circumstanced at all periods of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. Therefore the characters include women and children, a young boy - the apprentice - some improvers, journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men. I designed to show the conditions relating from poverty and unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal with them and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy, namely - Socialism. I intended to explain what Socialists understand by the word `poverty': to define the Socialist theory of the causes of poverty, and to explain how Socialists propose to abolish poverty. It may be objected that, considering the number of books dealing with these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for. The answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to Socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist is sufficient to show that he does not know what Socialism means. The same is true of all the anti-socialist writers and the `great statesmen' who make anti-socialist speeches: unless we believe that they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do not understand Socialism. There is no other possible explanation of the extraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry out against is not Socialism but a phantom of their own imagining. Another answer is that `The Philanthropists' is not a treatise or essay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story full of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the subject of Socialism being treated incidentally. This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is for others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at least one merit - that of being true. I have invented nothing. There are no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not either witnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared I let the characters express themselves in their own sort of language and consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At the same time I believe that - because it is true - the book is not without its humorous side. The scenes and characters are typical of every town in the South of England and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. If the book is published I think it will appeal to a very large number of readers. Because it is true it will probably be denounced as a libel on the working classes and their employers, and upon the religious-professing section of the community. But I believe it will be acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that no attack is made upon sincere religion. Chapter 1: An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves The house was named `The Cave'. It was a large old-fashioned three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means of a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators. There were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder. Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were cut through walls and doors were being put where no doors had been before. Old broken chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and fixed in their places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper. Besides being full of these the air was heavily laden with dust and disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff Reform Paradise - they had Plenty of Work. At twelve o'clock Bob Crass - the painters' foreman - blew a blast upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each man on the `job' paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar - they did not have milk - and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune. Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser, formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster. A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls, and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner. As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their laps or placed on the floor beside them. At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire. `I don't think much of this bloody tea,' suddenly remarked Sawkins, one of the labourers. `Well it oughter be all right,' retorted Bert; `it's been bilin' ever since 'arf past eleven.' Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather lightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt. `Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've bin usin' up wot was left yesterday,' continued Sawkins. `Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone?' said Harlow, another painter. `If you don't like the tea you needn't drink it. For my part, I'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.' `It's all very well for you to say I needn't drink it,' answered Sawkins, `but I've paid my share an' I've got a right to express an opinion. It's my belief that 'arf the money we gives 'him is spent on penny 'orribles: 'e's always got one in 'is hand, an' to make wot tea 'e does buy last, 'e collects all the slops wot's left and biles it up day after day.' `No, I don't!' said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. `It's not me wot buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and 'e buys them 'imself, so there!' At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red. `You'd better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after this week,' he said, addressing Sawkins, `and then p'raps we'll 'ave a little peace at meal-times.' `An' you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,' added Bert, tearfully, `cos I won't do it.' Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a simple labourer, but since then he had `picked up' a slight knowledge of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition, but his wages - fivepence an hour - were twopence an hour less than the standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was `stood off' when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the `Bloke'. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his new mates `not to let the b--r Sawkins see anything.' The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten. `How did you get on yesterday?' asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the Daily Obscurer. `No luck,' replied Bundy, gloomily. `I had a bob each way on Stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.' This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow's races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper. He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks. There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions on the subjects mentioned. The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox opinions. If anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very great number - in fact the majority of the people - lived on the verge of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a period to their misery. And strangest of all - in his opinion - he saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done. It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably something wrong with his mind. When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection. Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who, having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back into his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence. Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough. This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman's, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter's labourer at the usual wages - fivepence per hour. He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and unconscious of his surroundings. Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation ensued. `Is the gent what's bought this 'ouse any relation to Sweater the draper?' asked Payne, the carpenter's foreman. `It's the same bloke,' replied Crass. `Didn't he used to be on the Town Council or something?' `'E's bin on the Council for years,' returned Crass. `'E's on it now. 'E's mayor this year. 'E's bin mayor several times before.' `Let's see,' said Payne, reflectively, `'e married old Grinder's sister, didn't 'e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.' `Yes, I believe he did,' said Crass. `It wasn't Grinder's sister,' chimed in old Jack Linden. `It was 'is niece. I know, because I remember working in their 'ouse just after they was married, about ten year ago.' `Oh yes, I remember now,' said Payne. `She used to manage one of Grinder's branch shops didn't she?' `Yes,' replied Linden. `I remember it very well because there was a lot of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used to be a regler 'ot un: no one never thought as he'd ever git married at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work for him.' This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief silence, which was presently broken by Harlow. `Funny name to call a 'ouse, ain't it?' he said. `"The Cave." I wonder what made 'em give it a name like that.' `They calls 'em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,' said old Jack Linden. `There's generally some sort of meaning to it, though,' observed Payne. `For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, 'e might call 'is 'ouse, "Epsom Lodge" or "Newmarket Villa".' `Or sometimes there's a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,' said another man; `then they calls it "Hoak Lodge" or "Cherry Cottage".' `Well, there's a cave up at the end of this garden,' said Harlow with a grin, `you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the 'ouse runs into; praps they called it after that.' `Talking about the drains,' said old Jack Linden when the laughter produced by this elegant joke had ceased. `Talking about the drains, I wonder what they're going to do about them; the 'ouse ain't fit to live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done away with.' `So it is going to be,' replied Crass. `There's going to be a new set of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with the main.' Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm. `That's goin' to cost a good bit,' said Linden. `Yes, I suppose it will,' replied Crass, `but money ain't no object to old Sweater. 'E's got tons of it; you know 'e's got a large wholesale business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one 'e's got 'ere.' Easton was still reading the Obscurer; he was not about to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at - probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand - but he was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question: to tell the truth, he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length he said aloud, addressing himself to Crass: `Wot do you think of this 'ere fissical policy, Bob?' `Ain't thought much about it,' replied Crass. `I don't never worry my 'ed about politics.' `Much better left alone,' chimed in old Jack Linden sagely, `argyfying about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an' does no good to nobody.' At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. Most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If two or three men of similar opinions happened to be together they might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed company it was better left alone. The 'Fissical Policy' emanated from the Tory party. That was the reason why some of them were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. Some of them were under the delusion that they were Conservatives: similarly, others imagined themselves to be Liberals. As a matter of fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in the planet of Jupiter. Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject, when, looking up from his paper, Owen said: `Does the fact that you never "trouble your heads about politics" prevent you from voting at election times?' No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Easton however, in spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking. `Well, I don't go in for politics much, either, but if what's in this 'ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take some interest in it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.' `If you're going to believe all that's in that bloody rag you'll want some salt,' said Harlow. The Obscurer was a Tory paper and Harlow was a member of the local Liberal club. Harlow's remark roused Crass. `Wot's the use of talkin' like that?' he said; `you know very well that the country IS being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to buy something; look round the place an' you'll see that more than 'arf the damn stuff comes from abroad. They're able to sell their goods 'ere because they don't 'ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to put 'eavy dooties on our goods to keep 'em out of their countries; and I say it's about time it was stopped.' `'Ear, 'ear,' said Linden, who always agreed with Crass, because the latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a good - or a bad - word for a man to the boss. `'Ear, 'ear! Now that's wot I call common sense.' Several other men, for the same reason as Linden, echoed Crass's sentiments, but Owen laughed contemptuously. `Yes, it's quite true that we gets a lot of stuff from foreign countries,' said Harlow, `but they buys more from us than we do from them.' `Now you think you know a 'ell of a lot,' said Crass. `'Ow much more did they buy from us last year, than we did from them?' Harlow looked foolish: as a matter of fact his knowledge of the subject was not much wider than Crass's. He mumbled something about not having no 'ed for figures, and offered to bring full particulars next day. `You're wot I call a bloody windbag,' continued Crass; `you've got a 'ell of a lot to say, but wen it comes to the point you don't know nothin'.' `Why, even 'ere in Mugsborough,' chimed in Sawkins - who though still lying on the dresser had been awakened by the shouting - `We're overrun with 'em! Nearly all the waiters and the cook at the Grand Hotel where we was working last month is foreigners.' `Yes,' said old Joe Philpot, tragically, `and then thers all them Hitalian horgin grinders, an' the blokes wot sells 'ot chestnuts; an' wen I was goin' 'ome last night I see a lot of them Frenchies sellin' hunions, an' a little wile afterwards I met two more of 'em comin' up the street with a bear.' Notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this intelligence, Owen again laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it was a very serious state of affairs. It was a dam' shame that these people were allowed to take the bread out of English people's mouths: they ought to be driven into the bloody sea. And so the talk continued, principally carried on by Crass and those who agreed with him. None of them really understood the subject: not one of them had ever devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the earnest investigation of it. The papers they read were filled with vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported into this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly arriving, and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the injury they did to British trade. These were the seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. To them the mysterious thing they variously called the `Friscal Policy', the `Fistical Policy', or the `Fissical Question' was a great Anti-Foreign Crusade. The country was in a hell of a state, poverty, hunger and misery in a hundred forms had already invaded thousands of homes and stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. How came these things to be? It was the bloody foreigner! Therefore, down with the foreigners and all their works. Out with them. Drive them b--s into the bloody sea! The country would be ruined if not protected in some