at all; the bird always comes down in the same spot.’
 ‘Yes, and the same thing applies to balloons and flyin’ machines,’ said Grinder. ‘If it was true that the world is spinnin’ round on its axle so quick as that, if a man started out from Calais to fly to Dover, by the time he got to England he’d find ’imself in North America, or p’r’aps farther off still.’
 ‘And if it was true that the world goes round the sun at the rate they makes out, when a balloon went up, the earth would run away from it! They’d never be able to get back again!’ remarked Rushton.
 This was so obvious that nearly everyone said there was probably something in it, and Didlum could think of no reply. Mr Bosher upon being appealed to for his opinion, explained that science was alright in its way, but unreliable: the things scientists said yesterday they contradicted today, and what they said today they would probably repudiate tomorrow. It was necessary to be very cautious before accepting any of their assertions.
 ‘Talking about science,’ said Grinder, as the holy man relapsed into silence and started on another biscuit and a fresh cup of tea. ‘Talking about science reminds me of a conversation I ’ad with Dr Weakling the other day. You know, he believes we’re all descended from monkeys.’
 Everyone laughed; the thing was so absurd: the idea of placing intellectual beings on a level with animals!
 ‘But just wait till you hear how nicely I flattened ’im out,’ continued Grinder. ‘After we’d been arguin’ a long time about wot ’e called everlution or some sich name, and a lot more tommy-rot that I couldn’t make no ’ead or tail of - and to tell you the truth I don’t believe ’e understood ’arf of it ’imself - I ses to ’im, "Well," I ses, "if it’s true that we’re hall descended from monkeys," I ses, "I think your famly must ’ave left orf where mine begun."’
 In the midst of the laughter that greeted the conclusion of Grinder’s story it was seen that Mr Bosher had become black in the face. He was waving his arms and writhing about like one in a fit, his goggle eyes bursting from their sockets, whilst his huge stomach quivering spasmodically, alternately contracted and expanded as if it were about to explode.
 In the exuberance of his mirth, the unfortunate disciple had swallowed two biscuits at once. Everybody rushed to his assistance, Grinder and Didlum seized an arm and a shoulder each and forced his head down. Rushton punched him in the back and the ladies shrieked with alarm. They gave him a big drink of tea to help to get the biscuits down, and when he at last succeeded in swallowing them he sat in the armchair with his eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, which ran down over his white, flabby face.
 The arrival of the other members of the committee put an end to the interesting discussion, and they shortly afterwards proceeded with the business for which the meeting had been called - the arrangements for the forthcoming Rummage Sale.
 
 Chapter 39
 The Brigands at Work
  The next day, at the meeting of the Town Council, Mr Wireman’s report concerning the Electric Light Works was read. The expert’s opinion was so favourable - and it was endorsed by the Borough Engineer, Mr Oyley Sweater - that a resolution was unanimously carried in favour of acquiring the Works for the town, and a secret committee was appointed to arrange the preliminaries. Alderman Sweater then suggested that a suitable honorarium be voted to Mr Wireman for his services. This was greeted with a murmur of approval from most of the members, and Mr Didlum rose with the intention of proposing a resolution to that effect when he was interrupted by Alderman Grinder, who said he couldn’t see no sense in giving the man a thing like that. ‘Why not give him a sum of money?’
 Several members said ‘Hear, hear,’ to this, but some of the others laughed.
 ‘I can’t see nothing to laugh at,’ cried Grinder angrily. ‘For my part I wouldn’t give you tuppence for all the honorariums in the country. I move that we pay ’im a sum of money.’
 ‘I’ll second that,’ said another member of the Band - one of those who had cried ‘Hear, Hear.’
 Alderman Sweater said that there seemed to be a little misunderstanding and explained that an honorarium WAS a sum of money.
 ‘Oh, well, in that case I’ll withdraw my resolution,’ said Grinder. ‘I thought you wanted to give ’im a ’luminated address or something like that.’
 Didlum now moved that a letter of thanks and a fee of fifty guineas be voted to Mr Wireman, and this was also unanimously agreed to. Dr Weakling said that it seemed rather a lot, but he did not go so far as to vote against it.
 The next business was the proposal that the Corporation should take over the drain connecting Mr Sweater’s house with the town main. Mr Sweater - being a public-spirited man - proposed to hand this connecting drain - which ran through a private road - over to the Corporation to be theirs and their successors for ever, on condition that they would pay him the cost of construction - £55 - and agreed to keep it in proper repair. After a brief discussion it was decided to take over the drain on the terms offered, and then Councillor Didlum proposed a vote of thanks to Alderman Sweater for his generosity in the matter: this was promptly seconded by Councillor Rushton and would have been carried nem. con., but for the disgraceful conduct of Dr Weakling, who had the bad taste to suggest that the amount was about double what the drain could possibly have cost to construct, that it was of no use to the Corporation at all, and that they would merely acquire the liability to keep it in repair.
 However, no one took the trouble to reply to Weakling, and the Band proceeded to the consideration of the next business, which was Mr Grinder’s offer - on behalf of the ‘Cosy Corner Refreshment Company’ - to take the Kiosk on the Grand Parade. Mr Grinder submitted a plan of certain alterations that he would require the Corporation to make at the Kiosk, and, provided the Council agreed to do this work he was willing to take a lease of the place for five years at £20 per year.
 Councillor Didlum proposed that the offer of the ‘Cosy Corner Refreshment Co. Ltd’ be accepted and the required alterations proceeded with at once. The Kiosk had brought in no rent for nearly two years, but, apart from that consideration, if they accepted this offer they would be able to set some of the unemployed to work. (Applause.)
 Councillor Rushton seconded.
 Dr Weakling pointed out that as the proposed alterations would cost about £175 - according to the estimate of the Borough Engineer - and, the rent being only £20 a year, it would mean that the Council would be £75 out of pocket at the end of the five years; to say nothing of the expense of keeping the place in repair during all that time. (Disturbance.) He moved as an amendment that the alterations be made, and that they then invite tenders, and let the place to the highest bidder. (Great uproar.)
 Councillor Rushton said he was disgusted with the attitude taken up by that man Weakling. (Applause.) Perhaps it was hardly right to call him a man. (Hear! Hear!) In the matter of these alterations they had had the use of Councillor Grinder’s brains: it was he who first thought of making these improvements in the Kiosk, and therefore he - or rather the company he represented - had a moral right to the tenancy. (Loud cheers.)
 Dr Weakling said that he thought it was understood that when a man was elected to that Council it was because he was supposed to be willing to use his brains for the benefit of his constituents. (Sardonic laughter.)
 The Mayor asked if there was any seconder to Weakling’s amendment, and as there was not the original proposition was put and carried.
 Councillor Rushton suggested that a large shelter with seating accommodation for about two hundred persons should be erected on the Grand Parade near the Kiosk. The shelter would serve as a protection against rain, or the rays of the sun in summer. It would add materially to the comfort of visitors and would be a notable addition to the attractions of the town.
 Councillor Didlum said it was a very good idear, and proposed that the Surveyor be instructed to get out the plans.
 Dr Weakling opposed the motion. (Laughter.) It seemed to him that the object was to benefit, not the town, but Mr Grinder. (Disturbance.) If this shelter were erected, it would increase the value of the Kiosk as a refreshment bar by a hundred per cent. If Mr Grinder wanted a shelter for his customers he should pay for it himself. (Uproar.) He (Dr Weakling) was sorry to have to say it, but he could not help thinking that this was a Put-up job. (Loud cries of ‘Withdraw’ ‘Apologize’ ‘Cast ’im out’ and terrific uproar.)
 Weakling did not apologize or withdraw, but he said no more. Didlum’s proposition was carried, and the ‘hand’ went on to the next item on the agenda, which was a proposal by Councillor Didlum to increase the salary of Mr Oyley Sweater, the Borough Engineer, from fifteen pounds to seventeen pounds per week.
 Councillor Didlum said that when they had a good man they ought to appreciate him. (Applause.) Compared with other officials, the Borough Engineer was not fairly paid. (Hear, hear.) The magistrates’ clerk received seventeen pounds a week. The Town Clerk seventeen pounds per week. He did not wish it to be understood that he thought those gentlemen were overpaid - far from it. (Hear, hear.) It was not that they got too much but that the Engineer got too little. How could they expect a man like that to exist on a paltry fifteen pounds a week? Why, it was nothing more or less than sweating! (Hear, hear.) He had much pleasure in moving that the Borough Engineer’s salary be increased to seventeen pounds a week, and that his annual holiday be extended from a fortnight to one calendar month with hard la- he begged pardon - with full pay. (Loud cheers.)
 Councillor Rushton said that he did not propose to make a long speech - it was not necessary. He would content himself with formally seconding Councillor Didlum’s excellent proposition. (Applause.)
 Councillor Weakling, whose rising was greeted with derisive laughter, said he must oppose the resolution. He wished it to be understood that he was not actuated by any feeling of personal animosity towards the Borough Engineer, but at the same time he considered it his duty to say that in his (Dr Weakling’s) opinion, that official would be dear at half the price they were now paying him. (Disturbance.) He did not appear to understand his business, nearly all the work that was done cost in the end about double what the Borough Engineer estimated it could be done for. (Liar.) He considered him to be a grossly incompetent person (uproar) and was of opinion that if they were to advertise they could get dozens of better men who would be glad to do the work for five pounds a week. He moved that Mr Oyley Sweater be asked to resign and that they advertise for a man at five pounds a week. (Great uproar.)
 Councillor Grinder rose to a point of order. He appealed to the Chairman to squash the amendment. (Applause.)
 Councillor Didlum remarked that he supposed Councillor Grinder meant ‘quash’: in that case, he would support the suggestion.
 Councillor Grinder said it was about time they put a stopper on that feller Weakling. He (Grinder) did not care whether they called it squashing or quashing; it was all the same so long as they nipped him in the bud. (Cheers.) The man was a disgrace to the Council; always interfering and hindering the business.
 The Mayor - Alderman Sweater - said that he did not think it consistent with the dignity of that Council to waste any more time over this scurrilous amendment. (Applause.) He was proud to say that it had never even been seconded, and therefore he would put Mr Didlum’s resolution - a proposition which he had no hesitation in saying reflected the highest credit upon that gentleman and upon all those who supported it. (Vociferous cheers.)
 All those who were in favour signified their approval in the customary manner, and as Weakling was the only one opposed, the resolution was carried and the meeting proceeded to the next business.
 Councillor Rushton said that several influential ratepayers and employers of labour had complained to him about the high wages of the Corporation workmen, some of whom were paid sevenpence-halfpenny an hour. Sevenpence an hour was the maximum wage paid to skilled workmen by private employers in that town, and he failed to see why the Corporation should pay more. (Hear, hear.) It had a very bad effect on the minds of the men in the employment of private firms, tending to make them dissatisfied with their wages. The same state of affairs prevailed with regard to the unskilled labourers in the Council’s employment. Private employers could get that class of labour for fourpence-halfpenny or fivepence an hour, and yet the corporation paid fivepence-halfpenny and even sixpence for the same class of work. (Shame.) It was not fair to the ratepayers. (Hear, hear.) Considering that the men in the employment of the Corporation had almost constant work, if there was to be a difference at all, they should get not more, but less, than those who worked for private firms. (Cheers.) He moved that the wages of the Corporation workmen be reduced in all cases to the same level as those paid by private firms.
 Councillor Grinder seconded. He said it amounted to a positive scandal. Why, in the summer-time some of these men drew as much as 35/- in a single week! (Shame.) and it was quite common for unskilled labourers - fellers who did nothing but the very hardest and most laborious work, sich as carrying sacks of cement, or digging up the roads to get at the drains, and sich-like easy jobs - to walk off with 25/- a week! (Sensation.) He had often noticed some of these men swaggering about the town on Sundays, dressed like millionaires and cigared up! They seemed quite a different class of men from those who worked for private firms, and to look at the way some of their children was dressed you’d think their fathers was Cabinet Minstrels! No wonder the ratepayers complained ot the high rates. Another grievance was that all the Corporation workmen were allowed two days’ holiday every year, in addition to the Bank Holidays, and were paid for them! (Cries of ‘shame’, ‘Scandalous’, ‘Disgraceful’, etc.) No private contractor paid his men for Bank Holidays, and why should the Corporation do so? He had much pleasure in seconding Councillor Rushton’s resolution.
 Councillor Weakling opposed the motion. He thought that 35/- a week was little enough for a man to keep a wife and family with (Rot), even if all the men got it regularly, which they did not. Members should consider what was the average amount per week throughout the whole year, not merely the busy time, and if they did that they would find that even the skilled men did not average more than 25/- a week, and in many cases not so much. If this subject had not been introduced by Councillor Rushton, he (Dr Weakling) had intended to propose that the wages of the Corporation workmen should be increased to the standard recognized by the Trades Unions. (Loud laughter.) It had been proved that the notoriously short lives of the working people - whose average span of life was about twenty years less than that of the well-to-do classes - their increasingly inferior physique, and the high rate of mortality amongst their children was caused by the wretched remuneration they received for hard and tiring work, the excessive number of hours they have to work, when employed, the bad quality of their food, the badly constructed and insanitary homes their poverty compels them to occupy, and the anxiety, worry, and depression of mind they have to suffer when out of employment. (Cries of ‘Rot’, ‘Bosh’, and loud laughter.) Councillor Didlum said, ‘Rot’. It was a very good word to describe the disease that was sapping the foundations of society and destroying the health and happiness and the very lives of so many of their fellow countrymen and women. (Renewed merriment and shouts of ‘Go and buy a red tie.’) He appealed to the members to reject the resolution. He was very glad to say that he believed it was true that the workmen in the employ of the Corporation were a little better off than those in the employ of private contractors, and if it were so, it was as it should be. They had need to be better off than the poverty-stricken, half-starved poor wretches who worked for private firms.
 Councillor Didlum said that it was very evident that Dr Weakling had obtained his seat on that Council by false pretences. If he had told the ratepayers that he was a Socialist, they would never have elected him. (Hear, hear.) Practically every Christian minister in the country would agree with him (Didlum) when he said that the poverty of the working classes was caused not by the ‘wretched remuneration they receive as wages’, but by Drink. (Loud applause.) And he was very sure that the testimony of the clergy of all denominations was more to be relied upon than the opinion of a man like Dr Weakling. (Hear, hear.)
 Dr Weakling said that if some of the clergymen referred to or some of the members of the council had to exist and toil amid the same sordid surroundings, overcrowding and ignorance as some of the working classes, they would probably seek to secure some share of pleasure and forgetfulness in drink themselves! (Great uproar and shouts of ‘Order’, ‘Withdraw’, ‘Apologize’.)
 Councillor Grinder said that even if it was true that the haverage lives of the working classes was twenty years shorter than those of the better classes, he could not see what it had got to do with Dr Weakling. (Hear, hear.) So long as the working class was contented to die twenty years before their time, he failed to see what it had got to do with other people. They was not runnin’ short of workers, was they? There was still plenty of ’em left. (Laughter.) So long as the workin’ class was satisfied to die orf - let ’em die orf! It was a free country. (Applause.) The workin’ class adn’t arst Dr Weakling to stick up for them, had they? If they wasn’t satisfied, they would stick up for theirselves! The working men didn’t want the likes of Dr Weakling to stick up for them, and they would let ’im know it when the next election came round. If he (Grinder) was a wordly man, he would not mind betting that the workin’ men of Dr Weakling’s ward would give him ‘the dirty kick out’ next November. (Applause.)
 Councillor Weakling, who knew that this was probably true, made no further protest. Rushton’s proposition was carried, and then the Clerk announced that the next item was the resolution Mr Didlum had given notice of at the last meeting, and the Mayor accordingly called upon that gentleman.
 Councillor Didlum, who was received with loud cheers, said that unfortunately a certain member of that Council seemed to think he had a right to oppose nearly everything that was brought forward.
 (The majority of the members of the Band glared malignantly at Weakling.)
 He hoped that for once the individual he referred to would have the decency to restrain himself, because the resolution he (Didlum) was about to have the honour of proposing was one that he believed no right-minded man - no matter what his politics or religious opinions - could possibly object to; and he trusted that for the credit of the Council it would be entered on the records as an unopposed motion. The resolution was as follows:
 ‘That from this date all the meetings of this Council shall be opened with prayer and closed with the singing of the Doxology.’ (Loud applause.)
 Councillor Rushton seconded the resolution, which was also supported by Mr Grinder, who said that at a time like the present, when there was sich a lot of infiddles about who said that we all came from monkeys, the Council would be showing a good example to the working classes by adopting the resolution.
 Councillor Weakling said nothing, so the new rule was carried nem. con., and as there was no more business to be done it was put into operation for the first time there and then. Mr Sweater conducting the singing with a roll of paper - the plan of the drain of ‘The Cave’ - and each member singing a different tune.
 Weakling withdrew during the singing, and afterwards, before the Band dispersed, it was agreed that a certain number of them were to meet the Chief at the Cave, on the following evening to arrange the details of the proposed raid on the finances of the town in connection with the sale of the Electric Light Works.
 