way. This Friscal, Fistical, Fissical or whatever the hell policy it was called, WAS Protection, therefore no one but a bloody fool could hesitate to support it. It was all quite plain - quite simple. One did not need to think twice about it. It was scarcely necessary to think about it at all. This was the conclusion reached by Crass and such of his mates who thought they were Conservatives - the majority of them could not have read a dozen sentences aloud without stumbling - it was not necessary to think or study or investigate anything. It was all as clear as daylight. The foreigner was the enemy, and the cause of poverty and bad trade. When the storm had in some degree subsided, `Some of you seem to think,' said Owen, sneeringly, `that it was a great mistake on God's part to make so many foreigners. You ought to hold a mass meeting about it: pass a resolution something like this: "This meeting of British Christians hereby indignantly protests against the action of the Supreme Being in having created so many foreigners, and calls upon him to forthwith rain down fire, brimstone and mighty rocks upon the heads of all those Philistines, so that they may be utterly exterminated from the face of the earth, which rightly belongs to the British people".' Crass looked very indignant, but could think of nothing to say in answer to Owen, who continued: `A little while ago you made the remark that you never trouble yourself about what you call politics, and some of the rest agreed with you that to do so is not worth while. Well, since you never "worry" yourself about these things, it follows that you know nothing about them; yet you do not hesitate to express the most decided opinions concerning matters of which you admittedly know nothing. Presently, when there is an election, you will go and vote in favour of a policy of which you know nothing. I say that since you never take the trouble to find out which side is right or wrong you have no right to express any opinion. You are not fit to vote. You should not be allowed to vote.' Crass was by this time very angry. `I pays my rates and taxes,' he shouted, `an' I've got as much right to express an opinion as you 'ave. I votes for who the bloody 'ell I likes. I shan't arst your leave nor nobody else's! Wot the 'ell's it got do with you who I votes for?' `It has a great deal to do with me. If you vote for Protection you will be helping to bring it about, and if you succeed, and if Protection is the evil that some people say is is, I shall be one of those who will suffer. I say you have no right to vote for a policy which may bring suffering upon other people, without taking the trouble to find out whether you are helping to make things better or worse.' Owen had risen from his seat and was walking up and down the room emphasizing his words with excited gestures. `As for not trying to find out wot side is right,' said Crass, somewhat overawed by Owen's manner and by what he thought was the glare of madness in the latter's eyes, `I reads the Ananias every week, and I generally takes the Daily Chloroform, or the Hobscurer, so I ought to know summat about it.' `Just listen to this,' interrupted Easton, wishing to create a diversion and beginning to read from the copy of the Obscurer which he still held in his hand: `GREAT DISTRESS IN MUGSBOROUGH. HUNDREDS OUT OF EMPLOYMENT. WORK OF THE CHARITY SOCIETY. 789 CASES ON THE BOOKS. `Great as was the distress among the working classes last year, unfortunately there seems every prospect that before the winter which has just commenced is over the distress will be even more acute. Already the Charity Society and kindred associations are relieving more cases than they did at the corresponding time last year. Applications to the Board of Guardians have also been much more numerous, and the Soup Kitchen has had to open its doors on Nov. 7th a fortnight earlier than usual. The number of men, women and children provided with meals is three or four times greater than last year.' Easton stopped: reading was hard work to him. `There's a lot more,' he said, `about starting relief works: two shillings a day for married men and one shilling for single and something about there's been 1,572 quarts of soup given to poor families wot was not even able to pay a penny, and a lot more. And 'ere's another thing, an advertisement: `THE SUFFERING POOR Sir: Distress among the poor is so acute that I earnestly ask you for aid for The Salvation Army's great Social work on their behalf. Some 600 are being sheltered nightly. Hundreds are found work daily. Soup and bread are distributed in the midnight hours to homeless wanderers in London. Additional workshops for the unemployed have been established. Our Social Work for men, women and children, for the characterless and the outcast, is the largest and oldest organized effort of its kind in the country, and greatly needs help. ?0,000 is required before Christmas Day. Gifts may be made to any specific section or home, if desired. Can you please send us something to keep the work going? Please address cheques, crossed Bank of England (Law Courts Branch), to me at 101, Queen Victoria Street, EC. Balance Sheets and Reports upon application. `BRAMWELL BOOTH.' `Oh, that's part of the great 'appiness an' prosperity wot Owen makes out Free Trade brings,' said Crass with a jeering laugh. `I never said Free Trade brought happiness or prosperity,' said Owen. `Well, praps you didn't say exactly them words, but that's wot it amounts to.' `I never said anything of the kind. We've had Free Trade for the last fifty years and today most people are living in a condition of more or less abject poverty, and thousands are literally starving. When we had Protection things were worse still. Other countries have Protection and yet many of their people are glad to come here and work for starvation wages. The only difference between Free Trade and Protection is that under certain circumstances one might be a little worse that the other, but as remedies for Poverty, neither of them are of any real use whatever, for the simple reason that they do not deal with the real causes of Poverty.' `The greatest cause of poverty is hover-population,' remarked Harlow. `Yes,' said old Joe Philpot. `If a boss wants two men, twenty goes after the job: ther's too many people and not enough work.' `Over-population!' cried Owen, `when there's thousands of acres of uncultivated land in England without a house or human being to be seen. Is over-population the cause of poverty in France? Is over-population the cause of poverty in Ireland? Within the last fifty years the population of Ireland has been reduced by more than half. Four millions of people have been exterminated by famine or got rid of by emigration, but they haven't got rid of poverty. P'raps you think that half the people in this country ought to be exterminated as well.' Here Owen was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and resumed his seat. When the cough had ceased he say wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and listening to the talk that ensued. `Drink is the cause of most of the poverty,' said Slyme. This young man had been through some strange process that he called `conversion'. He had had a `change of 'art' and looked down with pious pity upon those he called `worldly' people. He was not `worldly', he did not smoke or drink and never went to the theatre. He had an extraordinary notion that total abstinence was one of the fundamental principles of the Christian religion. It never occurred to what he called his mind, that this doctrine is an insult to the Founder of Christianity. `Yes,' said Crass, agreeing with Slyme, `an' thers plenty of 'em wot's too lazy to work when they can get it. Some of the b--s who go about pleading poverty 'ave never done a fair day's work in all their bloody lives. Then thers all this new-fangled machinery,' continued Crass. `That's wot's ruinin' everything. Even in our trade ther's them machines for trimmin' wallpaper, an' now they've brought out a paintin' machine. Ther's a pump an' a 'ose pipe, an' they reckon two men can do as much with this 'ere machine as twenty could without it.' `Another thing is women,' said Harlow, `there's thousands of 'em nowadays doin' work wot oughter be done by men.' `In my opinion ther's too much of this 'ere eddication, nowadays,' remarked old Linden. `Wot the 'ell's the good of eddication to the likes of us?' `None whatever,' said Crass, `it just puts foolish idears into people's 'eds and makes 'em too lazy to work.' Barrington, who took no part in the conversation, still sat silently smoking. Owen was listening to this pitiable farrago with feelings of contempt and wonder. Were they all hopelessly stupid? Had their intelligence never developed beyond the childhood stage? Or was he mad himself? `Early marriages is another thing,' said Slyme: `no man oughtn't to be allowed to get married unless he's in a position to keep a family.' `How can marriage be a cause of poverty?' said Owen, contemptuously. `A man who is not married is living an unnatural life. Why don't you continue your argument a little further and say that the practice of eating and drinking is the cause of poverty or that if people were to go barefoot and naked there would be no poverty? The man who is so poor that he cannot marry is in a condition of poverty already.' `Wot I mean,' said Slyme, `is that no man oughtn't to marry till he's saved up enough so as to 'ave some money in the bank; an' another thing, I reckon a man oughtn't to get married till 'e's got an 'ouse of 'is own. It's easy enough to buy one in a building society if you're in reg'lar work.' At this there was a general laugh. `Why, you bloody fool,' said Harlow, scornfully, `most of us is walkin' about 'arf our time. It's all very well for you to talk; you've got almost a constant job on this firm. If they're doin' anything at all you're one of the few gets a show in. And another thing,' he added with a sneer, `we don't all go to the same chapel as old Misery,' `Old Misery' was Ruston & Co.'s manager or walking foreman. `Misery' was only one of the nicknames bestowed upon him by the hands: he was also known as `Nimrod' and `Pontius Pilate'. `And even if it's not possible,' Harlow continued, winking at the others, `what's a man to do during the years he's savin' up?' `Well, he must conquer hisself,' said Slyme, getting red. `Conquer hisself is right!' said Harlow and the others laughed again. `Of course if a man tried to conquer hisself by his own strength,' replied Slyme, `'e would be sure to fail, but when you've got the Grace of God in you it's different.' `Chuck it, fer Christ's sake!' said Harlow in a tone of disgust. `We've only just 'ad our dinner!' `And wot about drink?' demanded old Joe Philpot, suddenly. `'Ear, 'ear,' cried Harlow. `That's the bleedin' talk. I wouldn't mind 'avin 'arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for it.' Joe Philpot - or as he was usually called, `Old Joe' - was in the habit of indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very old, being only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. He had lost his wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for his three children had died in their infancy. Slyme's reference to drink had roused Philpot's indignation; he felt that it was directed against himself. The muddled condition of his brain did not permit him to take up the cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that although Owen was a tee-totaller himself, he disliked Slyme. `There's no need for us to talk about drink or laziness,' returned Owen, impatiently, `because they have nothing to do with the matter. The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the majority of those who are not drunkards and who DO work? Why, if all the drunkards and won't-works and unskilled or inefficient workers could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious and skilled workers tomorrow, it would, under the present conditions, be so much the worse for us, because there isn't enough work for all NOW and those people by increasing the competition for what work there is, would inevitably cause a reduction of wages and a greater scarcity of employment. The theories that drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present states of affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from discovering the real causes of our present condition.' `Well, if we're all wrong,' said Crass, with a sneer, `praps you can tell us what the real cause is?' `An' praps you think you know how it's to be altered,' remarked Harlow, winking at the others. `Yes; I do think I know the cause,' declared Owen, `and I do think I know how it could be altered -' `It can't never be haltered,' interrupted old Linden. `I don't see no sense in all this 'ere talk. There's always been rich and poor in the world, and there always will be.' `Wot I always say is there 'ere,' remarked Philpot, whose principal characteristic - apart from thirst - was a desire to see everyone comfortable, and who hated rows of any kind. `There ain't no use in the likes of us trubblin our 'eds or quarrelin about politics. It don't make a dam bit of difference who you votes for or who gets in. They're hall the same; workin the horicle for their own benefit. You can talk till you're black in the face, but you won't never be able to alter it. It's no use worrying. The sensible thing is to try and make the best of things as we find 'em: enjoy ourselves, and do the best we can for each other. Life's too short to quarrel and we'll hall soon be dead!' At the end of this lengthy speech, the philosophic Philpot abstractedly grasped a jam-jar and raised it to his lips; but suddenly remembering that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again without drinking. `Let us begin at the beginning,' continued Owen, taking no notice of these interruptions. `First of all, what do you mean by Poverty?' `Why, if you've got no money, of course,' said Crass impatiently. The others laughed disdainfully. It seemed to them such a foolish question. `Well, that's true enough as far as it goes,' returned Owen, `that is, as things are arranged in the world at present. But money itself is not wealth: it's of no use whatever.' At this there was another outburst of jeering laughter. `Supposing for example that you and Harlow were shipwrecked on a desolate island, and YOU had saved nothing from the wreck but a bag containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a bottle of water.' `Make it beer!' cried Harlow appealingly. `Who would be the richer man, you or Harlow?' `But then you see we ain't shipwrecked on no dissolute island at all,' sneered Crass. `That's the worst of your arguments. You can't never get very far without supposing some bloody ridclus thing or other. Never mind about supposing things wot ain't true; let's 'ave facts and common sense.' `'Ear, 'ear,' said old Linden. `That's wot we want - a little common sense.' `What do YOU mean by poverty, then?' asked Easton. `What I call poverty is when people are not able to secure for themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries, comforts, pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres, pictures, music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good and pleasant food.' Everybody laughed. It was so ridiculous. The idea of the likes of THEM wanting or having such things! Any doubts that any of them had entertained as to Owen's sanity disappeared. The man was as mad as a March hare. `If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare necessaries of existence, that man's family is living in poverty. Since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just as well be a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is deprived. What we call civilization - the accumulation of knowledge which has come down to us from our forefathers - is the fruit of thousands of years of human thought and toil. It is not the result of the labour of the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. Every little child that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or full, whether he is physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much he may excel or fall short of his fellows in other respects, in one thing at least he is their equal - he is one of the heirs of all the ages that have gone before.' Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was not sane after all. He certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this. It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could not understand one half of it. `Why is it,' continued Owen, `that we are not only deprived of our inheritance - we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of civilization, but we and our children and also often unable to obtain even the bare necessaries of existence?' No one answered. `All these things,' Owen proceeded, `are produced by those who work. We do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of the things that are made by work.' The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the over-population theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such a fool as Owen? Sawkins pretended to be asleep. Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious. `As things are now,' went on Owen, `instead of enjoying the advantages of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always had food and -' `Oh, I don't see that,' roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been listening with evident anger and impatience. `You can speak for yourself, but I can tell yer I don't put MYSELF down as a slave.' `Nor me neither,' said Crass sturdily. `Let them call their selves slaves as wants to.' At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the kitchen. Old Misery! or perhaps the bloke himself! Crass hurriedly pulled out his watch. `Jesus Christ!' he gasped. `It's four minutes past one!' Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps and began wandering about the room with them. Sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and, snatching a piece of sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously rubbing down the scullery door. Easton threw down the copy of the Obscurer and scrambled hastily to his feet. The boy crammed the Chronicles of Crime into his trousers pocket. Crass rushed over to the bucket and began stirring up the stale whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was simply appalling. Consternation reigned. They looked like a gang of malefactors suddenly interrupted in the commission of a crime. The door opened. It was only Bundy returning from his mission to the Bookie. Chapter 2: Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord Mr Hunter, as he was called to his face and as he was known to his brethren at the Shining Light Chapel, where he was superintendant of the Sunday School, or `Misery' or `Nimrod'; as he was named behind his back by the workmen over whom he tyrannized, was the general or walking foreman of `manager' of the firm whose card is herewith presented to the reader: RUSHTON & CO. MUGSBOROUGH ------- Builders, Decorators, and General Contractors FUNERALS FURNISHED Estimates given for General Repairs to House Property First-class Work only at Moderate Charges There were a number of sub-foremen or `coddies', but Hunter was THE foreman. He was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered, bony form. His long, thin legs, about which the baggy trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed and terminated in large, flat feet. His arms were very long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. When he removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did to wipe away with a red handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle riding, it was seen that his forehead was high, flat and narrow. His nose was a large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the dropping moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workmen his exhortations to greater exertions. His chin was large and extraordinarily long. The eyes were pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. His head, covered with thick, coarse brown hair, was very large at the back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin. This man had been with Rushton - no one had ever seen the `Co.' - for fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the latter commenced business. Rushton had at that period realized the necessity of having a deputy who could be used to do all the drudgery and running about so that he himself might be free to attend to the more pleasant or profitable matters. Hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point of starting on his own account, when Rushton offered him a constant job as foreman, two pounds a week, and two and a half per cent of the profits of all work done. On the face of it this appeared a generous offer. Hunter closed with it, gave up the idea of starting for himself, and threw himself heart and mind into the business. When an estimate was to be prepared it was Hunter who measured up the work and laboriously figured out the probably cost. When their tenders were accepted it was he who superintended the work and schemed how to scamp it, where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where there ought to have been cement, sheet zinc where they were supposed to put sheet lead, boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint where five were paid for. In fact, scamping the work was with this man a kind of mania. It grieved him to see anything done properly. Even when it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force of habit on having it scamped. Then he was almost happy, because he felt that he was doing someone down. If there were an architect superintending the work, Misery would square him or bluff him. If it were not possible to do either, at least he had a try; and in the intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye was ever on the look out for fresh jobs. His long red nose was thrust into every estate agent's office in the town in the endeavour to smell out what properties had recently changed hands or been let, in order that he might interview the new owners and secure the order for whatever alterations or repairs might be required. He it was who entered into unholy compacts with numerous charwomen and nurses of the sick, who in return for a small commission would let him know when some poor sufferer was passing away and would recommend Rushton & Co. to the bereaved and distracted relatives. By these means often - after first carefully inquiring into the financial position of the stricken family - Misery would contrive to wriggle his unsavoury carcass into the house of sorrow, seeking, even in the chamber of death, to further the interests of Rushton & Co. and to earn his miserable two and a half per cent. It was to make possible the attainment of this object that Misery slaved and drove and schemed and cheated. It was for this that the workers' wages were cut down to the lowest possible point and their offspring went ill clad, ill shod and ill fed, and were driven forth to labour while they were yet children, because their fathers were unable to earn enough to support their homes. Fifteen years! Hunter realized now that Rushton had had considerably the best of the bargain. In the first place, it will be seen that the latter had bought over one who might have proved a dangerous competitor, and now, after fifteen years, the business that had been so laboriously built up, mainly by Hunter's energy, industry and unscrupulous cunning, belonged to Rushton & Co. Hunter was but an employee, liable to dismissal like any other workman, the only difference being that he was entitled to a week's notice instead of an hour's notice, and was but little better off financially than when he started for the firm. Fifteen years! Hunter knew now that he had been used, but he also knew that it was too late to turn back. He had not saved enough to make a successful start on his own account even if he had felt mentally and physically capable of beginning all over again, and if Rushton were to discharge him right now he was too old to get a job as a journeyman. Further, in his zeal for Rushton & Co. and his anxiety to earn his commission, he had often done things that had roused the animosity of rival firms to such an extent that it was highly improbable that any of them would employ him, and even if they would, Misery's heart failed him at the thought of having to meet on an equal footing those workmen whom he had tyrannized over and oppressed. It was for these reasons that Hunter was as terrified of Rushton as the hands were of himself. Over the men stood Misery, ever threatening them with dismissal and their wives and children with hunger. Behind Misery was Rushton, ever bullying and goading him on to greater excuses and efforts for the furtherance of the good cause - which was to enable the head of the firm to accumulate money. Mr Hunter, at the moment when the reader first makes his acquaintance on the afternoon of the day when the incidents recorded in the first chapter took place, was executing a kind of strategic movement in the direction of the house where Crass and his mates were working. He kept to one side of the road because by so doing he could not be perceived by those within the house until the instant of his arrival. When he was within about a hundred yards of the gate he dismounted from his bicycle, there being a sharp rise in the road just there, and as he toiled up, pushing the bicycle in front, his breath showing in white clouds in the frosty air, he observed a number of men hanging about. Some of them he knew; they had worked for him at various times, but where now out of a job . There were five men altogether; three of them were standing in a group, the other two stood each by himself, being apparently strangers to each other and the first three. The three men who stood together were nearest to Hunter and as the latter approached, one of them advanced to meet him. `Good afternoon, sir.' Hunter replied by an inarticulate grunt, without stopping; the man followed. `Any chance of a job, sir?' `Full up,' replied Hunter, still without stopping. The man still followed, like a beggar soliciting charity. `Be any use calling in a day or so, sir?' 'Don't think so,' Hunter replied. `Can if you like; but we're full up.' 'Thank you, sir,' said the man, and turned back to his friends. By this time Hunter was within a few yards of one of the other two men, who also came to speak to him. This man felt there was no hope of getting a job; still, there was no harm in asking. Besides, he was getting desperate. It was over a month now since he had finished up for his last employer. It had been a very slow summer altogether. Sometimes a fortnight for one firm; then perhaps a week doing nothing; then three weeks or a month for another firm, then out again, and so on. And now it was November. Last winter they had got into debt; that was nothing unusual, but owing to the bad summer they had not been able, as in other years, to pay off the debts accumulated in winter. It was doubtful, too, whether they would be able to get credit again this winter. In fact this morning when his wife sent their little girl to the grocer's for some butter the latter had refused to let the child have it without the money. So although he felt it to be useless he accosted Hunter. This time Hunter stopped: he was winded by his climb up the hill. `Good afternoon. sir.' Hunter did not return the salutation; he had not the breath to spare, but the man was not hurt; he was used to being treated like that. `Any chance of a job, sir?' Hunter did not reply at once. He was short of breath and he was thinking of a plan that was ever recurring to his mind, and which he had lately been hankering to put into execution. It seemed to him that the long waited for opportunity had come. Just now Rushton & Co. were almost the only firm in Mugsborough who had any work. There were dozens of good workmen out. Yes, this was the time. If this man agreed he would give him a start. Hunter knew the man was a good workman, he had worked for Rushton & Co. before. To make room for him old Linden and some other full-price man could be got rid of; it would not be difficult to find some excuse. `Well,' Hunter said at last in a doubtful, hesitating kind of way, `I'm afraid not, Newman. We're about full up.' He ceased speaking and remained waiting for the other to say something more. He did not look at the man, but stooped down, fidgeting with the mechanism of the bicycle as if adjusting it. `Things have been so bad this summer,' Newman went on. `I've had rather a rough time of it. I would be very glad of a job even if it was only for a week or so.' There was a pause. After a while, Hunter raised his eyes to the other's face, but immediately let them fall again. `Well,' said he, `I might - perhaps - be able to let you have a day or two. You can come here to this job,' and he nodded his head in the direction of the house where the men were working. `Tomorrow at seven. Of course you know the figure?' he added as Newman was about to thank him. `Six and a half.' Hunter spoke as if the reduction were already an accomplished fact. The man was more likely to agree, if he thought that others were already working at the reduced rate. Newman was taken by surprise and hesitated. He had never worked under price; indeed, he had sometimes gone hungry rather than do so; but now it seemed that others were doing it. And then he was so awfully hard up. If he refused this job he was not likely to get another in a hurry. He thought of his home and his family. Already they owed five weeks' rent, and last Monday the collector had hinted pretty plainly that the landlord would not wait much longer. Not only that, but if he did not get a job how were they to live? This morning he himself had had no breakfast to speak of, only a cup of tea and some dry bread. These thoughts crowded upon each other in his mind, but still he hesitated. Hunter began to move off. `Well,' he said, `if you like to start you can come here at seven in the morning.' Then as Newman still hesitated he added impatiently, `Are you coming or not?' `Yes, sir,' said Newman. `All right,' said Hunter, affably. `I'll tell Crass to have a kit ready for you,' He nodded in a friendly way to the man, who went off feeling like a criminal. As Hunter resumed his march, well pleased with himself, the fifth man, who had been waiting all this time, came to meet him. As he approached, Hunter recognized him as one who had started work for Rushton & Co early in the summer, but who had left suddenly of his own accord, having taken offence at some bullying remark of Hunter's. Hunter was glad to see this man. He guessed that the fellow must be very hard pressed to come again and ask for work after what had happened. `Any chance of a job, sir?' Hunter appeared to reflect. `I believe I have room for one,' he said at length. `But you're such an uncertain kind of chap. You don't seem to care much whether you work or not. You're too independent, you know; one can't say two words to you but you must needs clear off.' The man made no answer. `We can't tolerate that kind of thing, you know,' Hunter added. `If we were to encourage men of your stamp we should never know where we are.' So saying, Hunter moved away and again proceeded on his journey. When he arrived within about three yards of the gate he noiselessly laid his machine against the garden fence. The high evergreens that grew inside still concealed him from the observation of anyone who might be looking out of the windows of the house. Then he carefully crept along till he came to the gate post, and bending