 Chapter 40
 Vive la System!
  The alterations which the Corporation had undertaken to make in the Kiosk on the Grand Parade provided employment for several carpenters and plasterers for about three weeks, and afterwards for several painters. This fact was sufficient to secure the working men’s unqualified approval of the action of the Council in letting the place to Grinder, and Councillor Weakling’s opposition - the reasons of which they did not take the trouble to inquire into or understand - they as heartily condemned. All they knew or cared was that he had tried to prevent the work being done, and that he had referred in insulting terms to the working men of the town. What right had he to call them half-starved, poverty-stricken, poor wretches? If it came to being poverty-stricken, according to all accounts, he wasn’t any too well orf hisself. Some of those blokes who went swaggering about in frock-coats and pot-’ats was just as ’ard up as anyone else if the truth was known.
 As for the Corporation workmen, it was quite right that their wages should be reduced. Why should they get more money than anyone else?
 ‘It’s us what’s got to find the money,’ they said. ‘We’re the ratepayers, and why should we have to pay them more wages than we get ourselves? And why should they be paid for holidays any more than us?’
 During the next few weeks the dearth of employment continued, for, of course, the work at the Kiosk and the few others jobs that were being done did not make much difference to the general situation. Groups of workmen stood at the corners or walked aimlessly about the streets. Most of them no longer troubled to go to the different firms to ask for work, they were usually told that they would be sent for if wanted.
 During this time Owen did his best to convert the other men to his views. He had accumulated a little library of Socialist books and pamphlets which he lent to those he hoped to influence. Some of them took these books and promised, with the air of men who were conferring a great favour, that they would read them. As a rule, when they returned them it was with vague expressions of approval, but they usually evinced a disinclination to discuss the contents in detail because, in nine instances out of ten, they had not attempted to read them. As for those who did make a half-hearted effort to do so, in the majority of cases their minds were so rusty and stultified by long years of disuse, that, although the pamphlets were generally written in such simple language that a child might have understood, the argument was generally too obscure to be grasped by men whose minds were addled by the stories told them by their Liberal and Tory masters. Some, when Owen offered to lend them some books or pamphlets refused to accept them, and others who did him the great favour of accepting them, afterwards boasted that they had used them as toilet paper.
 Owen frequently entered into long arguments with the other men, saying that it was the duty of the State to provide productive work for all those who were willing to do it. Some few of them listened like men who only vaguely understood, but were willing to be convinced.
 ‘Yes, mate. It’s right enough what you say,’ they would remark. ‘Something ought to be done.’
 Others ridiculed this doctrine of State employment: It was all very fine, but where was the money to come from? And then those who had been disposed to agree with Owen could relapse into their old apathy.
 There were others who did not listen so quietly, but shouted with many curses that it was the likes of such fellows as Owen who were responsible for all the depression in trade. All this talk about Socialism and State employment was frightening Capital out of the country. Those who had money were afraid to invest it in industries, or to have any work done for fear they would be robbed. When Owen quoted statistics to prove that as far as commerce and the quantity produced of commodities of all kinds was concerned, the last year had been a record one, they became more infuriated than ever, and talked threateningly of what they would like to do to those bloody Socialists who were upsetting everything.
 One day Crass, who was one of these upholders of the existing system, scored off Owen finely. A little group of them were standing talking in the Wage Slave Market near the Fountain. In the course of the argument, Owen made the remark that under existing conditions life was not worth living, and Crass said that if he really thought so, there was no compulsion about it; if he wasn’t satisfied - if he didn’t want to live - he could go and die. Why the hell didn’t he go and make a hole in the water, or cut his bloody throat?
 On this particular occasion the subject of the argument was - at first - the recent increase of the Borough Engineer’s salary to seventeen pounds per week. Owen had said it was robbery, but the majority of the others expressed their approval of the increase. They asked Owen if he expected a man like that to work for nothing! It was not as if he were one of the likes of themselves. They said that, as for it being robbery, Owen would be very glad to have the chance of getting it himself. Most of them seemed to think the fact that anyone would be glad to have seventeen pounds a week, proved that it was right for them to pay that amount to the Borough Engineer!
 Usually whenever Owen reflected upon the gross injustices, and inhumanity of the existing social disorder, he became convinced that it could not possibly last; it was bound to fall to pieces because of its own rottenness. It was not just, it was not common sense, and therefore it could not endure. But always after one of these arguments - or, rather, disputes - with his fellow workmen, he almost relapsed into hopelessness and despondency, for then he realized how vast and how strong are the fortifications that surround the present system; the great barriers and ramparts of invincible ignorance, apathy and self-contempt, which will have to be broken down before the system of society of which they are the defences, can be swept away.
 At other times as he thought of this marvellous system, it presented itself to him in such an aspect of almost comical absurdity that he was forced to laugh and to wonder whether it really existed at all, or if it were only an illusion of his own disordered mind.
 One of the things that the human race needed in order to exist was shelter; so with much painful labour they had constructed a large number of houses. Thousands of these houses were now standing unoccupied, while millions of the people who had helped to build the houses were either homeless or herding together in overcrowded hovels.
 These human beings had such a strange system of arranging their affairs that if anyone were to go and burn down a lot of the houses he would be conferring a great boon upon those who had built them, because such an act would ‘Make a lot more work!’
 Another very comical thing was that thousands of people wore broken boots and ragged clothes, while millions of pairs of boots and abundance of clothing, which they had helped to make, were locked up in warehouses, and the System had the keys.
 Thousands of people lacked the necessaries of life. The necessaries of life are all produced by work. The people who lacked begged to be allowed to work and create those things of which they stood in need. But the System prevented them from so doing.
 If anyone asked the System why it prevented these people from producing the things of which they were in want, the System replied:
 ‘Because they have already produced too much. The markets are glutted. The warehouses are filled and overflowing, and there is nothing more for them to do.’
 There was in existence a huge accumulation of everything necessary. A great number of the people whose labour had produced that vast store were now living in want, but the System said that they could not be permitted to partake of the things they had created. Then, after a time, when these people, being reduced to the last extreme of misery, cried out that they and their children were dying of hunger, the System grudgingly unlocked the doors of the great warehouses, and taking out a small part of the things that were stored within, distributed it amongst the famished workers, at the same time reminding them that it was Charity, because all the things in the warehouses, although they had been made by the workers, were now the property of the people who do nothing.
 And then the starving, bootless, ragged, stupid wretches fell down and worshipped the System, and offered up their children as living sacrifices upon its altars, saying:
 ‘This beautiful System is the only one possible, and the best that human wisdom can devise. May the System live for ever! Cursed be those who seek to destroy the System!’
 As the absurdity of the thing forced itself upon him, Owen, in spite of the unhappiness he felt at the sight of all the misery by which he was surrounded, laughed aloud and said to himself that if he was sane, then all these people must be mad.
 In the face of such colossal imbecility it was absurd to hope for any immediate improvement. The little already accomplished was the work of a few self-sacrificing enthusiasts, battling against the opposition of those they sought to benefit, and the results of their labours were, in many instances, as pearls cast before the swine who stood watching for opportunities to fall upon and rend their benefactors.
 There was only one hope. It was possible that the monopolists, encouraged by the extraordinary stupidity and apathy of the people would proceed to lay upon them even greater burdens, until at last, goaded by suffering, and not having sufficient intelligence to understand any other remedy, these miserable wretches would turn upon their oppressors and drown both them and their System in a sea of blood.
 Besides the work at the Kiosk, towards the end of March things gradually began to improve in other directions. Several firms began to take on a few hands. Several large empty houses that were relet had to be renovated for their new tenants, and there was a fair amount of inside work arising out of the annual spring-cleaning in other houses. There was not enough work to keep everyone employed, and most of those who were taken on as a rule only managed to make a few hours a week, but still it was better than absolute idleness, and there also began to be talk of several large outside jobs that were to be done as soon as the weather was settled.
 This bad weather, by the way, was a sort of boon to the defenders of the present system, who were hard-up for sensible arguments to explain the cause of poverty. One of the principal causes was, of course, the weather, which was keeping everything back. There was not the slightest doubt that if only the weather would allow there would always be plenty of work, and poverty would be abolished.
 Rushton & Co. had a fair share of what work there was, and Crass, Sawkins, Slyme and Owen were kept employed pretty regularly, although they did not start until half past eight and left off at four. At different houses in various parts of the town they had ceilings to wash off and distemper, to strip the old paper from the walls, and to repaint and paper the rooms, and sometimes there were the venetian blinds to repair and repaint. Occasionally a few extra hands were taken on for a few days, and discharged again as soon as the job they were taken on to do was finished.
 The defenders of the existing system may possibly believe that the knowledge that they would be discharged directly the job was done was a very good incentive to industry, that they would naturally under these circumstances do their best to get the work done as quickly as possible. But then it must be remembered that most of the defenders of the existing system are so constituted, that they can believe anything provided it is not true and sufficiently silly.
 All the same, it was a fact that the workmen did do their very best to get over this work in the shortest possible time, because although they knew that to do so was contrary to their own interests, they also knew that it would be very much more contrary to their interests not to do so. Their only chance of being kept on if other work came in was to tear into it for all they were worth. Consequently, most of the work was rushed and botched and slobbered over in about half the time that it would have taken to do it properly. Rooms for which the customers paid to have three coats of paint were scamped with one or two. What Misery did not know about scamping and faking the work, the men suggested to and showed him in the hope of currying favour with him in order that they might get the preference over others and be sent for when the next job came in. This is the principal incentive provided by the present system, the incentive to cheat. These fellows cheated the customers of their money. They cheated themselves and their fellow workmen of work, and their children of bread, but it was all for a good cause - to make profit for their master.
 Harlow and Slyme did one job - a room that Rushton & Co. had contracted to paint three coats. It was finished with two and the men cleared away their paints. The next day, when Slyme wept there to paper the room, the lady of the house said that the painting was not yet finished - it was to have another coat. Slyme assured her that it had already had three, but, as the lady insisted, Slyme went to the shop and sought out Misery. Harlow had been stood off, as there was not another job in just then, but fortunately he happened to be standing in the street outside the shop, so they called him and then the three of them went round to the job and swore that the room had had three coats. The lady protested that it was not so. She had watched the progress of the work. Besides, it was impossible; they had only been there three days. The first day they had not put any paint on at all; they had done the ceiling and stripped the walls; the painting was not started till the second day. How then could it have had three coats? Misery explained the mystery: he said that for first coating they had an extra special very fast-drying paint - paint that dried so quickly that they were able to give the work two coats in one day. For instance, one man did the window, the other the door: when these were finished both men did the skirting; by the time the skirting was finished the door and window were dry enough to second coat; and then, on the following day - the finishing coat!
 Of course, this extra special quick-drying paint was very expensive, but the firm did not mind that. They knew that most of their customers wished to have their work finished as quickly as possible, and their study was to give satisfaction to the customers. This explanation satisfied the lady - a poverty-stricken widow making a precarious living by taking in lodgers - who was the more easily deceived because she regarded Misery as a very holy man, having seen him preaching in the street on many occasions.
 There was another job at another boarding-house that Owen and Easton did - two rooms which had to be painted three coats of white paint and one of enamel, making four coats altogether. That was what the firm had contracted to do. As the old paint in these rooms was of a rather dark shade it was absolutely necessary to give the work three coats before enamelling it. Misery wanted them to let it go with two, but Owen pointed out that if they did so it would be such a ghastly mess that it would never pass. After thinking the matter over for a few minutes, Misery told them to go on with the third coat of paint. Then he went downstairs and asked to see the lady of the house. He explained to her that, in consequence of the old paint being so dark, he found that it would be necessary, in order to make a good job of it, to give the work four coats before enamelling it. Of course, they had agreed for only three, but as they always made a point of doing their work in a first-class manner rather than not make a good job, they would give it the extra coat for nothing, but he was sure she would not wish them to do that. The lady said that she did not want them to work for nothing, and she wanted it done properly. If it were necessary to give it an extra coat, they must do so and she would pay for it. How much would it be? Misery told her. The lady was satisfied, and Misery was in the seventh heaven. Then he went upstairs again and warned Owen and Easton to be sure to say, if they were asked, that the work had had four coats.
 It would not be reasonable to blame Misery or Rushton for not wishing to do good, honest work - there was no incentive. When they secured a contract, if they had thought first of making the very best possible job of it, they would not have made so much profit. The incentive was not to do the work as well as possible, but to do as little as possible. The incentive was not to make good work, but to make good profit.
 The same rule applied to the workers. They could not justly be blamed for not doing good work - there was no incentive. To do good work requires time and pains. Most of them would have liked to take time and pains, because all those who are capable of doing good work find pleasure and happiness in doing it, and have pride in it when done: but there was no incentive, unless the certainty of getting the sack could be called an incentive, for it was a moral certainty that any man who was caught taking time and pains with his work would be promptly presented with the order of the boot. But there was plenty of incentive to hurry and scamp and slobber and botch.
 There was another job at a lodging-house - two rooms to be painted and papered. The landlord paid for the work, but the tenant had the privilege of choosing the paper. She could have any pattern she liked so long as the cost did not exceed one shilling per roll, Rushton’s estimate being for paper of that price. Misery sent her several patterns of sixpenny papers, marked at a shilling, to choose from, but she did not fancy any of them, and said that she would come to the shop to make her selection. So Hunter tore round to the shop in a great hurry to get there before her. In his haste to dismount, he fell off his bicycle into the muddy road, and nearly smashed the plate-glass window with the handle-bar of the machine as he placed it against the shop front before going in.
 Without waiting to clean the mud off his clothes, he ordered Budd, the pimply-faced shopman, to get out rolls of all the sixpenny papers they had, and then they both set to work and altered the price marked upon them from sixpence to a shilling. Then they got out a number of shilling papers and altered the price marked upon them, changing it from a shilling to one and six.
 When the unfortunate woman arrived, Misery was waiting for her with a benign smile upon his long visage. He showed her all the sixpenny ones, but she did not like any of them, so after a while Nimrod suggested that perhaps she would like a paper of a little better quality, and she could pay the trifling difference out of her own pocket. Then he showed her the shilling papers that he had marked up to one and sixpence, and eventually the lady selected one of these and paid the extra sixpence per roll herself, as Nimrod suggested. There were fifteen rolls of paper altogether - seven for one room and eight for the other - so that in addition to the ordinary profit on the sale of the paper - about two hundred and seventy-five per cent. - the firm made seven and sixpence on this transaction. They might have done better out of the job itself if Slyme had not been hanging the paper piece-work, for, the two rooms being of the same pattern, he could easily have managed to do them with fourteen rolls; in fact, that was all he did use, but he cut up and partly destroyed the one that was over so that he could charge for hanging it.
 Owen was working there at the same time, for the painting of the rooms was not done before Slyme papered them; the finishing coat was put on after the paper was hung. He noticed Slyme destroying the paper and, guessing the reason, asked him how he could reconcile such conduct as that with his profession of religion.
 Slyme replied that the fact that he was a Christian did not imply that he never did anything wrong: if he committed a sin, he was a Christian all the same, and it would be forgiven him for the sake of the Blood. As for this affair of the paper, it was a matter between himself and God, and Owen had no right to set himself up as a Judge.
 In addition to all this work, there were a number of funerals. Crass and Slyme did very well out of it all, working all day white-washing or painting, and sometimes part of the night painting venetian blinds or polishing coffins and taking them home, to say nothing of the lifting in of the corpses and afterwards acting as bearers.
 As time went on, the number of small jobs increased, and as the days grew longer the men were allowed to put in a greater number of hours. Most of the firms had some work, but there was never enough to keep all the men in the town employed at the same time. It worked like this: Every firm had a certain number of men who were regarded as the regular hands. When there was any work to do, they got the preference over strangers or outsiders. When things were busy, outsiders were taken on temporarily. When the work fell off, these casual hands were the first to be ‘stood still’. If it continued to fall off, the old hands were also stood still in order of seniority, the older hands being preferred to strangers - so long, of course, as they were not old in the sense of being aged or inefficient.
 This kind of thing usually continued all through the spring and summer. In good years the men of all trades, carpenters, bricklayers, plasterers, painters and so on, were able to keep almost regularly at work, except in wet weather.
 The difference between a good and bad spring and summer is that in good years it is sometimes possible to make a little overtime, and the periods of unemployment are shorter and less frequent than in bad years. It is rare even in good years for one of the casual hands to be employed by one firm for more than one, two or three months without a break. It is usual for them to put in a month with one firm, then a fortnight with another, then perhaps six weeks somewhere else, and often between there are two or three days or even weeks of enforced idleness. This sort of thing goes on all through spring, summer and autumn.
 