down, he cautiously peeped round to see if he could detect anyone idling, or talking, or smoking. There was no one in sight except old Jack Linden, who was rubbing down the lobby doors with pumice-stone and water. Hunter noiselessly opened the gate and crept quietly along the grass border of the garden path. His idea was to reach the front door without being seen, so that Linden could not give notice of his approach to those within. In this he succeeded and passed silently into the house. He did not speak to Linden; to do so would have proclaimed his presence to the rest. He crawled stealthily over the house but was disappointed in his quest, for everyone he saw was hard at work. Upstairs he noticed that the door of one of the rooms was closed. Old Joe Philpot had been working in this room all day, washing off the old whitewash from the ceiling and removing the old papers from the walls with a broad bladed, square topped knife called a stripper. Although it was only a small room, Joe had had to tear into the work pretty hard all the time, for the ceiling seemed to have had two or three coats of whitewash without ever having been washed off, and there were several thicknesses of paper on the walls. The difficulty of removing these papers was increased by the fact that there was a dado which had been varnished. In order to get this off it had been necessary to soak it several times with strong soda water, and although Joe was as careful as possible he had not been able to avoid getting some of this stuff on his fingers. The result was that his nails were all burnt and discoloured and the flesh round them cracked and bleeding. However, he had got it all off at last, and he was not sorry, for his right arm and shoulder were aching from the prolonged strain and in the palm of the right hand there was a blister as large as a shilling, caused by the handle of the stripping knife. All the old paper being off, Joe washed down the walls with water, and having swept the paper into a heap in the middle of the floor, he mixed with a small trowel some cement on a small board and proceeded to stop up the cracks and holes in the walls and ceiling. After a while, feeling very tired, it occurred to him that he deserved a spell and a smoke for five minutes. He closed the door and placed a pair of steps against it. There were two windows in the room almost opposite each other; these he opened wide in order that the smoke and smell of his pipe might be carried away. Having taken these precautions against surprise, he ascended to the top of the step ladder that he had laid against the door and sat down at ease. Within easy reach was the top of a cupboard where he had concealed a pint of beer in a bottle. To this he now applied himself. Having taken a long pull at the bottle, he tenderly replaced it on the top of the cupboard and proceeded to `hinjoy' a quiet smoke, remarking to himself: `This is where we get some of our own back.' He held, however, his trowel in one hand, ready for immediate action in case of interruption. Philpot was about fifty-five years old. He wore no white jacket, only an old patched apron; his trousers were old, very soiled with paint and ragged at the bottoms of the legs where they fell over the much-patched, broken and down-at-heel boots. The part of his waistcoat not protected by his apron was covered with spots of dried paint. He wore a coloured shirt and a `dickey' which was very soiled and covered with splashes of paint, and one side of it was projecting from the opening of the waistcoat. His head was covered with an old cap, heavy and shining with paint. He was very thin and stooped slightly. Although he was really only fifty-five, he looked much older, for he was prematurely aged. He had not been getting his own back for quite five minutes when Hunter softly turned the handle of the lock. Philpot immediately put out his pipe and descending from his perch opened the door. When Hunter entered Philpot closed it again and, mounting the steps, went on stripping the wall just above. Nimrod looked at him suspiciously, wondering why the door had been closed. He looked all round the room but could see nothing to complain of. He sniffed the air to try if he could detect the odour of tobacco, and if he had not been suffering a cold in the head there is no doubt that he would have perceived it. However, as it was he could smell nothing but all the same he was not quite satisfied, although he remembered that Crass always gave Philpot a good character. `I don't like to have men working on a job like this with the door shut,' he said at length. `It always gives me the idear that the man's 'avin a mike. You can do what you're doin' just as well with the door open.' Philpot, muttering something about it being all the same to him - shut or open - got down from the steps and opened the door. Hunter went out again without making any further remark and once more began crawling over the house. Owen was working by himself in a room on the same floor as Philpot. He was at the window, burning off with a paraffin torch-lamp those parts of the old paintwork that were blistered and cracked. In this work the flame of the lamp is directed against the old paint, which becomes soft and is removed with a chisel knife, or a scraper called a shavehook. The door was ajar and he had opened the top sash of the window for the purpose of letting in some fresh air, because the atmosphere of the room was foul with the fumes of the lamp and the smell of the burning paint, besides being heavy with moisture. The ceiling had only just been water washed and the walls had just been stripped. The old paper, saturated with water, was piled up in a heap in the middle of the floor. Presently, as he was working he began to feel conscious of some other presence in the room; he looked round. The door was open about six inches and in the opening appeared a long, pale face with a huge chin, surmounted by a bowler hat and ornamented with a large red nose, a drooping moustache and two small, glittering eyes set very close together. For some seconds this apparition regarded Owen intently, then it was silently withdrawn, and he was again alone. He had been so surprised and startled that he had nearly dropped the lamp, and now that the ghastly countenance was gone, Owen felt the blood surge into his own cheeks. He trembled with suppressed fury and longed to be able to go out there on the landing and hurl the lamp into Hunter's face. Meanwhile, on the landing outside Owen's door, Hunter stood thinking. Someone must be got rid of to make room for the cheap man tomorrow. He had hoped to catch somebody doing something that would have served as an excuse for instant dismissal, but there was now no hope of that happening. What was to be done? He would like to get rid of Linden, who was now really too old to be of much use, but as the old man had worked for Rushton on and off for many years, Hunter felt that he could scarcely sack him off hand without some reasonable pretext. Still, the fellow was really not worth the money he was getting. Sevenpence an hour was an absurdly large wage for an old man like him. It was preposterous: he would have to go, excuse or no excuse. Hunter crawled downstairs again. Jack Linden was about sixty-seven years old, but like Philpot, and as is usual with working men, he appeared older, because he had had to work very hard all his life, frequently without proper food and clothing. His life had been passed in the midst of a civilization which he had never been permitted to enjoy the benefits of. But of course he knew nothing about all this. He had never expected or wished to be allowed to enjoy such things; he had always been of opinion that they were never intended for the likes of him. He called himself a Conservative and was very patriotic. At the time when the Boer War commenced, Linden was an enthusiastic jingo: his enthusiasm had been somewhat damped when his youngest son, a reservist, had to go to the front, where he died of fever and exposure. When this soldier son went away, he left his wife and two children, aged respectively four and five years at that time, in his father's care. After he died they stayed on with the old people. The young woman earned a little occasionally by doing needlework, but was really dependent on her father-in-law. Notwithstanding his poverty, he was glad to have them in the house, because of late years his wife had been getting very feeble, and, since the shock occasioned by the news of the death of her son, needed someone constantly with her. Linden was still working at the vestibule doors when the manager came downstairs. Misery stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. At last he said loudly: `How much longer are you going to be messing about those doors? Why don't you get them under colour? You were fooling about there when I was here this morning. Do you think it'll pay to have you playing about there hour after hour with a bit of pumice stone? Get the work done! Or if you don't want to, I'll very soon find someone else who does! I've been noticing your style of doing things for some time past and I want you to understand that you can't play the fool with me. There's plenty of better men than you walking about. If you can't do more than you've been doing lately you can clear out; we can do without you even when we're busy.' Old Jack trembled. He tried to answer, but was unable to speak. If he had been a slave and had failed to satisfy his master, the latter might have tied him up somewhere and thrashed him. Hunter could not do that; he could only take his food away. Old Jack was frightened - it was not only HIS food that might be taken away. At last, with a great effort, for the words seemed to stick in his throat, he said: `I must clean the work down, sir, before I go on painting.' `I'm not talking about what you're doing, but the time it takes you to do it!' shouted Hunter. `And I don't want any back answers or argument about it. You must move yourself a bit quicker or leave it alone altogether.' Linden did not answer: he went on with his work, his hand trembling to such an extent that he was scarcely able to hold the pumice stone. Hunter shouted so loud that his voice filled all the house. Everyone heard and was afraid. Who would be the next? they thought. Finding that Linden made no further answer, Misery again began walking about the house. As he looked at them the men did their work in a nervous, clumsy, hasty sort of way. They made all sorts of mistakes and messes. Payne, the foreman carpenter, was putting some new boards on a part of the drawing-room floor: he was in such a state of panic that, while driving a nail, he accidentally struck the thumb of his left hand a severe blow with his hammer. Bundy was also working in the drawing- room putting some white-glazed tiles in the fireplace. Whilst cutting one of these in half in order to fit it into its place, he inflicted a deep gash on one of his fingers. He was afraid to leave off to bind it up while Hunter was there, and consequently as he worked the white tiles became all smeared and spattered with blood. Easton, who was working with Harlow on a plank, washing off the old distemper from the hall ceiling, was so upset that he was scarcely able to stand on the plank, and presently the brush fell from his trembling hand with a crash upon the floor. Everyone was afraid. They knew that it was impossible to get a job for any other firm. They knew that this man had the power to deprive them of the means of earning a living; that he possessed the power to deprive their children of bread. Owen, listening to Hunter over the banisters upstairs, felt that he would like to take him by the throat with one hand and smash his face in with the other. And then? Why then he would be sent to gaol, or at the best he would lose his employment: his food and that of his family would be taken away. That was why he only ground his teeth and cursed and beat the wall with his clenched fist. So! and so! and so! If it were not for them! Owen's imagination ran riot. First he would seize him by the collar with his left hand, dig his knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall and then, with his right fist, smash! smash! smash! until Hunter's face was all cut and covered with blood. But then, what about those at home? Was it not braver and more manly to endure in silence? Owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, panting and exhausted. Downstairs, Misery was still going to and fro in the house and walking up and down in it. Presently he stopped to look at Sawkins' work. This man was painting the woodwork of the back staircase. Although the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, Misery had given orders that it was not to be cleaned before being painted. `Just dust it down and slobber the colour on,' he had said. Consequently, when Crass made the paint, he had put into it an extra large quantity of dryers. To a certain extent this destroyed the `body' of the colour: it did not cover well; it would require two coats. When Hunter perceived this he was furious. He was sure it could be made to do with one coat with a little care; he believed Sawkins was doing it like this on purpose. Really, these men seemed to have no conscience. Two coats! and he had estimated for only three. `Crass!' `Yes, sir.' `Come here!' `Yes, sir.' Crass came hurrying along. `What's the meaning of this? Didn't I tell you to make this do with one coat? Look at it!' `It's like this, sir,' said Crass. `If it had been washed down -' `Washed down be damned,' shouted Hunter. `The reason is that the colour ain't thick enough. Take the paint and put a little more body in it and we'll soon see whether it can be done or not. I can make it cover if you can't.' Crass took the paint, and, superintended by Hunter, made it thicker. Misery then seized the brush and prepared to demonstrate the possibility of finishing the work with one coat. Crass and Sawkins looked on in silence. Just as Misery was about to commence he fancied he heard someone whispering somewhere. He laid down the brush and crawled stealthily upstairs to see who it was. Directly his back was turned Crass seized a bottle of oil that was standing near and, tipping about half a pint of it into the paint, stirred it up quickly. Misery returned almost immediately: he had not caught anyone; it must have been fancy. He took up the brush and began to paint. The result was worse than Sawkins! He messed and fooled about for some time, but could not make it come right. At last he gave it up. `I suppose it'll have to have two coats after all,' he said, mournfully. `But it's a thousand pities.' He almost wept. The firm would be ruined if things went on like this. `You'd better go on with it,' he said as he laid down the brush. He began to walk about the house again. He wanted to go away now, but he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away. No one saw him go. For some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked. The musical ringing of Bundy's trowel, the noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pair of steps. No one dared to speak. At last Philpot could stand it no longer. He was very thirsty. He had kept the door of his room open since Hunter arrived. He listened intently. He felt certain that Hunter must be gone: he looked across the landing and could see Owen working in the front room. Philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention. Owen looked round and Philpot began to make signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while. This Owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether Hunter had departed. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know. Philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly. `Was it gorn or not?' he wondered. He crept along on tiptoe towards Owen's room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. `Do you think it's gorn?' he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached Owen's door. `I don't know,' replied Owen in a low tone. Philpot wondered. He MUST have a drink, but it would never do for Hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not. At last an idea came. He would go downstairs to get some more cement. Having confided this plan to Owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again. `Got a bit of stopping to spare, Frank?' he asked in a loud voice. `No,' replied Owen. `I'm not using it.' `Then I suppose I'll have to go down and get some. Is there anything I can bring up for you?' `No, thanks,' replied Owen. Philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which Crass had utilized as a paint-shop. Crass was there mixing some colour. `I want a bit of stopping,' Philpot said as he helped himself to some. `Is the b--r gorn?' whispered Crass. `I don't know,' replied Philpot. `Where's his bike?' `'E always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied Crass. `Tell you what,' whispered Philpot, after a pause. `Give the boy a hempty bottle and let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there. If Misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some hoil.' This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately: the bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth. `Thank Gord!' said one. `Hope the b--r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck,' said another. `These Bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any good yet,' cried a third. Directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him. Then they again went on working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that Misery's presence inspired, they made better progress. A few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked. One of these was old Jack Linden. He was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves. As a rule he did not smoke when working; it was contrary to orders. As Philpot was returning to work again he paused for a moment to whisper to Linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him upstairs. On reaching Philpot's room the latter placed the step-ladder near the cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed it to Linden with the remark, `Get some of that acrost yer, matey; it'll put yer right.' While Linden was taking a hasty drink, Joe kept watch on the landing outside in case Hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear. When Linden was gone downstairs again, Philpot, having finished what remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up the chimney, resumed the work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls. He must make a bit of a show tonight or there would be a hell of a row when Misery came in the morning. Owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way. He felt like a beaten dog. He was more indignant on poor old Linden's account than on his own, and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation. All his life it had been the same: incessant work under similar more or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being just able to avoid starvation. And the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past; darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough, when he would be unable to work any more. He thought of his child. Was he to be a slave and a drudge all his life also? it would be better for the boy to die now. As Owen thought of his child's future there sprung up within him a feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fellow workmen. THEY WERE THE ENEMY. Those who not only quietly submitted like so many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and opposed and ridiculed any suggestion to alter it. THEY WERE THE REAL OPPRESSORS - the men who spoke of themselves as `The likes of us,' who, having lived in poverty and degradation all their lives considered that what had been good enough for them was good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into existence. He hated and despised them because the calmly saw their children condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberately refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than those they had themselves. It was because they were indifferent to the fate of THEIR children that he would be unable to secure a natural and human life for HIS. It was their apathy or active opposition that made it impossible to establish a better system of society under which those who did their fair share of the world's work would be honoured and rewarded. Instead of helping to do this, they abased themselves, and grovelled before their oppressors, and compelled and taught their children to do the same. THEY were the people who were really responsible for the continuance of the present system. Owen laughed bitterly to himself. What a very comical system it was. Those who worked were looked upon with contempt, and subjected to every possible indignity. Nearly everything they produced was taken away from them and enjoyed by the people who did nothing. And then the workers bowed down and grovelled before those who had robbed them of the fruits of their labour and were childishly grateful to them for leaving anything at all. No wonder the rich despised them and looked upon them as dirt. They WERE despicable. They WERE dirt. They admitted it and gloried in it. While these thoughts were seething in Owen's mind, his fellow workmen were still patiently toiling on downstairs. Most of them had by this time dismissed Hunter from their thoughts. They did not take things so seriously as Owen. They flattered themselves that they had more sense than that. It could not be altered. Grin and bear it. After all, it was only for life! Make the best of things, and get your own back whenever you get a chance. Presently Harlow began to sing. He had a good voice and it was a good song, but his mates just then did not appreciate either one of the other. His singing was the signal for an outburst of exclamations and catcalls. `Shut it, for Christ's sake!' `That's enough of that bloody row!' And so on. Harlow stopped. `How's the enemy?' asked Easton presently, addressing no one in particular. `Don't know,' replied Bundy. `It must be about half past four. Ask Slyme; he's got a watch,' It was a quarter past four. `It gets dark very early now,' said Easton. `Yes,' replied Bundy. `It's been very dull all day. I think it's goin' to rain. Listen to the wind.' `I 'ope not,' replied Easton. `That means a wet shirt goin' 'ome.' He called out to old Jack Linden, who was still working at the front doors: `Is it raining, Jack?' Old Jack, his pipe still in his mouth, turned to look at the weather. It was raining, but Linden did not see the large drops which splashed heavily upon the ground. He saw only Hunter, who was standing at the gate, watching him. For a few seconds the two men looked at each other in silence. Linden was paralysed with fear. Recovering himself, he hastily removed his pipe, but it was too late. Misery strode up. `I don't pay you for smoking,' he said, loudly. `Make out your time sheet, take it to the office and get your money. I've had enough of you!' Jack made no attempt to defend himself: he knew it was of no use. He silently put aside the things he had been using, went into the room where he had left his tool-bag and coat, removed his apron and white jacket, folded them up and put them into his tool-bag along with the tools he had been using - a chisel-knife and a shavehook - put on his coat, and, with the tool-bag slung over his shoulder, went away from the house. Without speaking to anyone else, Hunter then hastily walked over the place, noting what progress had been made by each man during his absence. He then rode away, as he wanted to get to the office in time to give Linden his money. It was now very cold and dark within the house, and as the gas was not yet laid on, Crass distributed a number of candles to the men, who worked silently, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts. Who would be the next? Outside, sombre masses of lead-coloured clouds gathered ominously in the tempestuous sky. The gale roared loudly round the old-fashioned house and the windows rattled discordantly. Rain fell in torrents. They said it meant getting wet through going home, but all the same, Thank God it was nearly five o'clock! Chapter 3 The Financiers That night as Easton walked home through the rain he felt very depressed. It had been a very bad summer for most people and he had not fared better than the rest. A few weeks with one firm, a few days with another, then out of a job, then on again for a month perhaps, and so on. William Easton was a man of medium height, about twenty-three years old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. He wore a stand-up collar with a coloured tie and his clothes, though shabby, were clean and neat. He was married: his wife was a young woman whose acquaintance he had made when he happened to be employed with others painting the outside of the house where she was a general servant. They had `walked out' for about fifteen months. Easton had been in no hurry to marry, for he knew that, taking good times with bad, his wages did no average a pound a week. At the end of that time, however, he found that he could not honourably delay longer, so they were married. That was twelve months ago. As a single man he had never troubled much if he happened to be out of work; he always had enough to live on and pocket money besides; but now that he was married it was different; the fear of being `out' haunted him all the time. He had started for Rushton & Co. on the previous Monday after having been idle for three weeks, and as the house where he was working had to be done right through he had congratulated himself on having secured a job that would last till Christmas; but he now began to fear that what had befallen Jack Linden might also happen to himself at any time. He would have to be very careful not to offend Crass in any way. He was afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was. Easton knew that Crass could get him the sack at any time, and would not scruple to do so if he wanted to make room for some crony of his own. Crass was the `coddy' or foreman of the job. Considered as a workman he had no very unusual abilities; he was if anything inferior to the majority of his fellow workmen. But although he had but little real ability he pretended to know everything, and the vague references he was in the habit of making to `tones', and `shades', and `harmony', had so impressed Hunter that the latter had a high opinion of him as a workman. It was by pushing himself forward in this way and by judicious toadying to Hunter that Crass managed to get himself put in charge of work. Although Crass did as little work as possible himself he took care that the others worked hard. Any man who failed to satisfy him in this respect he reported to Hunter as being `no good', or `too slow for a funeral'. The result was that this man was dispensed with at the end of the week. The men knew this, and most of them feared the wily Crass accordingly, though there were a few whose known abilities placed them to a certain extent above the reach of his malice. Frank Owen was one of these. There were others who by the judicious administration of pipefuls of tobacco and pints of beer, managed to keep in Crass's good graces and often retained their employment when better workmen were `stood off'. As he walked home through the rain thinking of these things, Easton realized that it was not possible to foresee what a day or even an hour might bring forth. By this time he had arrived at his home; it was a small house, one of a long row of similar ones, and it contained altogether four rooms. The front door opened into a passage about two feet six inches wide and ten feet in length, covered with oilcloth. At the end of the passage was a flight of stairs leading to the upper part of the house. The first door on the left led into the front sitting-room, an apartment about nine feet square, with a bay window. This room was very rarely used and was always very tidy and clean. The mantelpiece was of wood painted black and ornamented with jagged streaks of red and yellow, which were supposed to give it the appearance of marble. On the walls was a paper with a pale terra-cotta ground and a pattern consisting of large white roses with chocolate coloured leaves and stalks. There was a small iron fender with fire-irons to match, and on the mantelshelf stood a clock in a polished wood case, a pair of blue glass vases, and some photographs in frames. The floor was covered with oilcloth of a tile pattern in yellow and red. On the walls were two or three framed coloured prints such as are presented with Christmas numbers of illustrated papers. There was also a photograph of a group of Sunday School girls with their teachers with the church for the background. In the centre of the room was a round deal table about three feet six inches across, with the legs stained red to look like mahogany. Against one wall was an old couch covered with faded cretonne, four chairs to match standing backs to wall in different parts of the room. The table was covered with a red cloth with a yellow crewel work design in the centre and in each of the four corners, the edges being overcast in the same material. On the table were a lamp and a number of brightly bound books. Some of these things, as the couch and the chairs, Easton had bought second-hand and had done up himself. The table, oilcloth, fender, hearthrug, etc, had been obtained on the hire system and were not yet paid for. The windows were draped with white lace curtains and in the bay was a small bamboo table on which reposed a large Holy Bible, cheaply but showily bound. If anyone had ever opened this book they would have found that its pages were as clean as the other things in the room, and on the flyleaf might have been read the following inscription: `To dear Ruth, from her loving friend Mrs Starvem with the prayer that God's word may be her guide and that Jesus may be her very own Saviour. Oct. 12. 