 Chapter 41
 The Easter Offering. The Beano Meeting
  By the beginning of April, Rushton & Co. were again working nine hours a day, from seven in the morning till five-thirty at night, and after Easter they started working full time from 6 A.M. till 5.30 P.M., eleven and a half hours - or, rather, ten hours, for they had to lose half an hour at breakfast and an hour at dinner.
 Just before Easter several of the men asked Hunter if they might be allowed to work on Good Friday and Easter Monday, as, they said, they had had enough holidays during the winter; they had no money to spare for holiday-making, and they did not wish to lose two days’ pay when there was work to be done. Hunter told them that there was not sufficient work in to justify him in doing as they requested: things were getting very slack again, and Mr Rushton had decided to cease work from Thursday night till Tuesday morning. They were thus prevented from working on Good Friday, but it is true that not more than one working man in fifty went to any religious service on that day or on any other day during the Easter festival. On the contrary, this festival was the occasion of much cursing and blaspheming on the part of those whose penniless, poverty-stricken condition it helped to aggravate by enforcing unprofitable idleness which they lacked the means to enjoy.
 During these holidays some of the men did little jobs on their own account and others put in the whole time - including Good Friday and Easter Sunday - gardening, digging and planting their plots of allotment ground.
 When Owen arrived home one evening during the week before Easter, Frankie gave him an envelope which he had brought home from school. It contained a printed leaflet:
  CHURCH OF THE WHITED SEPULCHRE, MUGSBOROUGH
  Easter 19—
 Dear Sir (or Madam),
 In accordance with the usual custom we invite you to join with us in presenting the Vicar, the Rev. Habbakuk Bosher, with an Easter Offering, as a token of affection and regard.
  Yours faithfully, A. Cheeseman } W. Taylor } Churchwardens
 Mr Bosher’s income from various sources connected with the church was over six hundred pounds a year, or about twelve pounds per week, but as that sum was evidently insufficient, his admirers had adopted this device for supplementing it. Frankie said all the boys had one of these letters and were going to ask their fathers for some money to give towards the Easter offering. Most of them expected to get twopence.
 As the boy had evidently set his heart on doing the same as the other children, Owen gave him the twopence, and they afterwards learned that the Easter Offering for that year was one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, which was made up of the amounts collected from the parishioners by the children, the district visitors and the verger, the collection at a special Service, and donations from the feeble-minded old females elsewhere referred to.
 By the end of April nearly all the old hands were back at work, and several casual hands had also been taken on, the Semi-drunk being one of the number. In addition to these, Misery had taken on a number of what he called ‘lightweights’, men who were not really skilled workmen, but had picked up sufficient knowledge of the simpler parts of the trade to be able to get over it passably. These were paid fivepence or fivepence-halfpenny, and were employed in preference to those who had served their time, because the latter wanted more money and therefore were only employed when absolutely necessary. Besides the lightweights there were a few young fellows called improvers, who were also employed because they were cheap.
 Crass now acted as colourman, having been appointed possibly because he knew absolutely nothing about the laws of colour. As most of the work consisted of small jobs, all the paint and distemper was mixed up at the shop and sent out ready for use to the various jobs.
 Sawkins or some of the other lightweights generally carried the heavier lots of colour or scaffolding, but the smaller lots of colour or such things as a pair of steps or a painter’s plank were usually sent by the boy, whose slender legs had become quite bowed since he had been engaged helping the other philanthropists to make money for Mr Rushton.
 Crass’s work as colourman was simplified, to a certain extent, by the great number of specially prepared paints and distempers in all colours, supplied by the manufacturers ready for use. Most of these new-fangled concoctions were regarded with an eye of suspicion and dislike by the hands, and Philpot voiced the general opinion about them one day during a dinner-hour discussion when he said they might appear to be all right for a time, but they would probably not last, because they was mostly made of kimicles.
 One of these new-fashioned paints was called ‘Petrifying Liquid’, and was used for first-coating decaying stone or plaster work. It was also supposed to be used for thinning up a certain kind of patent distemper, but when Misery found out that it was possible to thin the latter with water, the use of ‘Petrifying Liquid’ for that purpose was discontinued. This ‘Petrifying Liquid’ was a source of much merriment to the hands. The name was applied to the tea that they made in buckets on some of the jobs, and also to the four-ale that was supplied by certain pubs.
 One of the new inventions was regarded with a certain amount of indignation by the hands: it was a white enamel, and they objected to it for two reasons - one was because, as Philpot remarked, it dried so quickly that you had to work like greased lightning; you had to be all over the door directly you started it.
 The other reason was that, because it dried so quickly, it was necessary to keep closed the doors and windows of the room where it was being used, and the smell was so awful that it brought on fits of dizziness and sometimes vomiting. Needless to say, the fact that it compelled those who used it to work quickly recommended the stuff to Misery.
 As for the smell, he did not care about that; be did not have to inhale the fumes himself.
 