19--' Mrs Starvem was Ruth's former mistress, and this had been her parting gift when Ruth left to get married. It was supposed to be a keepsake, but as Ruth never opened the book and never willingly allowed her thoughts to dwell upon the scenes of which it reminded her, she had forgotten the existence of Mrs Starvem almost as completely as that well-to-do and pious lady had forgotten hers. For Ruth, the memory of the time she spent in the house of `her loving friend' was the reverse of pleasant. It comprised a series of recollections of petty tyrannies, insults and indignities. Six years of cruelly excessive work, beginning every morning two or three hours before the rest of the household were awake and ceasing only when she went exhausted to bed, late at night. She had been what is called a `slavey' but if she had been really a slave her owner would have had some regard for her health and welfare: her `loving friend' had had none. Mrs Starvem's only thought had been to get out of Ruth the greatest possible amount of labour and to give her as little as possible in return. When Ruth looked back upon that dreadful time she saw it, as one might say, surrounded by a halo of religion. She never passed by a chapel or heard the name of God, or the singing of a hymn, without thinking of her former mistress. To have looked into this Bible would have reminded her of Mrs Starvem; that was one of the reasons why the book reposed, unopened and unread, a mere ornament on the table in the bay window. The second door in the passage near the foot of the stairs led into the kitchen or living-room: from here another door led into the scullery. Upstairs were two bedrooms. As Easton entered the house, his wife met him in the passage and asked him not to make a noise as the child had just gone to sleep. They kissed each other and she helped him to remove his wet overcoat. Then they both went softly into the kitchen. This room was about the same size as the sitting-room. At one end was a small range with an oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece painted black. On the mantelshelf was a small round alarm clock and some brightly polished tin canisters. At the other end of the room, facing the fireplace, was a small dresser on the shelves of which were nearly arranged a number of plates and dishes. The walls were papered with oak paper. On one wall, between two coloured almanacks, hung a tin lamp with a reflector behind the light. In the middle of the room was an oblong deal table with a white tablecloth upon which the tea things were set ready. There were four kitchen chairs, two of which were placed close to the table. Overhead, across the room, about eighteen inches down from the ceiling, were stretched several cords upon which were drying a number of linen or calico undergarments, a coloured shirt, and Easton's white apron and jacket. On the back of a chair at one side of the fire more clothes were drying. At the other side on the floor was a wicker cradle in which a baby was sleeping. Nearby stood a chair with a towel hung on the back, arranged so as to shade the infant's face from the light of the lamp. An air of homely comfort pervaded the room; the atmosphere was warm, and the fire blazed cheerfully over the whitened hearth. They walked softly over and stood by the cradle side looking at the child; as they looked the baby kept moving uneasily in its sleep. Its face was very flushed and its eyes were moving under the half-closed lids. Every now and again its lips were drawn back slightly, showing part of the gums; presently it began to whimper, drawing up its knees as if in pain. `He seems to have something wrong with him,' said Easton. `I think it's his teeth,' replied the mother. `He's been very restless all day and he was awake nearly all last night.' `P'r'aps he's hungry.' `No, it can't be that. He had the best part of an egg this morning and I've nursed him several times today. And then at dinner-time he had a whole saucer full of fried potatoes with little bits of bacon in it.' Again the infant whimpered and twisted in its sleep, its lips drawn back showing the gums: its knees pressed closely to its body, the little fists clenched, and face flushed. Then after a few seconds it became placid: the mouth resumed its usual shape; the limbs relaxed and the child slumbered peacefully. `Don't you think he's getting thin?' asked Easton. `It may be fancy, but he don't seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago.' `No, he's not quite so fat,' admitted Ruth. `It's his teeth what's wearing him out; he don't hardly get no rest at all with them.' They continued looking at him a little longer. Ruth thought he was a very beautiful child: he would be eight months old on Sunday. They were sorry they could do nothing to ease his pain, but consoled themselves with the reflection that he would be all right once those teeth were through. `Well, let's have some tea,' said Easton at last. Whilst he removed his wet boots and socks and placed them in front of the fire to dry and put on dry socks and a pair of slippers in their stead, Ruth half filled a tin basin with hot water from the boiler and gave it to him, and he then went to the scullery, added some cold water and began to wash the paint off his hands. This done he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. `I couldn't think what to give you to eat tonight,' said Ruth as she poured out the tea. `I hadn't got no money left and there wasn't nothing in the house except bread and butter and that piece of cheese, so I cut some bread and butter and put some thin slices of cheese on it and toasted it on a place in front of the fire. I hope you'll like it: it was the best I could do.' `That's all right: it smells very nice anyway, and I'm very hungry.' As they were taking their tea Easton told his wife about Linden's affair and his apprehensions as to what might befall himself. They were both very indignant, and sorry for poor old Linden, but their sympathy for him was soon forgotten in their fears for their own immediate future. They remained at the table in silence for some time: then, `How much rent do we owe now?' asked Easton. `Four weeks, and I promised the collector the last time he called that we'd pay two weeks next Monday. He was quite nasty about it.' `Well, I suppose you'll have to pay it, that's all,' said Easton. `How much money will you have tomorrow?' asked Ruth. He began to reckon up his time: he started on Monday and today was Friday: five days, from seven to five, less half an hour for breakfast and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day - forty-two hours and a half. At sevenpence an hour that came to one pound four and ninepence halfpenny. `You know I only started on Monday,' he said, `so there's no back day to come. Tomorrow goes into next week.' `Yes, I know,' replied Ruth. `If we pay the two week's rent that'll leave us twelve shillings to live on.' `But we won't be able to keep all of that,' said Ruth, `because there's other things to pay.' `What other things?' `We owe the baker eight shillings for the bread he let us have while you were not working, and there's about twelve shillings owing for groceries. We'll have to pay them something on account. Then we want some more coal; there's only about a shovelful left, and -' `Wait a minnit,' said Easton. `The best way is to write out a list of everything we owe; then we shall know exactly where we are. You get me a piece of paper and tell me what to write. Then we'll see what it all comes to.' `Do you mean everything we owe, or everything we must pay tomorrow.' `I think we'd better make a list of all we owe first.' While they were talking the baby was sleeping restlessly, occasionally uttering plaintive little cries. The mother now went and knelt at the side of the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the infant with the other. `Except the furniture people, the biggest thing we owe is the rent,' she said when Easton was ready to begin. `It seems to me,' said he, as, after having cleared a space on the table and arranged the paper, he began to sharpen his pencil with a table-knife, `that you don't manage things as well as you might. If you was to make a list of just the things you MUST have before you went out of a Saturday, you'd find the money would go much farther. Instead of doing that you just take the money in your hand without knowing exactly what you're going to do with it, and when you come back it's all gone and next to nothing to show for it.' His wife made no reply: her head was bent over the child. `Now, let's see,' went on her husband. `First of all there's the rent. How much did you say we owe?' `Four weeks. That's the three weeks you were out and this week.' `Four sixes is twenty-four; that's one pound four,' said Easton as he wrote it down. `Next?' `Grocer, twelve shillings.' Easton looked up in astonishment. `Twelve shillings. Why, didn't you tell me only the other day that you'd paid up all we owed for groceries?' `Don't you remember we owed thirty-five shillings last spring? Well, I've been paying that bit by bit all the summer. I paid the last of it the week you finished your last job. Then you were out three weeks - up till last Friday - and as we had nothing in hand I had to get what we wanted without paying for it.' `But do you mean to say it cost us three shillings a week for tea and sugar and butter?' `It's not only them. There's been bacon and eggs and cheese and other things.' The man was beginning to become impatient. `Well,' he said, `What else?' `We owe the baker eight shillings. We did owe nearly a pound, but I've been paying it off a little at a time.' This was added to the list. `Then there's the milkman. I've not paid him for four weeks. He hasn't sent a bill yet, but you can reckon it up; we have two penn'orth every day.' `That's four and eight,' said Easton, writing it down. `Anything else?' `One and seven to the greengrocer for potatoes, cabbage, and paraffin oil.' `Anything else?' `We owe the butcher two and sevenpence.' `Why, we haven't had any meat for a long time,' said Easton. `When was it?' `Three weeks ago; don't you remember? A small leg of mutton,' `Oh, yes,' and he added the item. `Then there's the instalments for the furniture and oilcloth - twelve shillings. A letter came from them today. And there's something else.' She took three letters from the pocket of her dress and handed them to him. `They all came today. I didn't show them to you before as I didn't want to upset you before you had your tea.' Easton drew the first letter from its envelope. CORPORATION OF MUGSBOROUGH General District and Special Rates FINAL NOTICE MR W. EASTON, I have to remind you that the amount due from you as under, in respect of the above Rates, has not been paid, and to request that you will forward the same within Fourteen Days from this date. You are hereby informed that after this notice no further call will be made, or intimation given, before legal proceedings are taken to enforce payment. By order of the Council. JAMES LEAH. Collector, No. 2 District. District Rate .......................... ? 13 11 Special Rate ........................... 10 2 ________ ? 4 1 The second communication was dated from the office of the Assistant Overseer of the Poor. It was also a Final Notice and was worded in almost exactly the same way as the other, the principal difference being that it was `By order of the Overseers' instead of `the Council'. It demanded the sum of ? 1 5 1/2 for Poor Rate within fourteen days, and threatened legal proceedings in default. Easton laid this down and began to read the third letter - J. DIDLUM & CO LTD. Complete House Furnishers QUALITY STREET, MUGSBOROUGH MR W. EASTON, SIR: We have to remind you that three monthly payments of four shillings each (12/- in all) became due on the first of this month, and we must request you to let us have this amount BY RETURN OF POST. Under the terms of your agreement you guaranteed that the money should be paid on the Saturday of every fourth week. To prevent unpleasantness, we must request you for the future to forward the full amount punctually upon that day. Yours truly, J. DIDLUM & CO. LTD He read these communications several times in silence and finally with an oath threw them down on the table. `How much do we still owe for the oilcloth and the furniture?' he asked. `I don't know exactly. It was seven pound odd, and we've had the things about six months. We paid one pound down and three or four instalments. I'll get the card if you like.' `No; never mind. Say we've paid one pound twelve; so we still owe about six pound.' He added this amount to the list. `I think it's a great pity we ever had the things at all,' he said, peevishly. `It would have been better to have gone without until we could pay cash for them: but you would have your way, of course. Now we'll have this bloody debt dragging on us for years, and before the dam stuff is paid for it'll be worn out.' The woman did not reply at once. She was bending down over the cradle arranging the coverings which the restless movements of the child had disordered. She was crying silently, unnoticed by her husband. For months past - in fact ever since the child was born - she had been existing without sufficient food. If Easton was unemployed they had to stint themselves so as to avoid getting further into debt than was absolutely necessary. When he was working they had to go short in order to pay what they owed; but of what there was Easton himself, without knowing it, always had the greater share. If he was at work she would pack into his dinner basket overnight the best there was in the house. When he was out of work she often pretended, as she gave him his meals, that she had had hers while he was out. And all the time the baby was draining her life away and her work was never done. She felt very weak and weary as she crouched there, crying furtively and trying not to let him see. At last she said, without looking round: `You know quite well that you were just as much in favour of getting them as I was. If we hadn't got the oilcloth there would have been illness in the house because of the way the wind used to come up between the floorboards. Even now of a windy day the oilcloth moves up and down.' `Well, I'm sure I don't know,' said Easton, as he looked alternatively at the list of debts and the three letters. `I give you nearly every farthing I earn and I never interfere about anything, because I think it's your part to attend to the house, but it seems to me you don't manage things properly.' The woman suddenly burst into a passion of weeping, laying her head on the seat of the chair that was standing near the cradle. Easton started up in surprise. `Why, what's the matter?' he said. Then as he looked down upon the quivering form of the sobbing woman, he was ashamed. He knelt down by her, embracing her and apologizing, protesting that he had not meant to hurt her like that. `I always do the best I can with the money,' Ruth sobbed. `I never spend a farthing on myself, but you don't seem to understand how hard it is. I don't care nothing about having to go without things myself, but I can't bear it when you speak to me like you do lately. You seem to blame me for everything. You usen't to speak to me like that before I - before - Oh, I am so tired - I am so tired, I wish I could lie down somewhere and sleep and never wake up any more.' She turned away from him, half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, her arms folded on the seat of the chair, and her head resting upon them. She was crying in a heartbroken helpless way. `I'm sorry I spoke to you like that,' said Easton, awkwardly. `I didn't mean what I said. It's all my fault. I leave things too much to you, and it's more than you can be expected to manage. I'll help you to think things out in future; only forgive me, I'm very sorry. I know you try your best.' She suffered him to draw her to him, laying her head on his shoulder as he kissed and fondled her, protesting that he would rather be poor and hungry with her than share riches with anyone else. The child in the cradle - who had been twisting and turning restlessly all this time - now began to cry loudly. The mother took it from the cradle and began to hush and soothe it, walking about the room and rocking it in her arms. The child, however, continued to scream, so she sat down to nurse it: for a little while the infant refused to drink, struggling and kicking in its mother's arms, then for a few minutes it was quite, taking the milk in a half-hearted, fretful way. Then it began to scream and twist and struggle. They both looked at it in a helpless manner. Whatever could be the matter with it? It must be those teeth. Then suddenly as they were soothing and patting him, the child vomited all over its own and its mother's clothing a mass of undigested food. Mingled with the curdled milk were fragments of egg, little bits of bacon, bread and particles of potato. Having rid his stomach of this unnatural burden, the unfortunate baby began to cry afresh, his face very pale, his lips colourless, and his eyes red-rimmed and running with water. Easton walked about with him while Ruth cleaned up the mess and got ready some fresh clothing. They both agreed that it was the coming teeth that had upset the poor child's digestion. It would be a good job when they were through. This work finished, Easton, who was still convinced in his own mind that with the aid of a little common sense and judicious management their affairs might be arranged more satisfactorily, said: `We may as well make a list of all the