 It was just about this time that Crass, after due consultation with several of the others, including Philpot, Harlow, Bundy, Slyme, Easton and the Semi-drunk, decided to call a meeting of the hands for the purpose of considering the advisability of holding the usual Beano later on in the summer. The meeting was held in the carpenter’s shop down at the yard one evening at six o’clock, which allowed time for those interested to attend after leaving work.
 The hands sat on the benches or carpenter’s stools, or reclined upon heaps of shavings. On a pair of tressels in the centre of the workshop stood a large oak coffin which Crass had just finished polishing.
 When all those who were expected to turn up had arrived, Payne, the foreman carpenter - the man who made the coffins - was voted to the chair on the proposition of Crass, seconded by Philpot, and then a solemn silence ensued, which was broken at last by the chairman, who, in a lengthy speech, explained the object of the meeting. Possibly with a laudable desire that there should be no mistake about it, he took the trouble to explain several times, going over the same ground and repeating the same words over and over again, whilst the audience waited in a deathlike and miserable silence for him to leave off. Payne, however, did not appear to have any intention of leaving off, for he continued, like a man in a trance, to repeat what he had said before, seeming to be under the impression that he had to make a separate explanation to each individual member of the audience. At last the crowd could stand it no longer, and began to shout ‘Hear, hear’ and to bang bits of wood and hammers on the floor and the benches; and then, after a final repetition of the statement, that the object of the meeting was to consider the advisability of holding an outing, or beanfeast, the chairman collapsed on to a carpenter’s stool and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
 Crass then reminded the meeting that the last year’s Beano had been an unqualified success, and for his part he would be very sorry if they did not have one this year. Last year they had four brakes, and they went to Tubberton Village.
 It was true that there was nothing much to see at Tubberton, but there was one thing they could rely on getting there that they could not be sure of getting for the same money anywhere else, and that was - a good feed. (Applause.) Just for the sake of getting on with the business, he would propose that they decide to go to Tubberton, and that a committee be appointed to make arrangements - about the dinner - with the landlord of the Queen Elizabeth’s Head at that place.
 Philpot seconded the motion, and Payne was about to call for a show of hands when Harlow rose to a point of order. It appeared to him that they were getting on a bit too fast. The proper way to do this business was first to take the feeling of the meeting as to whether they wished to have a Beano at all, and then, if the meeting was in favour of it, they could decide where they were to go, and whether they would have a whole day or only half a day.
 The Semi-drunk said that he didn’t care a dreadful expression where they went: he was willing to abide by the decision of the majority. (Applause.) It was a matter of indifference to him whether they had a day, or half a day, or two days; he was agreeable to anything.
 Easton suggested that a special saloon carriage might be engaged, and they could go and visit Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. He had never been to that place and had often wished to see it. But Philpot objected that if they went there, Madame Tussaud’s might be unwilling to let them out again.
 Bundy endorsed the remarks that had fallen from Crass with reference to Tubberton. He did not care where they went, they would never get such a good spread for the money as they did last year at the Queen Elizabeth. (Cheers.)
 The chairman said that. he remembered the last Beano very well. They had half a day - left off work on Saturday at twelve instead of one - so there was only one hour’s wages lost - they went home, had a wash and changed their clothes, and got up to the Cricketers, where the brakes was waiting, at one. Then they had the two hours’ drive to Tubberton, stopping on the way for drinks at the Blue Lion, the Warrior’s Head, the Bird in Hand, the Dewdrop Inn and the World Turned Upside Down. (Applause.) They arrived at the Queen Elizabeth at three-thirty, and the dinner was ready; and it was one of the finest blow-outs he had ever had. (Hear, hear.) There was soup, vegetables, roast beef, roast mutton, lamb and mint sauce, plum duff, Yorkshire, and a lot more. The landlord of the Elizabeth kept as good a drop of beer as anyone could wish to drink, and as for the teetotallers, they could have tea, coffee or ginger beer.
 Having thus made another start, Payne found it very difficult to leave off, and was proceeding to relate further details of the last Beano when Harlow again rose up from his heap of shavings and said he wished to call the chairman to order. (Hear, hear.) What the hell was the use of all this discussion before they h&d even decided to have a Beano at all! Was the meeting in favour of a Beano or not? That was the question.
 A prolonged and awkward silence followed. Everyone was very uncomfortable, looking stolidly on the ground or staring straight in front of them.
 At last Easton broke the silence by suggesting that it would not be a bad plan if someone was to make a motion that a Beano be held. This was greeted with a general murmur of ‘Hear, hear,’ followed by another awkward pause, and then the chairman asked Easton if he would move a resolution to that effect. After some hesitation, Easton agreed, and formally moved: ‘That this meeting is in favour of a Beano.’
 The Semi-drunk said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the resolution. But meantime, several arguments had broken out between the advocates of different places, and several men began to relate anecdotes of previous Beanos. Nearly everyone was speaking at once and it was some time before the chairman was able to put the resolution. Finding it impossible to make his voice heard above the uproar, he began to hammer on the bench with a wooden mallet, and to shout requests for order, but this only served to increase the din. Some of them looked at him curiously and wondered what was the matter with him, but the majority were so interested in their own arguments that they did not notice him at all.
 Whilst the chairman was trying to get the attention of the meeting in order to put the question, Bundy had become involved in an argument with several of the new hands who claimed to know of an even better place than the Queen Elizabeth, a pub called ‘The New Found Out’, at Mirkfield, a few miles further on than Tubberton, and another individual joined in the dispute, alleging that a house called ‘The Three Loggerheads’ at Slushton-cum-Dryditch was the finest place for a Beano within a hundred miles of Mugsborough. He went there last year with Pushem and Driver’s crowd, and they had roast beef, goose, jam tarts, mince pies, sardines, blancmange, calves’ feet jelly and one pint for each man was included in the cost of the dinner. In the middle of the discussion, they noticed that most of the others were holding up their hands, so to show there was no ill feeling they held up theirs also and then the chairman declared it was carried unanimously.
 Bundy said he would like to ask the chairman to read out the resolution which had just been passed, as he had not caught the words.
 The chairman replied that there was no written resolution. The motion was just to express the feeling of this meeting as to whether there was to be an outing or not.
 Bundy said he was only asking a civil question, a point of information: all he wanted to know was, what was the terms of the resolution? Was they in favour of the Beano or not?
 The chairman responded that the meeting was unanimously in favour. (Applause.)
 Harlow said that the next thing to be done was to decide upon the date. Crass suggested the last Saturday in August. That would give them plenty of time to pay in.
 Sawkins asked whether it was proposed to have a day or only half a day. He himself was in favour of the whole day. It would only mean losing a morning’s work. It was hardly worth going at all if they only had half the day.
 The Semi-drunk remarked that he had just thought of a very good place to go if they decided to have a change. Three years ago he was working for Dauber and Botchit and they went to ‘The First In and the Last Out’ at Bashford. It was a very small place, but there was a field where you could have a game of cricket or football, and the dinner was A1 at Lloyds. There was also a skittle alley attached to the pub and no charge was made for the use of it. There was a bit of a river there, and one of the chaps got so drunk that he went orf his onion and jumped into the water, and when they got him out the village policeman locked him up, and the next day he was took before the beak and fined two pounds or a month’s hard labour for trying to commit suicide.
 Easton pointed out that there was another way to look at it: supposing they decided to have the Beano, he supposed it would come to about six shillings a head. If they had it at the end of August and started paying in now, say a tanner a week, they would have plenty of time to make up the amount, but supposing the work fell off and some of them got the push?
 Crass said that in that case a man could either have his money back or he could leave it, and continue his payments even if he were working for some other firm; the fact that he was off from Rushton’s would not prevent him from going to the Beano.
 Harlow proposed that they decide to go to the Queen Elizabeth the same as last year, and that they have half a day.
 Philpot said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the resolution.
 Bundy suggested - as an amendment -. that it should be a whole day, starting from the Cricketers at nine in the morning, and Sawkins said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the amendment.
 One of the new hands said he wished to move another amendment. He proposed to strike out the Queen Elizabeth and substitute the Three Loggerheads.
 The Chairman - after a pause - inquired if there were any seconder to this, and the Semi-drunk said that, although he did not care much where they went, still, to get on with the business, he would second the amendment, although for his own part he would prefer to go to the ‘First In and Last Out’ at Bashford.
 The new hand offered to withdraw his suggestion re the Three Loggerheads in favour of the Semi-drunks proposition, but the latter said it didn’t matter; it could go as it was.
 As it was getting rather late, several men went home, and cries of ‘Put the question’ began to be heard on all sides; the chairman accordingly was proceeding to put Harlow’s proposition when the new hand interrupted him by pointing out that it was his duty as chairman to put the amendments first. This produced another long discussion, in the course of which a very tall, thin man who had a harsh, metallic voice gave a long rambling lecture about the rules of order and the conduct of public meetings. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, using very long words and dealing with the subject in an exhaustive manner. A resolution was a resolution, and an amendment was an amendment; then there was what was called an amendment to an amendment; the procedure of the House of Commons differed very materially from that of the House of Lords - and so on.
 This man kept on talking for about ten minutes, and might have continued for ten hours if he had not been rudely interrupted by Harlow, who said that it seemed to him that they were likely to stay there all night if they went on like they were going. He wanted his tea, and he would also like to get a few hours’ sleep before having to resume work in the morning. He was getting about sick of all this talk. (Hear, hear.) In order to get on with the business, he would withdraw his resolution if the others would withdraw their amendments. If they would agree to do this, he would then propose another resolution which - if carried - would meet all the requirements of the case. (Applause.)
 The man with the metallic voice observed that it was not necessary to ask the consent of those who had moved amendments: if the original proposition was withdrawed, all the amendments fell to the ground.
 ‘Last year,’ observed Crass, ‘when we was goin’ out of the room after we’d finished our dinner at the Queen Elizabeth, the landlord pointed to the table and said, "There’s enough left over for you all to ’ave another lot."’ (Cheers.)
 Harlow said that he would move that it be held on the last Saturday in August; that it be for half a day, starting at one o’clock so that they could work up till twelve, which would mean that they would only have to lose one hour’s pay: that they go to the same place as last year - the Queen Elizabeth. (Hear, hear.) That the same committee that acted last year - Crass and Bundy - be appointed to make all the arrangements and collect the subscriptions. (Applause.)
 The tall man observed that this was what was called a compound resolution, and was proceeding to explain further when the chairman exclaimed that it did not matter a dam’ what it was called - would anyone second it? The Semi-drunk said that he would - in order to get on with the business.
 Bundy moved, and Sawkins seconded, as an amendment, that it should be a whole day.
 The new hand moved to substitute the Loggerheads for the Queen Elizabeth.
 Easton proposed to substitute Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks for the Queen Elizabeth. He said he moved this just to test the feeling of the meeting.
 Harlow pointed out that it would cost at least a pound a head to defray the expenses of such a trip. The railway fares, tram fares in London, meals - for it would be necessary to have a whole day - and other incidental expenses; to say nothing of the loss of wages. It would not be possible for any of them to save the necessary amount during the next four months. (Hear, hear.)
 Philpot repeated his warning as to the danger of visiting Madame Tussaud’s. He was certain that if she once got them in there she would never let them out again. He had no desire to pass the rest of his life as an image in a museum.
 One of the new hands - a man with a red tie - said that they would look well, after having been soaked for a month or two in petrifying liquid, chained up in the Chamber of Horrors with labels round their necks - ‘Specimens of Liberal and Conservative upholders of the Capitalist System, 20 century’.
 Crass protested against the introduction of politics into that meeting. (Hear, hear.) The remarks of the last speakers were most uncalled-for.
 Easton said that he would withdraw his amendment.
 Acting under the directions of the man with the metallic voice, the chairman now proceeded to put the amendment to the vote. Bundy’s proposal that it should be a whole day was defeated, only himself, Sawkins and the Semi-drunk being in favour. The motion to substitute the Loggerheads for the Queen Elizabeth was also defeated, and the compound resolution proposed by Harlow was then carried nem. con.
 Philpot now proposed a hearty vote of thanks to the chairman for the very able manner in which he had conducted the meeting. When this had been unanimously agreed to, the Semi-drunk moved a similar tribute of gratitude to Crass for his services to the cause and the meeting dispersed.
 
 Chapter 42
 June
  During the early part of May the weather was exceptionally bad, with bitterly cold winds. Rain fell nearly every day, covering the roads with a slush that penetrated the rotten leather of the cheap or second-hand boots worn by the workmen. This weather had the effect of stopping nearly all outside work, and also caused a lot of illness, for those who were so fortunate as to have inside jobs frequently got wet through on their way to work in the morning and had to work all day in damp clothing, and with their boots saturated with water. It was also a source of trouble to those of the men who had allotments, because if it had been fine they would have been able to do something to their gardens while they were out of work.
 Newman had not succeeded in getting a job at the trade since he came out of prison, but he tried to make a little money by hawking bananas. Philpot - when he was at work - used often to buy a tanner’s or a bob’s worth from him and give them to Mrs Linden’s children. On Saturdays Old Joe used to waylay these children and buy them bags of cakes at the bakers. One week when he knew that Mrs Linden had not had much work to do, he devised a very cunning scheme to help her. He had been working with Slyme, who was papering a large boarded ceiling in a shop. It had to be covered with unbleached calico before it could be papered and when the work was done there were a number of narrow pieces of calico left over. These he collected and tore into strips about six inches wide which he took round to Mrs Linden, and asked her to sew them together, end to end, so as to make one long strip: then this long strip had to be cut into four pieces of equal length and the edges sewn together in such a manner that it would form a long tube. Philpot told her that it was required for some work that Rushton’s were doing, and said he had undertaken to get the sewing done. The firm would have to pay for it, so she could charge a good price.
 ‘You see,’ he said with a wink, ‘this is one of those jobs where we gets a chance to get some of our own back.’
 Mary thought it was rather a strange sort of job, but she did as Philpot directed and when he came for the stuff and asked how much it was she said threepence: it had only taken about half an hour. Philpot ridiculed this: it was not nearly enough. THEY were not supposed to know how long it took: it ought to be a bob at the very least. So, after some hesitation she made out a bill for that amount on a half-sheet of note-paper. He brought her the money the next Saturday afternoon and went off chuckling to himself over the success of the scheme. It did not occur to him until the next day that he might just as well have got her to make him an apron or two: and when he did think of this he said that after all it didn’t matter, because if he had done that it would have been necessary to buy new calico, and anyhow, it could be done some other time.
 Newman did not make his fortune out of the bananas - seldom more than two shillings a day - and consequently he was very glad when Philpot called at his house one evening and told him there was a chance of a job at Rushton’s. Newman accordingly went to the yard the next morning, taking his apron and blouse and his bag of tools with him, ready to start work. He got there at about quarter to six and was waiting outside when Hunter arrived. The latter was secretly very glad to see him, for there was a rush of work in and they were short of men. He did not let this appear, of course, but hesitated for a few minutes when Newman repeated the usual formula: ‘Any chance of a job, sir?’
 ‘We wasn’t at all satisfied with you last time you was on, you know,’ said Misery. ‘Still, I don’t mind giving you another chance. But if you want to hold your job you’ll have to move yourself a bit quicker than you did before.’
 Towards the end of the month things began to improve all round. The weather became finer and more settled. As time went on the improvement was maintained and nearly everyone was employed. Rushton’s were so busy that they took on several other old hands who had been sacked the previous year for being too slow.
 Thanks to the influence of Crass, Easton was now regarded as one of the regular hands. He had recently resumed the practice of spending some of his evenings at the Cricketers. It is probable that even if it had not been for his friendship with Crass, he would still have continued to frequent the public house, for things were not very comfortable at home. Somehow or other, Ruth and he seemed to be always quarrelling, and he was satisfied that it was not always his fault. Sometimes, after the day’s work was over he would go home resolved to be good friends with her: he would plan on his way homewards to suggest to her that they should have their tea and then go out for a walk with the child. Once or twice she agreed, but on each occasion, they quarrelled before they got home again. So after a time he gave up trying to be friends with her and went out by himself every evening as soon as he had had his tea.
 Mary Linden, who was still lodging with them, could not help perceiving their unhappiness: she frequently noticed that Ruth’s eyes were red and swollen as if with crying, and she gently sought to gain her confidence, but without success. On one occasion when Mary was trying to advise her, Ruth burst out into a terrible fit of weeping, but she would not say what was the cause - except that her head was aching - she was not well, that was all.
 Sometimes Easton passed the evening at the Cricketers but frequently he went over to the allotments, where Harlow had a plot of ground. Harlow used to get up about four o’clock in the morning and put in an hour or so at his garden before going to work; and every evening as soon as he had finished tea he used to go there again and work till it was dark. Sometimes he did not go home to tea at all, but went straight from work to the garden, and his children used to bring his tea to him there in a glass bottle, with something to eat in a little basket. He had four children, none of whom were yet old enough to go to work, and as may be imagined, he found it a pretty hard struggle to live. He was not a teetotaller, but as he often remarked, ‘what the publicans got from him wouldn’t make them very fat’, for he often went for weeks together without tasting the stuff, except a glass or two with the Sunday dinner, which he did not regard as an unnecessary expense, because it was almost as cheap as tea or coffee.
 Fortunately his wife was a good needlewoman, and as sober and industrious as himself; by dint of slaving incessantly from morning till night she managed to keep her home fairly comfortable and the children clean and decently dressed; they always looked respectable, although they did not always have enough proper food to eat. They looked so respectable that none of the ‘visiting ladies’ ever regarded them as deserving cases.
 Harlow paid fifteen shillings a year for his plot of ground, and although it meant a lot of hard work it was also a source of pleasure and some profit. He generally made a few shillings out of the flowers, besides having enough potatoes and other vegetables to last them nearly all the year.
 Sometimes Easton went over to the allotments and lent Harlow a hand with this gardening work, but whether he went there or to the Cricketers, he usually returned home about half past nine, and then went straight to bed, often without speaking a single word to Ruth, who for her part seldom spoke to him except to answer something he said, or to ask some necessary question. At first, Easton used to think that it was all because of the way he had behaved to her in the public house, but when he apologized - as he did several times - and begged her to forgive him and forget about it, she always said it was all right; there was nothing to forgive. Then, after a time, he began to think it was on account of their poverty and the loss of their home, for nearly all their furniture had been sold during the last winter. But whenever he talked of trying to buy some more things to make the place comfortable again, she did not appear to take any interest: the house was neat enough as it was: they could manage very well, she said, indifferently.
 One evening, about the middle of June, when he had been over to the allotments, Easton brought her home a bunch of flowers that Harlow had given him - some red and white roses and some pansies. When he came in, Ruth was packing his food basket for the next day. The baby was asleep in its cot on the floor near the window. Although it was nearly nine o’clock the lamp had not yet been lighted and the mournful twilight that entered the room through the open window increased the desolation of its appearance. The fire had burnt itself out and the grate was filled with ashes. On the hearth was an old rug made of jute that had once been printed in bright colours which had faded away till the whole surface had become almost uniformly drab, showing scarcely any trace of the original pattern. The rest of the floor was bare except for two or three small pieces of old carpet that Ruth had bought for a few pence at different times at some inferior second-hand shop. The chairs and the table were almost the only things that were left of the original furniture of the room, and except for three or four plates of different patterns and sizes and a few cups and saucers, the shelves of the dresser were bare.
 The stillness of the atmosphere was disturbed only by the occasional sound of the wheels of a passing vehicle and the strangely distinct voices of some children who were playing in the street.
 ‘I’ve brought you these,’ said Easton, offering her the flowers. ‘I thought you’d like them. I got them from Harlow. You know I’ve been helping him a little with his garden.’
 At first he thought she did not want to take them. She was standing at the table with her back to the window, so that he was unable to see the expression of her face, and she hesitated for a moment before she faltered out some words of thanks and took the flowers, which she put down on the table almost as soon as she touched them.
 Offended at what he considered her contemptuous indifference, Easton made no further attempt at conversation but went into the scullery to wash his hands, and then went up to bed.
 Downstairs, for a long time after he was gone, Ruth sat alone by the fireless grate, in the silence and the gathering shadows, holding the bunch of flowers in her hand, living over again the events of the last year, and consumed with an agony of remorse.
 The presence of Mary Linden and the two children in the house probably saved Ruth from being more unhappy than she was. Little Elsie had made an arrangement with her to be allowed to take the baby out for walks, and in return Ruth did Elsie’s housework. As for Mary, she had not much time to do anything but sew, almost the only relaxation she knew being when she took the work home, and on Sunday, which she usually devoted to a general clean-up of the room, and to mending the children’s clothes. Sometimes on Sunday evening she used to go with Ruth and the children to see Mrs Owen, who, although she was not ill enough to stay in bed, seldom went out of the house. She had never really recovered from the attack of illness which was brought on by her work at the boarding house. The doctor had been to see her once or twice and had prescribed - rest. She was to lie down as much as possible, not to do any heavy work - not to carry or lift any heavy articles, scrub floors, make beds, or anything of that sort: and she was to take plenty of nourishing food, beef tea, chicken, a little wine and so on. He did not suggest a trip round the world in a steam yacht or a visit to Switzerland - perhaps he thought they might not be able to afford it. Sometimes she was so ill that she had to observe one at least of the doctor’s instructions - to lie down: and then she would worry and fret because she was not able to do the housework and because Owen had to prepare his own tea when he came home at night. On one of these occasions it would have been necessary for Owen to stay at home from work if it had not been for Mrs Easton, who came for several days in succession to look after her and attend to the house.
 Fortunately, Owen’s health was better since the weather had become warmer. For a long time after the attack of haemorrhage he had while writing the show-card he used to dread going to sleep at night for fear it should recur. He had heard of people dying in their sleep from that cause. But this terror gradually left him. Nora knew nothing of what occurred that night: to have told her would have done no good, but on the contrary would have caused her a lot of useless anxiety. Sometimes he doubted whether it was right not to tell her, but as time went by and his health continued to improve he was glad he had said nothing about it.
 Frankie had lately resumed his athletic exercises with the flat iron: his strength was returning since Owen had been working regularly, because he had been having his porridge and milk again and also some Parrish’s Food which a chemist at Windley was selling large bottles of for a shilling. He used to have what he called a ‘party’ two or three times a week with Elsie, Charley and Easton’s baby as the guests. Sometimes, if Mrs Owen were not well, Elsie used to stay in with her after tea and do some housework while the boys went out to play, but more frequently the four children used to go together to the park to play or sail boats on the lake. Once one of the boats was becalmed about a couple of yards from shore and while trying to reach it with a stick Frankie fell into the water, and when Charley tried to drag him out he fell in also. Elsie put the baby down on the bank and seized hold of Charley and while she was trying to get him out, the baby began rolling down, and would probably have tumbled in as well if a man who happened to be passing by had not rushed up in time to prevent it. Fortunately the water at that place was only about two feet deep, so the boys were not much the worse for their ducking. They returned home wet through, smothered with mud, and feeling very important, like boys who had distinguished themselves.
 After this, whenever she could manage to spare the time, Ruth Easton used to go with the children to the park. There was a kind of summer-house near the shore of the lake, only a few feet away from the water’s edge, surrounded and shaded by trees, whose branches arched over the path and drooped down to the surface of the water. While the children played Ruth used to sit in this arbour and sew, but often her work was neglected and forgotten as she gazed pensively at the water, which just there looked very still, and dark, and deep, for it was sheltered from the wind and over-shadowed by the trees that lined the banks at the end of the lake.
 
 Sometimes, if it happened to be raining, instead of going out the children used to have some games in the house. On one such occasion Frankie produced the flat iron and went through the exercise, and Charley had a go as well. But although he was slightly older and taller than Frankie he could not lift the iron so often or hold it out so long as the other, a failure that Frankie attributed to the fact that Charley had too much tea and bread and butter instead of porridge and milk and Parrish’s Food. Charley was so upset about his lack of strength that he arranged with Frankie to come home with him the next day after school to see his mother about it. Mrs Linden had a flat iron, so they gave a demonstration of their respective powers before her. Mrs Easton being also present, by request, because Frankie said that the diet in question was suitable for babies as well as big children. He had been brought up on it ever since he could remember, and it was almost as cheap as bread and butter and tea.
 The result of the exhibition was that Mrs Linden promised to make porridge for Charley and Elsie whenever she could spare the time, and Mrs Easton said she would try it for the baby also.
 