things we must pay and buy tomorrow. The great thing is to think out exactly what you are going to do before you spend anything; that saves you from getting things you don't really need and prevents you forgetting the things you MUST have. Now, first of all, the rent; two weeks, twelve shillings.' He took a fresh piece of paper and wrote this item down. `What else is there that we must pay or buy tomorrow?' `Well, you know I promised the baker and the grocer that I would begin to pay them directly you got a job, and if I don't keep my word they won't let us have anything another time, so you'd better put down two shillings each for them. `I've got that,' said Easton. `Two and seven for the butcher. We must pay that. I'm ashamed to pass the shop, because when I got the meat I promised to pay him the next week, and it's nearly three weeks ago now.' `I've put that down. What else?' `A hundred of coal: one and six.' `Next?' `The instalment for the furniture and floor-cloth, twelve shillings.' `Next?' `We owe the milkman four weeks; we'd better pay one week on account; that's one and two.' `Next?' `The greengrocer; one shilling on account.' `Anything else?' `We shall want a piece of meat of some kind; we've had none for nearly three weeks. You'd better say one and six for that.' `That's down.' `One and nine for bread; that's one loaf a day.' `But I've got two shillings down for bread already,' said Easton. `Yes, I know, dear, but that's to go towards paying off what we owe, and what you have down for the grocer and milkman's the same.' `Well, go on, for Christ's sake, and let's get it down,' said Easton, irritably. `We can't say less than three shillings for groceries.' Easton looked carefully at his list. This time he felt sure that the item was already down; but finding he was mistaken he said nothing and added the amount. `Well, I've got that. What else?' `Milk, one and two.' `Next?' `Vegetables, eightpence.' `Yes.' `Paraffin oil and firewood, sixpence.' Again the financier scrutinized the list. He was positive that it was down already. However, he could not find it, so the sixpence was added to the column of figures. `Then there's your boots; you can't go about with them old things in this weather much longer, and they won't stand mending again. You remember the old man said they were not worth it when you had that patch put on a few weeks ago.' `Yes. I was thinking of buying a new pair tomorrow. My socks was wet through tonight. If it's raining some morning when I'm going out and I have to work all day with wet feet I shall be laid up.' `At that second-hand shop down in High Street I saw when I was out this afternoon a very good pair just your size, for two shillings.' Easton did not reply at once. He did not much fancy wearing the cast-off boots of some stranger, who for all he knew might have suffered from some disease, but then remembering that his old ones were literally falling off his feet he realized that he had practically no choice. `If you're quite sure they'll fit you'd better get them. It's better to do that than for me to catch cold and be laid up for God knows how long.' So the two shillings were added to the list. `Is there anything else?' `How much does it all come to now?' asked Ruth. Easton added it all up. When he had finished he remained staring at the figures in consternation for a long time without speaking. `Jesus Christ!' he ejaculated at last. `What's it come to?' asked Ruth. `Forty-four and tenpence.' `I knew we wouldn't have enough,' said Ruth, wearily. `Now if you think I manage so badly, p'raps you can tell me which of these things we ought to leave out.' `We'd be all right if it wasn't for the debts,' said Easton, doggedly. `When you're not working, we must either get into debt or starve.' Easton made no answer. `What'll we do about the rates?' asked Ruth. `I'm sure I don't know: there's nothing left to pawn except my black coat and vest. You might get something on that.' `It'll have to be paid somehow,' said Ruth, `or you'll be taken off to jail for a month, the same as Mrs Newman's husband was last winter.' `Well, you'd better take the coat and vest and see what you can get on 'em tomorrow.' `Yes,' said Ruth; `and there's that brown silk dress of mine - you know, the one I wore when we was married - I might get something on that, because we won't get enough on the coat and vest. I don't like parting with the dress, although I never wear it; but we'll be sure to be able to get it out again, won't we?' `Of course,' said Easton. They remained silent for some time, Easton staring at the list of debts and the letters. She was wondering if he still thought she managed badly, and what he would do about it. She knew she had always done her best. At last she said, wistfully, trying to speak plainly for there seemed to be a lump in her throat: `And what about tomorrow? Would you like to spend the money yourself, or shall I manage as I've done before, or will you tell me what to do?' `I don't know, dear,' said Easton, sheepishly. `I think you'd better do as you think best.' `Oh, I'll manage all right, dear, you'll see,' replied Ruth, who seemed to think it a sort of honour to be allowed to starve herself and wear shabby clothes. The baby, who had been for some time quietly sitting upon his mother's lap, looking wonderingly at the fire - his teeth appeared to trouble him less since he got rid of the eggs and bacon and potatoes - now began to nod and doze, which Easton perceiving, suggested that the infant should not be allowed to go to sleep with an empty stomach, because it would probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night. He therefore work him up as much as possible and mashed a little of the bread and toasted cheese with a little warm milk. Then taking the baby from Ruth he began to try to induce it to eat. As soon, however, as the child understood his object, it began to scream at the top of its voice, closing its lips firmly and turning its head rapidly from side to side every time the spoon approached its mouth. It made such a dreadful noise that Easton at last gave in. He began to walk about the room with it, and presently the child sobbed itself to sleep. After putting the baby into its cradle Ruth set about preparing Easton's breakfast and packing it into his basket. This did not take very long, there being only bread and butter - or, to be more correct, margarine. Then she poured what tea was left in the tea-pot into a small saucepan and placed it on the top of the oven, but away from the fire, cut two more slices of bread and spread on them all the margarine that was left; then put them on a plate on the table, covering them with a saucer to prevent them getting hard and dry during the night. Near the plate she placed a clean cup and saucer and the milk and sugar. In the morning Easton would light the fire and warm up the tea in the saucepan so as to have a cup of tea before going out. If Ruth was awake and he was not pressed for time, he generally took a cup of tea to her in bed. Nothing now remained to be done but to put some coal and wood ready in the fender so that there would be no unnecessary delay in the morning. The baby was still sleeping and Ruth did not like to wake him up yet to dress him for the night. Easton was sitting by the fire smoking, so everything being done, Ruth sat down at the table and began sewing. Presently she spoke: `I wish you'd let me try to let that back room upstairs: the woman next door has got hers let unfurnished to an elderly woman and her husband for two shillings a week. If we could get someone like that it would be better than having an empty room in the house.' `And we'd always have them messing about down here, cooking and washing and one thing and another,' objected Easton; `they'd be more trouble than they way worth.' `Well, we might try and furnish it. There's Mrs Crass across the road has got two lodgers in one room. They pay her twelve shillings a week each; board, lodging and washing. That's one pound four she has coming in reglar every week. If we could do the same we'd very soon be out of debt.' `What's the good of talking? You'd never be able to do the work even if we had the furniture.' `Oh, the work's nothing,' replied Ruth, `and as for the furniture, we've got plenty of spare bedclothes, and we could easily manage without a washstand in our room for a bit, so the only thing we really want is a small bedstead and mattress; we could get them very cheap second-hand.' `There ought to be a chest of drawers,' said Easton doubtfully. `I don't think so,' replied Ruth. `There's a cupboard in the room and whoever took it would be sure to have a box.' `Well, if you think you can do the work I've no objection,' said Easton. `It'll be a nuisance having a stranger in the way all the time, but I suppose we must do something of the sort or else we'll have to give up the house and take a couple of rooms somewhere. That would be worse than having lodgers ourselves. `Let's go and have a look at the room,' he added, getting up and taking the lamp from the wall. They had to go up two flights of stairs before arriving at the top landing, where there were two doors, one leading into the front room - their bedroom - and the other into the empty back room. These two doors were at right angles to each other. The wallpaper in the back room was damaged and soiled in several places. `There's nearly a whole roll of this paper on the top of the cupboard,' said Ruth. `You could easily mend all those places. We could hag up a few almanacks on the walls; our washstand could go there by the window; a chair just there, and the bed along that wall behind the door. It's only a small window, so I could easily manage to make a curtain out of something. I'm sure I could make the room look quite nice without spending hardly anything.' Easton reached down the roll of paper. It was the same pattern as that on the wall. The latter was a good deal faded, of course, but it would not matter much if the patches showed a little. They returned to the kitchen. `Do you think you know anyone who would take it?' asked Ruth. Easton smoked thoughtfully. `No,' he said at length. `But I'll mention it to one or two of the chaps on the job; they might know of someone.' `And I'll get Mrs Crass to ask her lodgers: p'raps they might have a friend what would like to live near them.' So it was settled; and as the fire was nearly out and it was getting late, they prepared to retire for the night. The baby was still sleeping so Easton lifted it, cradle and all, and carried it up the narrow staircase into the front bedroom, Ruth leading the way, carrying the lamp and some clothes for the child. So that the infant might be within easy reach of its mother during the night, two chairs were arranged close to her side of the bed and the cradle placed on them. `Now we've forgot the clock,' said Easton, pausing. He was half undressed and had already removed his slippers. `I'll slip down and get it,' said Ruth. `Never mind, I'll go,' said Easton, beginning to put his slippers on again. `No, you get into bed. I've not started undressing yet. I'll get it,' replied Ruth who was already on her way down. `I don't know as it was worth the trouble of going down,' said Ruth when she returned with the clock. `It stopped three or four times today.' `Well, I hope it don't stop in the night,' Easton said. `It would be a bit of all right not knowing what time it was in the morning. I suppose the next thing will be that we'll have to buy a new clock.' He woke several times during the night and struck a match to see if it was yet time to get up. At half past two the clock was still going and he again fell asleep. The next time he work up the ticking had ceased. He wondered what time it was? It was still very dark, but that was nothing to go by, because it was always dark at six now. He was wide awake: it must be nearly time to get up. It would never do to be late; he might get the sack. He got up and dressed himself. Ruth was asleep, so he crept quietly downstairs, lit the fire and heated the tea. When it was ready he went softly upstairs again. Ruth was still sleeping, so he decided not to disturb her. Returning to the kitchen, he poured out and drank a cup of tea, put on his boots, overcoat and hat and taking his basket went out of the house. The rain was still falling and it was very cold and dark. There was no one else in the street. Easton shivered as he walked along wondering what time it could be. He remembered there was a clock over the front of a jeweller's shop a little way down the main road. When he arrived at this place he found that the clock being so high up he could not see the figures on the face distinctly, because it was still very dark. He stood staring for a few minutes vainly trying to see what time it was when suddenly the light of a bull's-eye lantern was flashed into his eyes. `You're about very early,' said a voice, the owner of which Easton could not see. The light blinded him. `What time is it?' said Easton. `I've got to get to work at seven and our clock stopped during the night.' `Where are you working?' `At "The Cave" in Elmore Road. You know, near the old toll gate.' `What are you doing there and who are you working for?' the policeman demanded. Easton explained. `Well,' said the constable, `it's very strange that you should be wandering about at this hour. It's only about three-quarters of an hour's walk from here to Elmore Road. You say you've got to get there at seven, and it's only a quarter to four now. Where do you live? What's your name?' Easton gave his name and address and began repeating the story about the clock having stopped. `What you say may be all right or it may not,' interrupted the policeman. `I'm not sure but that I ought to take you to the station. All I know about you is that I find you loitering outside this shop. What have you got in that basket?' `Only my breakfast,' Easton said, opening the basket and displaying its contents. `I'm inclined to believe what you say,' said the policeman, after a pause. `But to make quite sure I'll go home with you. It's on my beat, and I don't want to run you in if you're what you say you are, but I should advise you to buy a decent clock, or you'll be getting yourself into trouble.' When they arrived at the house Easton opened the door, and after making some entries in his note-book the officer went away, much to the relief of Easton, who went upstairs, set the hands of the clock right and started it going again. He then removed his overcoat and lay down on the bed in his clothes, covering himself with the quilt. After a while he fell asleep, and when he awoke the clock was still ticking. The time was exactly seven o'clock. Chapter 4 The Placard Frank Owen was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of consumption when the boy was only five years old. After that his mother earned a scanty living as a needle-woman. When Frank was thirteen he went to work for a master decorator who was a man of a type that has now almost disappeared, being not merely an employer but a craftsman of a high order. He was an old man when Frank Owen went to work for him. At one time he had had a good business in the town, and used to boast that he had always done good work, had found pleasure in doing it and had been well paid for it. But of late years the number of his customers had dwindled considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which cared nothing about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness and profit. From this man and by laborious study and practice in his spare time, aided by a certain measure of natural ability, the boy acquired a knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining and signwriting. Frank's mother died when he was twenty-four, and a year afterwards he married the daughter of a fellow workman. In those days trade was fairly good and although there was not much demand