 Chapter 43:  The Good Old Summer-time
  All through the summer the crowd of ragged-trousered philanthropists continued to toil and sweat at their noble and unselfish task of making money for Mr Rushton.
 Painting the outsides of houses and shops, washing off and distempering ceilings, stripping old paper off walls, painting and papering rooms and staircases, building new rooms or other additions to old houses or business premises, digging up old drains, repairing leaky roofs and broken windows.
 Their zeal and enthusiasm in the good cause was unbounded. They were supposed to start work at six o’clock, but most of them were usually to be found waiting outside the job at about a quarter to that hour, sitting on the kerbstones or the doorstep.
 Their operations extended all over the town: at all hours of the day they were to be seen either going or returning from ‘jobs’, carrying ladders, planks, pots of paint, pails of whitewash, earthenware, chimney pots, drainpipes, lengths of guttering, closet pans, grates, bundles of wallpaper, buckets of paste, sacks of cement, and loads of bricks and mortar. Quite a common spectacle - for gods and men - was a procession consisting of a handcart loaded up with such materials being pushed or dragged through the public streets by about half a dozen of these Imperialists in broken boots and with battered, stained, discoloured bowler hats, or caps splashed with paint and whitewash; their stand-up collars dirty, limp and crumpled, and their rotten second-hand misfit clothing saturated with sweat and plastered with mortar.
 Even the assistants in the grocers’ and drapers’ shops laughed and ridiculed and pointed the finger of scorn at them as they passed.
 The superior classes - those who do nothing - regarded them as a sort of lower animals. A letter appeared in the Obscurer one week from one of these well-dressed loafers, complaining of the annoyance caused to the better-class visitors by workmen walking on the pavement as they passed along the Grand Parade in the evening on their way home from work, and suggesting that they should walk in the roadway. When they heard of the letter a lot of the workmen adopted the suggestion and walked in the road so as to avoid contaminating the idlers.
 This letter was followed by others of a somewhat similar kind, and one or two written in a patronizing strain in defence of the working classes by persons who evidently knew nothing about them. There was also a letter from an individual who signed himself ‘Morpheus’ complaining that he was often awakened out of his beauty sleep in the middle of the night by the clattering noise of the workmen’s boots as they passed his house on their way to work in the morning. ‘Morpheus’ wrote that not only did they make a dreadful noise with their horrible iron-clad boots, but they were in the habit of coughing and spitting a great deal, which was very unpleasant to hear, and they conversed in loud tones. Sometimes their conversation was not at all edifying, for it consisted largely of bad language, which ‘Morpheus’ assumed to be attributable to the fact that they were out of temper because they had to rise so early.
 As a rule they worked till half-past five in the evening, and by the time they reached home it was six o’clock. When they had taken their evening meal and had a wash it was nearly eight: about nine most of them went to bed so as to be able to get up about half past four the next morning to make a cup of tea before leaving home at half past five to go to work again. Frequently it happened that they had to leave home earlier than this, because their ‘job’ was more than half an hour’s walk away. It did not matter how far away the ‘job’ was from the shop, the men had to walk to and fro in their own time, for Trades Union rules were a dead letter in Mugsborough. There were no tram fares or train fares or walking time allowed for the likes of them.
 Ninety-nine out of every hundred of them did not believe in such things as those: they had much more sense than to join Trades Unions: on the contrary, they believed in placing themselves entirely at the mercy of their good, kind Liberal and Tory masters.
 Very frequently it happened, when only a few men were working together, that it was not convenient to make tea for breakfast or dinner, and then some of them brought tea with them ready made in bottles and drank it cold; but most of them went to the nearest pub and ate their food there with a glass of beer. Even those who would rather have had tea or coffee had beer, because if they went to a temperance restaurant or coffee tavern it generally happened that they were not treated very civilly unless they bought something to eat as well as to drink, and the tea at such places was really dearer than beer, and the latter was certainly quite as good to drink as the stewed tea or the liquid mud that was sold as coffee at cheap ‘Workmen’s’ Eating Houses.
 There were some who were - as they thought - exceptionally lucky: the firms they worked for were busy enough to let them work two hours’ overtime every night - till half past seven - without stopping for tea. Most of these arrived home about eight, completely flattened out. Then they had some tea and a wash and before they knew where they were it was about half past nine. Then they went to sleep again till half past four or five the next morning.
 They were usually so tired when they got home at night that they never had any inclination for study or any kind of self-improvement, even if they had had the time. They had plenty of time to study during the winter: and their favourite subject then was, how to preserve themselves from starving to death.
 This overtime, however, was the exception, for although in former years it had been the almost invariable rule to work till half past seven in summer, most of the firms now made a practice of ceasing work at five-thirty. The revolution which had taken place in this matter was a favourite topic of conversation amongst the men, who spoke regretfully of the glorious past, when things were busy, and they used to work fifteen, sixteen and even eighteen hours a day. But nowadays there were nearly as many chaps out of work in the summer as in the winter. They used to discuss the causes of the change. One was, of course, the fact that there was not so much building going on as formerly, and another was the speeding up and slave-driving, and the manner in which the work was now done, or rather scamped. As old Philpot said, he could remember the time, when he was a nipper, when such a ‘job’ as that at ‘The Cave’ would have lasted at least six months, and they would have had more hands on it too! But it would have been done properly, not messed up like that was: all the woodwork would have been rubbed down with pumice stone and water: all the knots cut out and the holes properly filled up, and the work properly rubbed down with glass-paper between every coat. But nowadays the only place you’d see a bit of pumice stone was in a glass case in a museum, with a label on it.
  ‘Pumice Stone: formerly used by house-painters.’
 Most of them spoke of those bygone times with poignant regret, but there were a few - generally fellows who had been contaminated by contact with Socialists or whose characters had been warped and degraded by the perusal of Socialist literature - who said that they did not desire to work overtime at all - ten hours a day were quite enough for them - in fact they would rather do only eight. What they wanted, they said, was not more work, but more grub, more clothes, more leisure, more pleasure and better homes. They wanted to be able to go for country walks or bicycle rides, to go out fishing or to go to the seaside and bathe and lie on the beach and so forth. But these were only a very few; there were not many so selfish as this. The majority desired nothing but to be allowed to work, and as for their children, why, ‘what was good enough for themselves oughter be good enough for the kids’.
 They often said that such things as leisure, culture, pleasure and the benefits of civilization were never intended for ‘the likes of us’.
 They did not - all - actually say this, but that was what their conduct amounted to; for they not only refused to help to bring about a better state of things for their children, but they ridiculed and opposed and cursed and abused those who were trying to do it for them. The foulest words that came out of their mouths were directed against the men of their own class in the House of Commons - the Labour Members - and especially the Socialists, whom they spoke of as fellows who were too bloody lazy to work for a living, and who wanted the working classes to keep them.
 Some of them said that they did not believe in helping their children to become anything better than their parents had been because in such cases the children, when they grew up, ‘looked down’ upon and were ashamed of their fathers and mothers! They seemed to think that if they loved and did their duty to their children, the probability was that the children would prove ungrateful: as if even if that were true, it would be any excuse for their indifference.
 Another cause of the shortage of work was the intrusion into the trade of so many outsiders: fellows like Sawkins and the other lightweights. Whatever other causes there were, there could be no doubt that the hurrying and scamping was a very real one. Every ‘job’ had to be done at once! as if it were a matter of life or death! It must be finished by a certain time. If the ‘job’ was at an empty house, Misery’s yarn was that it was let! the people were coming in at the end of the week! therefore everything must be finished by Wednesday night. All the ceilings had to be washed off, the walls stripped and repapered, and two coats of paint inside and outside the house. New drains were to be put in, and all broken windows and locks and broken plaster repaired. A number of men - usually about half as many as there should have been - would be sent to do the work, and one man was put in charge of the ‘job’. These sub-foremen or ‘coddies’ knew that if they ‘made their jobs pay’ they would be put in charge of others and be kept on in preference to other men as long as the firm had any work; so they helped Misery to scheme and scamp the work and watched and drove the men under their charge; and these latter poor wretches, knowing that their only chance of retaining their employment was to ‘tear into it’, tore into it like so many maniacs. Instead of cleaning any parts of the woodwork that were greasy or very dirty, they brushed them over with a coat of spirit varnish before painting to make sure that the paint would dry: places where the plaster of the walls was damaged were repaired with what was humorously called ‘garden cement’ - which was the technical term for dirt out of the garden - and the surface was skimmed over with proper material. Ceilings that were not very dirty were not washed off, but dusted, and lightly gone over with a thin coat of whitewash. The old paper was often left upon the wails of rooms that were supposed to be stripped before being repapered, and to conceal this the joints of the old paper were rubbed down so that they should not be perceptible through the new paper. As far as possible, Misery and the sub-foreman avoided doing the work the customers paid for, and even what little they did was hurried over anyhow.
 
 A reign of terror - the terror of the sack - prevailed on all the ‘jobs’, which were carried on to the accompaniment of a series of alarums and excursions: no man felt safe for a moment: at the most unexpected times Misery would arrive and rush like a whirlwind all over the ‘job’. If he happened to find a man having a spell the culprit was immediately discharged, but he did not get the opportunity of doing this very often for everybody was too terrified to leave off working even for a few minutes’ rest.
 From the moment of Hunter’s arrival until his departure, a state of panic, hurry, scurry and turmoil reigned. His strident voice rang through the house as he bellowed out to them to ‘Rouse themselves! Get it done! Smear it on anyhow! Tar it over! We’ve got another job to start when you’ve done this!’
 Occasionally, just to keep the others up to concert pitch, he used to sack one of the men for being too slow. They all trembled before him and ran about whenever he spoke to or called them, because they knew that there were always a lot of other men out of work who would be willing and eager to fill their places if they got the sack.
 Although it was now summer, and the Distress Committee and all the other committees had suspended operations, there was still always a large number of men hanging about the vicinity of the Fountain on the Parade - The Wage Slave Market. When men finished up for the firm they were working for they usually made for that place. Any master in want of a wage slave for a few hours, days or weeks could always buy one there. The men knew this and they also knew that if they got the sack from one firm it was no easy matter to get another job, and that was why they were terrified.
 When Misery was gone - to repeat the same performance at some other job - the sub-foreman would have a crawl round to see how the chaps were getting on: to find out if they had used up all their paint yet, or to bring them some putty so that they should not have to leave their work to go to get anything themselves: and then very often Rushton himself would come and stalk quietly about the house or stand silently behind the men, watching them as they worked. He seldom spoke to anyone, but just stood there like a graven image, or walked about like a dumb animal - a pig, as the men used to say. This individual had a very exalted idea of his own importance and dignity. One man got the sack for presuming to stop him in the street to ask some questions about some work that was being done.
 Misery went round to all the jobs the next day and told all the ‘coddies’ to tell all the hands that they were never to speak to Mr Rushton if they met him in the street, and the following Saturday the man who had so offended was given his back day, ostensibly because there was nothing for him to do, but really for the reason stated above.
 There was one job, the outside of a large house that stood on elevated ground overlooking the town. The men who were working there were even more than usually uncomfortable, for it was said that Rushton used to sit in his office and watch them through a telescope.
 Sometimes, when it was really necessary to get a job done by a certain time, they had to work late, perhaps till eight or nine o’clock. No time was allowed for tea, but some of them brought sufficient food with them in the morning to enable them to have a little about six o’clock in the evening. Others arranged for their children to bring them some tea from home. As a rule, they partook of this without stopping work: they had it on the floor beside them and ate and drank and worked at the same time - a paint-brushful of white lead in one hand, and a piece of bread and margarine in the other. On some jobs, if the ‘coddy’ happened to be a decent sort, they posted a sentry to look out for Hunter or Rushton while the others knocked off for a few minutes to snatch a mouthful of grub; but it was not safe always to do this, for there was often some crawling sneak with an ambition to become a ‘coddy’ who would not scruple to curry favour with Misery by reporting the crime.
 As an additional precaution against the possibility of any of the men idling or wasting their time, each one was given a time-sheet on which he was required to account for every minute of the day. The form of these sheets vary slightly with different firms: that of Rushton & Co., was as shown.

  TIME SHEET OF WORK DONE BY IN THE EMPLOY OF RUSHTON & CO BUILDERS & DECORATORS :MUGSBOROUGH
  NO SMOKING OR INTOXICANTS ALLOWED DURING WORKING HOURS
  EACH PIECE OF WORK MUST BE FULLY DESCRIBED, WHAT IT WAS, AND HOW LONG IT TOOK TO DO.
 ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— | | Time When | Time When | | | Where Working | Started | Finished | Hours | What Doing ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— Sat | | | | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— Mon | | | | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— Tues | | | | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— Wed | | | | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— Thur | | | | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— Fri | | | | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+—————— | | Total Hours | | ——-+———————-+—————-+—————-+———-+——————

 One Monday morning Misery gave each of the sub-foremen an envelope containing one of the firm s memorandum forms. Crass opened his and found the following:
 Crass
 When you are on a job with men under you, check and initial their time-sheets every night.
 If they are called away and sent to some other job, or stood off, check and initial their time-sheets as they leave your job.
 Any man coming on your job during the day, you must take note of the exact time of his arrival, and see that his sheet is charged right.
 Any man who is slow or lazy, or any man that you notice talking more than is necessary during working hours, you must report him to Mr Hunter. We expect you and the other foremen to help us to carry out these rules, AND ANY INFORMATION GIVEN US ABOUT ANY MAN IS TREATED IN CONFIDENCE.
 Rushton & Co.
 Note: This applies to all men of all trades who come on the jobs of which you are the foreman.
 
 Every week the time-sheets were scrutinized, and every now and then a man would be ‘had up on the carpet’ in the office before Rushton and Misery, and interrogated as to why he had taken fifteen hours to do ten hours work? In the event of the accused being unable to give a satisfactory explanation of his conduct he was usually sacked on the spot.
 Misery was frequently called ‘up on the carpet’ himself.
 If he made a mistake in figuring out a ‘job’, and gave in too high a tender for it, so that the firm did not get the work, Rushton grumbled. If the price was so low that there was not enough profit, Rushton was very unpleasant about it, and whenever it happened that there was not only no profit but an actual loss, Rushton created such a terrible disturbance that Misery was nearly frightened to death and used to get on his bicycle and rush off to the nearest ‘job’ and howl and bellow at the ‘chaps’ to get it done.
 All the time the capabilities of the men - especially with regard to speed - were carefully watched and noted: and whenever there was a slackness of work and it was necessary to discharge some hands those that were slow or took too much pains were weeded out: this of course was known to the men and it had the desired effect upon them.
 In justice to Rushton and Hunter, it must be remembered that there was a certain amount of excuse for all this driving and cheating, because they had to compete with all the other firms, who conducted their business in precisely the same way. It was not their fault, but the fault of the system.
 A dozen firms tendered for every ‘job’, and of course the lowest tender usually obtained the work. Knowing this, they all cut the price down to the lowest possible figure and the workmen had to suffer.
 The trouble was that there were too many ‘masters’. It would have been far better for the workmen if nine out of every ten of the employers had never started business. Then the others would have been able to get a better price for their work, and the men might have had better wages and conditions. The hands, however, made no such allowances or excuses as these for Misery and Rushton. They never thought or spoke of them except with hatred and curses. But whenever either of them came to the ‘job’ the ‘coddies’ cringed and grovelled before them, greeting them with disgustingly servile salutations, plentifully interspersed with the word ‘Sir’, greetings which were frequently either ignored altogether or answered with an inarticulate grunt. They said ‘Sir’ at nearly every second word: it made one feel sick to hear them because it was not courtesy: they were never courteous to each other, it was simply abject servility and self-contempt.
 One of the results of all the frenzied hurrying was that every now and then there was an accident: somebody got hurt: and it was strange that accidents were not more frequent, considering the risk, that were taken. When they happened to be working on ladders in busy streets they were not often allowed to have anyone to stand at the foot, and the consequence was that all sorts and conditions of people came into violent collision with the bottoms of the ladders. Small boys playing in the reckless manner characteristic of their years rushed up against them. Errand boys, absorbed in the perusal of penny instalments of the adventures of Claude Duval, and carrying large baskets of green-groceries, wandered into them. Blind men fell foul of them. Adventurous schoolboys climbed up them. People with large feet became entangled in them. Fat persons of both sexes who thought it unlucky to walk underneath, tried to negotiate the narrow strip of pavement between the foot of the ladder and the kerb, and in their passage knocked up against the ladder and sometimes fell into the road. Nursemaids wheeling perambulators - lolling over the handle, which they usually held with their left hands, the right holding a copy of Orange Blossoms or some halfpenny paper, and so interested in the story of the Marquis of Lymejuice - a young man of noble presence and fabulous wealth, with a drooping golden moustache and very long legs, who, notwithstanding the diabolical machinations of Lady Sibyl Malvoise, who loves him as well as a woman with a name like that is capable of loving anyone, is determined to wed none other than the scullery-maid at the Village Inn - inevitably bashed the perambulators into the ladders. Even when the girls were not reading they nearly always ran into the ladders, which seemed to possess a magnetic attraction for perambulators and go-carts of all kinds, whether propelled by nurses or mothers. Sometimes they would advance very cautiously towards the ladder: then, when they got very near, hesitate a little whether to go under or run the risk of falling into the street by essaying the narrow passage: then they would get very close up to the foot of the ladder, and dodge and dance about, and give the cart little pushes from side to side, until at last the magnetic influence exerted itself and the perambulator crashed into the ladder, perhaps at the very moment that the man at the top was stretching out to do some part of the work almost beyond his reach.
 Once Harlow had just started painting some rainpipes from the top of a 40-ft ladder when one of several small boys who were playing in the street ran violently against the foot. Harlow was so startled that he dropped his brushes and clutched wildly at the ladder, which turned completely round and slid about six feet along the parapet into the angle of the wall, with Harlow hanging beneath by his hands. The paint pot was hanging by a hook from one of the rungs, and the jerk scattered the brown paint it contained all over Harlow and all over the brickwork of the front of the house. He managed to descend safely by clasping his legs round the sides of the ladder and sliding down. When Misery came there was a row about what he called carelessness. And the next day Harlow had to wear his Sunday trousers to work.
 On another occasion they were painting the outside of a house called ‘Gothic Lodge’. At one corner it had a tower surmounted by a spire or steeple, and this steeple terminated with an ornamental wrought-iron pinnacle which had to be painted. The ladder they had was not quite long enough, and besides that, as it had to stand in a sort of a courtyard at the base of the tower, it was impossible to slant it sufficiently: instead of lying along the roof of the steeple, it was sticking up in the air.
 When Easton went up to paint the pinnacle he had to stand on almost the very top rung of the ladder, to be exact, the third from the top, and lean over to steady himself by holding on to the pinnacle with his left hand while he used the brush with his right. As it was only about twenty minutes’ work there were two men to hold the foot of the ladder.
 It was cheaper to do it this way than to rig up a proper scaffold, which would have entailed perhaps two hours’ work for two or three men. Of course it was very dangerous, but that did not matter at all, because even if the man fell it would make no difference to the firm - all the men were insured and somehow or other, although they frequently had narrow escapes, they did not often come to grief.
 On this occasion, just as Easton was finishing he felt the pinnacle that he was holding on to give way, and he got such a fright that his heart nearly stopped beating. He let go his hold and steadied himself on the ladder as well as he was able, and when he had descended three or four steps - into comparative safety - he remained clinging convulsively to the ladder and feeling so limp that he was unable to go down any further for several minutes. When he arrived at the bottom and the others noticed how white and trembling he was, he told them about the pinnacle being loose, and the ‘coddy’ coming along just then, they told him about it, and suggested that it should be repaired, as otherwise it might fall down and hurt someone: but the ‘coddy’ was afraid that if they reported it they might be blamed for breaking it, and the owner might expect the firm to put it right for nothing, so they decided to say nothing about it. The pinnacle is stilt on the apex of the steeple waiting for a sufficiently strong wind to blow it down on somebody’s head.
 When the other men heard of Easton’s ‘narrow shave’, most of them said that it would have served him bloody well right if he had fallen and broken his neck: he should have refused to go up at all without a proper scaffold. That was what THEY would have done. If Misery or the coddy had ordered any of THEM to go up and paint the pinnacle off that ladder, they would have chucked their tools down and demanded their ha’pence!
 That was what they said, but somehow or other it never happened that any of them ever ‘chucked their tools down’ at all, although such dangerous jobs were of very frequent occurrence.
 The scamping business was not confined to houses or properties of an inferior class: it was the general rule. Large good-class houses, villas and mansions, the residences of wealthy people, were done in exactly the same way. Generally in such places costly and beautiful materials were spoilt in the using.
 There was a large mansion where the interior woodwork - the doors, windows and staircase - had to be finished in white enamel. It was rather an old house and the woodwork needed rubbing down and filling up before being repainted, but of course there was not time for that, so they painted it without properly preparing it and when it was enamelled the rough, uneven surface of the wood looked horrible: but the owner appeared quite satisfied because it was nice and shiny. The dining-room of the same house was papered with a beautiful and expensive plush paper. The ground of this wall-hanging was made to imitate crimson watered silk, and it was covered with a raised pattern in plush of the same colour. The price marked on the back of this paper in the pattern book was eighteen shillings a roll. Slyme was paid sixpence a roll for hanging it: the room took ten rolls, so it cost nine pounds for the paper and five shillings to hang it! To fix such a paper as this properly the walls should first be done with a plain lining paper of the same colour as the ground of the wallpaper itself, because unless the paperhanger ‘lapps’ the joints - which should not be done - they are apt to open a little as the paper dries and to show the white wall underneath - Slyme suggested this lining to Misery, who would not entertain the idea for a moment - they had gone to quite enough expense as it was, stripping the old paper off!
 So Slyme went ahead, and as he had to make his wages, he could not spend a great deal of time over it. Some of the joints were ‘lapped’ and some were butted, and two or three weeks after the owner of the house moved in, as the paper became more dry, the joints began to open and to show the white plaster of the wall, and then Owen had to go there with a small pot of crimson paint and a little brush, and touch out the white line.
 While he was doing this he noticed and touched up a number of other faults; places where Slyme - in his haste to get the work done - had slobbered and smeared the face of the paper with fingermarks and paste.
 The same ghastly mess was made of several other ‘jobs’ besides this one, and presently they adopted the plan of painting strips of colour on the wall in the places where the joints would come, so that if they opened the white wall would not show: but it was found that the paste on the back of the paper dragged the paint off the wall, and when the joints opened the white streaks showed all the same, so Misery abandoned all attempts to prevent joints showing, and if a customer complained, he sent someone to ‘touch it up’: but the lining paper was never used, unless the customer or the architect knew enough about the work to insist upon it.
 In other parts of the same house the ceilings, the friezes, and the dados, were covered with ‘embossed’ or ‘relief’ papers. These hangings require very careful handling, for the raised parts are easily damaged; but the men who fixed them were not allowed to take the pains and time necessary to make good work: consequently in many places - especially at the joints - the pattern was flattened out and obliterated.
 The ceiling of the drawing-room was done with a very thick high-relief paper that was made in sheets about two feet square. These squares were not very true in shape: they had evidently warped in drying after manufacture: to make them match anything like properly would need considerable time and care. But the men were not allowed to take the necessary time. The result was that when it was finished it presented a sort of ‘higgledy-piggledy’ appearance. But it didn’t matter: nothing seemed to matter except to get it done. One would think from the way the hands were driven and chivvied and hurried over the work that they were being paid five or six shillings an hour instead of as many pence.
 ‘Get it done!’ shouted Misery from morning till night. ‘For God’s sake get it done! Haven’t you finished yet? We’re losing money over this "job"! If you chaps don’t wake up and move a bit quicker, I shall see if I can’t get somebody else who will.’
 These costly embossed decorations were usually finished in white; but instead of carefully coating them with specially prepared paint of patent distemper, which would need two or three coats, they slobbered one thick coat of common whitewash on to it with ordinary whitewash brushes.
 This was a most economical way to get over it, because it made it unnecessary to stop up the joints beforehand - the whitewash filled up all the cracks: and it also filled up the hollow parts, the crevices and interstices of the ornament, destroying the sharp outlines of the beautiful designs and reducing the whole to a lumpy, formless mass. But that did not matter either, so long as they got it done.
 The architect didn’t notice it, because he knew that the more Rushton & Co. made out of the ‘job’, the more he himself would make.
 The man who had to pay for the work didn’t notice it; he had the fullest confidence in the architect.
 At the risk of wearying the long-suffering reader, mention must be made of an affair that happened at this particular ‘job’.
 The windows were all fitted with venetian blinds. The gentleman for whom all the work was being done had only just purchased the house, but he preferred roller blinds: he had had roller blinds in his former residence - which he had just sold - and as these roller blinds were about the right size, he decided to have them fitted to the windows of his new house: so he instructed Mr Rushton to have all the venetian blinds taken down and stored away up in the loft under the roof. Mr Rushton promised to have this done; but they were not ALL put away under the roof: he had four of them taken to his own place and fitted up in the conservatory. They were a little too large, so they had to be narrowed before they were fixed.
 The sequel was rather interesting, for it happened that when the gentleman attempted to take the roller blinds from his old house, the person to whom he had sold it refused to allow them to be removed; claiming that when he bought the house, he bought the blinds also. There was a little dispute, but eventually it was settled that way and the gentleman decided that he would have the venetian blinds in his new house after all, and instructed the people who moved his furniture to take the venetians down again from under the roof, and refix them, and then, of course, it was discovered that four of the blinds were missing. Mr Rushton was sent for, and he said that he couldn’t understand it at all! The only possible explanation that he could think of was that some of his workmen must have stolen them! He would make inquiries, and endeavour to discover the culprits, but in any case, as this had happened while things were in his charge, if he did not succeed in recovering them, he would replace them.
 As the blinds had been narrowed to fit the conservatory he had to have four new ones made.
 The customer was of course quite satisfied, although very sorry for Mr Rushton. They had a little chat about it. Rushton told the gentleman that he would be astonished if he knew all the facts: the difficulties one has to contend with in dealing with working men: one has to watch them continually! directly one’s back is turned they leave off working! They come late in the morning, and go home before the proper time at night, and then unless one actually happens to catch them - they charge the full number of hours on their time sheets! Every now and then something would be missing, and of course Nobody knew anything about it. Sometimes one would go unexpectedly to a ‘job’ and find a lot of them drunk. Of course one tried to cope with these evils by means of rules and restrictions and organization, but it was very difficult - one could not be everywhere or have eyes at the back of one’s head. The gentleman said that he had some idea of what it was like: he had had something to do with the lower orders himself at one time and another, and he knew they needed a lot of watching.
 Rushton felt rather sick over this affair, but he consoled himself by reflecting that he had got clear away with several valuable rose trees and other plants which he had stolen out of the garden, and that a ladder which had been discovered in the hayloft over the stable and taken - by his instructions - to the ‘yard’ when the ‘job’ was finished had not been missed.
 Another circumstance which helped to compensate for the blinds was that the brass fittings throughout the house, finger-plates, sash-lifts and locks, bolts and door handles, which were supposed to be all new and which the customer had paid a good price for - were really all the old ones which Misery had had re-lacquered and refixed.
 There was nothing unusual about this affair of the blinds, for Rushton and Misery robbed everybody. They made a practice of annexing every thing they could lay their hands upon, provided it could be done without danger to themselves. They never did anything of a heroic or dare-devil character: they had not the courage to break into banks or jewellers’ shops in the middle of the night, or to go out picking pockets: all their robberies were of the sneak-thief order.
 At one house that they ‘did up’ Misery made a big haul. He had to get up into the loft under the roof to see what was the matter with the water tank. When he got up there he found a very fine hall gas lamp made of wrought brass and copper with stained and painted glass sides. Although covered with dust, it was otherwise in perfect condition, so Misery had it taken to his own house and cleaned up and fixed in the hail.
 In the same loft there were a lot of old brass picture rods and other fittings, and three very good planks, each about ten feet in length; these latter had been placed across the rafters so that one could walk easily and safely over to the tank. But Misery thought they would be very useful to the firm for whitewashing ceilings and other work, so he had them taken to the yard along with the old brass, which was worth about fourpence a pound.
 There was another house that had to be painted inside: the people who used to live there had only just left: they had moved to some other town, and the house had been re-let before they vacated it. The new tenant had agreed with the agent that the house was to be renovated throughout before he took possession.
 The day after the old tenants moved away, the agent gave Rushton the key so that he could go to see what was to be done and give an estimate for the work.
 While Rushton and Misery were looking over the house they discovered a large barometer hanging on the wall behind the front door: it had been overlooked by those who removed the furniture. Before returning the key to the agent, Rushton sent one of his men to the house for the barometer, which he kept in his office for a few weeks to see if there would be any inquiries about it. If there had been, it would have been easy to say that he had brought it there for safety - to take care of till he could find the owner. The people to whom it belonged thought the thing had been lost or stolen in transit, and afterwards one of the workmen who had assisted to pack and remove the furniture was dismissed from his employment on suspicion of having had something to do with its disappearance. No one ever thought of Rushton in connection with the matter, so after about a month he had it taken to his own dwelling and hung up in the hall near the carved oak marble-topped console table that he had sneaked last summer from 596 Grand Parade.
 And there it hangs unto this day: and close behind it, supported by cords of crimson silk, is a beautiful bevelled-edged card about a foot square, and upon this card is written, in letters of gold: ‘Christ is the head of this house; the unseen Guest at every meal, the silent Listener to every conversation.’
 And on the other side of the barometer is another card of the same kind and size which says: ‘As for me and my house we will serve the Lord.’
 From another place they stole two large brass chandeliers. This house had been empty for a very long time, and its owner - who did not reside in the town - wished to sell it. The agent, to improve the chances of a sale, decided to have the house overhauled and redecorated. Rushton & Co.’s tender being the lowest, they got the work. The chandeliers in the drawing-room and the dining-room were of massive brass, but they were all blackened and tarnished. Misery suggested to the agent that they could be cleaned and relacquered, which would make them equal to new: in fact, they would be better than new ones, for such things as these were not made now, and for once Misery was telling the truth. The agent agreed and the work was done: it was an extra, of course, and as the firm got twice as much for the job as they paid for having it done, they were almost satisfied.
 When this and all the other work was finished they sent in their account and were paid.
 Some months afterwards the house was sold, and Nimrod interviewed the new proprietor with the object of securing the order for any work that he might want done. He was successful. The papers on the walls of several of the rooms were not to the new owner’s taste, and, of course, the woodwork would have to be re-painted to harmonize with the new paper. There was a lot of other work besides this: a new conservatory to build, a more modern bath and heating apparatus to be put in, and the electric light to be installed, the new people having an objection to the use of gas.
 The specifications were prepared by an architect, and Rushton secured the work. When the chandeliers were taken down, the men, instructed by Misery, put them on a handcart, and covered them over with sacks and dust-sheets and took them to the front shop, where they were placed for sale with the other stock.
 When all the work at the house was finished, it occurred to Rushton and Nimrod that when the architect came to examine and pass the work before giving them the certificate that would enable them to present their account, he might remember the chandeliers and inquire what had become of them. So they were again placed on the handcart, covered with sacks and dust-sheets, taken back to the house and put up in the loft under the roof so that, if he asked for them, there they were.
 The architect came, looked ever the house, passed the work, and gave his certificate; he never mentioned or thought of the chandeliers. The owner of the house was present and asked for Rushton’s bill, for which he at once gave them a cheque and Rushton and Misery almost grovelled and wallowed on the ground before him. Throughout the whole interview the architect and the ‘gentleman’ had kept their hats on, but Rushton and Nimrod had been respectfully uncovered all the time, and as they followed the other two about the house their bearing had been expressive of the most abject servility.
 When the architect and the owner were gone the two chandeliers were taken down again from under the roof, and put upon a handcart, covered over with sacks and dust-sheets and taken back to the shop and again placed for sale with the other stock.
 These are only a few of the petty thefts committed by these people. To give anything approaching a full account of all the rest would require a separate volume.
 
 As a result of all the hurrying and scamping, every now and again the men found that they had worked themselves out of a job.
 Several times during the summer the firm had scarcely anything to do, and nearly everybody had to stand off for a few days or weeks.
 When Newman got his first start in the early part of the year he had only been working for about a fortnight when - with several others - he was ‘stood off’. Fortunately, however, the day after he left Rushtons, he was lucky enough to get a start for another firm, Driver and Botchit, where he worked for nearly a month, and then he was again given a job at Rushton’s, who happened to be busy again.
 He did not have to lose much time, for he ‘finished up’ for Driver and Botchit on a Thursday night and on the Friday he interviewed Misery, who told him they were about to commence a fresh ‘jab’ on the following Monday morning at six o’clock, and that he could start with them. So this time Newman was only out of work the Friday and Saturday, which was another stroke of luck, because it often happens that a man has to lose a week or more after ‘finishing up’ for one firm before he gets another ‘job’.
 All through the summer Crass continued to be the general ‘colour-man’, most of his time being spent at the shop mixing up colours for all the different ‘jobs’. He also acted as a sort of lieutenant to Hunter, who, as the reader has already been informed, was not a practical painter. When there was a price to be given for some painting work, Misery sometimes took Crass with him to look over it and help him to estimate the amount of time and material it would take. Crass was thus in a position of more than ordinary importance, not only being superior to the ‘hands’, but also ranking above the other sub-foremen who had charge of the ‘jobs’.
 It was Crass and these sub-foremen who were to blame for most of the scamping and driving, because if it had not been for them neither Rushton nor Hunter would have known how to scheme the work.
 Of course, Hunter and Rushton wanted to drive and scamp, but not being practical men they would not have known how if it had not been for Crass and the others, who put them up to all the tricks of the trade.
 Crass knew that when the men stayed till half past seven they were in the habit of ceasing work for a few minutes to eat a mouthful of grub about six o’clock, so he suggested to Misery that as it was not possible to stop this, it would be a good plan to make the men stop work altogether from half past five till six, and lose half an hour’s pay; and to make up the time, instead of leaving off at seven-thirty, they could work till eight.
 Misery had known of and winked at the former practice, for he knew that the men could not work all that time without something to eat, but Crass’s suggestion seemed a much better way, and it was adopted.
 When the other masters in Mugsborough heard of this great reform they all followed suit, and it became the rule in that town, whenever it was necessary to work overtime, for the men to stay till eight instead of half past seven as formerly, and they got no more pay than before.
 Previous to this summer it had been the almost invariable rule to have two men in each room that was being painted, but Crass pointed out to Misery that under such circumstances they wasted time talking to each other, and they also acted as a check on one another: each of them regulated the amount of work he did by the amount the other did, and if the ‘job’ took too long it was always difficult to decide which of the two was to blame: but if they were made to work alone, each of them would be on his mettle; he would not know how much the others were doing, and the fear of being considered slow in comparison with others would make them all tear into it all they could.
 Misery thought this a very good idea, so the solitary system was introduced, and as far as practicable, one room, one man became the rule.
 They even tried to make the men distemper large ceilings single-handed, and succeeded in one or two cases, but after several ceilings had been spoilt and had to be washed off and done over again, they gave that up: but nearly all the other work was now arranged on the ‘solitary system’, and it worked splendidly: each man was constantly in a state of panic as to whether the others were doing more work than himself.
 Another suggestion that Crass made to Misery was that the sub-foremen should be instructed never to send a man into a room to prepare it for painting.
 ‘If you sends a man into a room to get it ready,’ said Crass, ‘’e makes a meal of it! ’E spends as much time messin’ about rubbin’ down and stoppin’ up as it would take to paint it. But,’ he added, with a cunning leer, ‘give ’em a bit of putty and a little bit of glass-paper, and the paint at the stand, and then ’e gits it in ’is mind as ’e’s going in there to paint it! And ’e doesn’t mess about much over the preparing of it’.
 These and many other suggestions - all sorts of devices for scamping and getting over the work - were schemed out by Crass and the other sub-foremen, who put them into practice and showed them to Misery and Rushton in the hope of currying favour with them and being ‘kept on’. And between the lot of them they made life a veritable hell for themselves, and the hands, and everybody else around them. And the mainspring of it all was - the greed and selfishness of one man, who desired to accumulate money! For this was the only object of all the driving and bullying and hatred and cursing and unhappiness - to make money for Rushton, who evidently considered himself a deserving case.
 It is sad and discreditable, but nevertheless true, that some of the more selfish of the philanthropists often became weary of well-doing, and lost all enthusiasm in the good cause. At such times they used to say that they were ‘Bloody well fed up’ with the whole business and ‘Tired of tearing their bloody guts out for the benefit of other people’ and every now and then some of these fellows would ‘chuck up’ work, and go on the booze, sometimes stopping away for two or three days or a week at a time. And then, when it was all over, they came back, very penitent, to ask for another ‘start’, but they generally found that their places had been filled.
 If they happened to be good ‘sloggers’ - men who made a practice of ‘tearing their guts out’ when they did work - they were usually forgiven, and after being admonished by Misery, permitted to resume work, with the understanding that if ever it occurred again they would get the ‘infernal’ - which means the final and irrevocable - sack.
 
 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 CAFE’

 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
 I remane Yours respeckfully Pontius Pilate.
 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:
  ‘To hell with the man, May he never grow fat, What carries two faces, Under one ’at.’
 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, howevertrifling, to be taken away by workmen for their private use, whether waste material or not, from any workshop or place wherework is being done. Foremen are hereby instructed to see thatthis order is obeyed and to report any such act coming to theirknowledge. Any man breaking this rule will be either dismissedwithout 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:
  WHAT IS SOCIALISM?
  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
  LOOK OUT FOR THE SOCIALIST VAN
 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,
Faint in the east, behold the Dawn appear
Out of your evil dream of toil and sorrow
Arise, O England! for the day is here!

 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.