for the more artistic kinds of work, still the fact that he was capable of doing them, if required, made it comparatively easy for him to obtain employment. Owen and his wife were very happy. They had one child - a boy - and for some years all went well. But gradually this state of things altered: broadly speaking, the change came slowly and imperceptibly, although there were occasional sudden fluctuations. Even in summer he could not always find work: and in winter it was almost impossible to get a job of any sort. At last, about twelve months before the date that this story opens, he determined to leave his wife and child at home and go to try his fortune in London. When he got employment he would send for them. It was a vain hope. He found London, if anything, worse than his native town. Wherever he went he was confronted with the legend: `No hands wanted'. He walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold all his clothes save those he stood in, and stayed in London for six months, sometimes starving and only occasionally obtaining a few days or weeks work. At the end of that time he was forced to give in. The privations he had endured, the strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the city combined to defeat him. Symptoms of the disease that had killed his father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of his former self. That was six months ago, and since then he had worked for Rushton & Co. Occasionally when they had no work in hand, he was `stood off' until something came in. Ever since his return from London, Owen had been gradually abandoning himself to hopelessness. Every day he felt that the disease he suffered from was obtaining a stronger grip on him. The doctor told him to `take plenty of nourishing food', and prescribed costly medicines which Owen had not the money to buy. Then there was his wife. Naturally delicate, she needed many things that he was unable to procure for her. And the boy - what hope was there for him? Often as Owen moodily thought of their circumstances and prospects he told himself that it would be far better if they could all three die now, together. He was tired of suffering himself, tired of impotently watching the sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought of what was in store for the child. Of this nature were his reflections as he walked homewards on the evening of the day when old Linden was dismissed. There was no reason to believe or hope that the existing state of things would be altered for a long time to come. Thousands of people like himself dragged out a wretched existence on the very verge of starvation, and for the greater number of people life was one long struggle against poverty. Yet practically none of these people knew or even troubled themselves to inquire why they were in that condition; and for anyone else to try to explain to them was a ridiculous waste of time, for they did not want to know. The remedy was so simple, the evil so great and so glaringly evident that the only possible explanation of its continued existence was that the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of reasoning. If these people were not mentally deficient they would of their own accord have swept this silly system away long ago. It would not have been necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong. Why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that they would not eventually die of want. In every workhouse might be found people who had at one time occupied good positions; and their downfall was not in every case their own fault. No matter how prosperous a man might be, he could not be certain that his children would never want for bread. There were thousands living in misery on starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people. As Owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled with these thoughts, he was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet through to the skin. He was without an overcoat, it was pawned in London, and he had not yet been able to redeem it. His boots were leaky and sodden with mud and rain. He was nearly home now. At the corner of the street in which he lived there was a newsagent's shop and on a board outside the door was displayed a placard: TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY DOUBLE MURDER AND SUICIDE He went in to buy a copy of the paper. He was a frequent customer here, and as he entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name. `Dreadful weather,' he remarked as he handed Owen the paper. `It makes things pretty bad in your line, I suppose?' `Yes,' responded Owen, `there's a lot of men idle, but fortunately I happen to be working inside.' `You're one of the lucky ones, then,' said the other. `You know, there'll be a job here for some of 'em as soon as the weather gets a little better. All the outside of this block is going to be done up. That's a pretty big job, isn't it?' `Yes,' returned Owen. `Who's going to do it?' `Makehaste and Sloggit. You know, they've got a place over at Windley.' `Yes, I know the firm,' said Owen, grimly. He had worked for them once or twice himself. `The foreman was in here today,' the shopkeeper went on. `He said they're going to make a start Monday morning if it's fine.' `Well, I hope it will be,' said Owen, `because things are very quiet just now.' Wishing the other `Good nigh', Owen again proceeded homewards. Half-way down the street he paused irresolutely: he was thinking of the news he had just heard and of Jack Linden. As soon as it became generally known that this work was about to be started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it would be a case of first come, first served. If he saw Jack tonight the old man might be in time to secure a job. Owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a long way to Linden's place, nearly twenty minutes' walk. Still, he would like to let him know, because unless he was one of the first to apply, Linden would not stand such a good chance as a younger man. Owen said to himself that if he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching cold. Standing about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one kept moving it was all right. He turned back and set off in the direction of Linden's house: although he was but a few yards from his own home, he decided not to go in because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go out again. As he hurried along he presently noticed a small dark object on the doorstep of an untenanted house. He stopped to examine it more closely and perceived that it was a small black kitten. The tiny creature came towards him and began walking about his feet, looking into his face and crying piteously. He stooped down and stroked it, shuddering as his hands came in contact with its emaciated body. Its fur was saturated with rain and every joint of its backbone was distinctly perceptible to the touch. As he caressed it, the starving creature mewed pathetically. Owen decided to take it home to the boy, and as he picked it up and put it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr. This incident served to turn his thoughts into another channel. If, as so many people pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving God, how was it that this helpless creature that He had made was condemned to suffer? It had never done any harm, and was in no sense responsible for the fact that it existed. Was God unaware of the miseries of His creatures? If so, then He was not all-knowing. Was God aware of their sufferings, but unable to help them? Then He was not all-powerful. Had He the power but not the will to make His creatures happy? Then He was not good. No; it was impossible to believe in the existence of an individual, infinite God.. In fact, no one did so believe; and least of all those who pretended for various reasons to be the disciples and followers of Christ. The anti-Christs who went about singing hymns, making long prayers and crying Lord, Lord, but never doing the things which He said, who were known by their words to be unbelievers and infidels, unfaithful to the Master they pretended to serve, their lives being passed in deliberate and systematic disregard of His teachings and Commandments. It was not necessary to call in the evidence of science, or to refer to the supposed inconsistencies, impossibilities, contradictions and absurdities contained in the Bible, in order to prove there was no truth in the Christian religion. All that was necessary was to look at the conduct of the individuals who were its votaries. Chapter 5 The Clock-case Jack Linden lived in a small cottage in Windley. He had occupied this house ever since his marriage, over thirty years ago. His home and garden were his hobby: he was always doing something; painting, whitewashing, papering and so forth. The result was that although the house itself was not of much account he had managed to get it into very good order, and as a result it was very clean and comfortable. Another result of his industry was that - seeing the improved appearance of the place - the landlord had on two occasions raised the rent. When Linden first took the house the rent was six shillings a week. Five years after, it was raised to seven shillings, and after the lapse of another five years it had been increased to eight shillings. During the thirty years of his tenancy he had paid altogether nearly six hundred pounds in rent, more than double the amount of the present value of the house. Jack did not complain of this - in fact he was very well satisfied. He often said that Mr Sweater was a very good landlord, because on several occasions when, being out of work, he had been a few weeks behind with his rent the agent acting for the benevolent Mr Sweater had allowed Linden to pay off the arrears by instalments. As old Jack was in the habit of remarking, many a landlord would have sold up their furniture and turned them into the street. As the reader is already aware, Linden's household consisted of his wife, his two grandchildren and his daughter-in-law, the window and children of his youngest son, a reservist, who died while serving in the South African War. This man had been a plasterer, and just before the war he was working for Rushton & Co. They had just finished their tea when Owen knocked at their front door. The young woman went to see who was there. `Is Mr Linden in?' `Yes. Who is it?' `My name's Owen.' Old Jack, however, had already recognized Owen's voice, and came to the door, wondering what he wanted. `As I was going home I heard that Makehaste and Sloggit are going to start a large job on Monday, so I thought I'd run over and let you know.' `Are they?' said Linden. `I'll go and see them in the morning. But I'm afraid I won't stand much chance, because a lot of their regular hands are waiting for a job; but I'll go and see 'em all the same.' `Well, you know, it's a big job. All the outside of that block at the corner of Kerk Street and Lord Street. They're almost sure to want a few extra hands.' `Yes, there's something in that,' said Linden. `Anyhow, I'm much obliged to you for letting me know; but come in out of the rain. You must be wet through.' `No; I won't stay,' responded Owen. `I don't want to stand about any longer than I can help in these wet clothes.' `But it won't take you a minit to drink a cup of tea,' Linden insisted. `I won't ask you to stop longer than that.' Owen entered; the old man closed the door and led the way into the kitchen. At one side of the fire, Linden's wife, a frail-looking old lady with white hair, was seated in a large armchair, knitting. Linden sat down in a similar chair on the other side. The two grandchildren, a boy and girl about seven and eight years, respectively, were still seated at the table. Standing by the side of the dresser at one end of the room was a treadle sewing machine, and on one end of the dresser was a a pile of sewing: ladies' blouses in process of making. This was another instance of the goodness of Mr Sweater, from whom Linden's daughter-in-law obtained the work. It was not much, because she was only able to do it in her spare time, but then, as she often remarked, every little helped. The floor was covered with linoleum: there were a number of framed pictures on the walls, and on the high mantelshelf were a number of brightly polished tins and copper utensils. The room had that indescribably homelike, cosy air that is found only in those houses in which the inhabitants have dwelt for a very long time. The younger woman was already pouring out a cup of tea. Old Mrs Linden, who had never seen Owen before, although she had heard of him, belonged to the Church of England and was intensely religious. She looked curiously at the Atheist as he entered the room. He had taken off his hat and she was surprised to find that he was not repulsive to look at, rather the contrary. But then she remembered that Satan often appears as an angel of light. Appearances are deceitful. She wished that John had not asked him into the house and hoped that no evil consequences would follow. As she looked at him, she was horrified to perceive a small black head with a pair of glistening green eyes peeping out of the breast of his coat, and immediately afterwards the kitten, catching sight of the cups and saucers on the table, began to mew frantically and scrambled suddenly out of its shelter, inflicting a severe scratch on Owen's restraining hands as it jumped to the floor. It clambered up the tablecloth and began rushing all over the table, darting madly from one plate to another, seeking something to eat. The children screamed with delight. Their grandmother was filled with a feeling of superstitious alarm. Linden and the young woman stood staring with astonishment at the unexpected visitor. Before the kitten had time to do any damage, Owen caught hold of it and, despite its struggles, lifted it off the table. `I found it in the street as I was coming along,' he said. `It seems to be starving.' `Poor little thing. I'll give it something.' exclaimed the young woman. She put some milk and bread into a saucer for it and the kitten ate ravenously, almost upsetting the saucer in its eagerness, much to the amusement of the two children, who stood by watching it admiringly. Their mother now handed Owen a cup of tea. Linden insisted on his sitting down and then began to talk about Hunter. `You know I HAD to spend some time on them doors to make 'em look anything at all; but it wasn't the time I took, or even the smoking what made 'im go on like that. He knows very well the time it takes. The real reason is that he thinks I was gettin' too much money. Work is done so rough nowadays that chaps like Sawkins is good enough for most of it. Hunter shoved me off just because I was getting the top money, and you'll see I won't be the only one.' `I'm afraid you're right,' returned Owen. `Did you see Rushton when you went for your money?' `Yes,' replied Linden. `I hurried up as fast as I could, but Hunter was there first. He passed me on his bike before I got half-way, so I suppose he told his tale before I came. Anyway, when I started to speak to Mr Rushton he wouldn't listen. Said he couldn't interfere between Mr Hunter and the men.# `Ah! They're a bad lot, them two,' said the old woman, shaking her head sagely. `But it'll all come 'ome to 'em, you'll see. They'll never prosper. The Lord will punish them.' Owen did not feel very confident of that. Most of the people he knew who had prospered were very similar in character to the two worthies in question. However, he did not want to argue with this poor old woman. `When Tom was called up to go to the war,' said the young woman, bitterly, 'Mr Rushton shook hands with him and promised to give him a job when he came back. But now that poor Tom's gone and they know that me and the children's got no one to look to but Father, they do THIS.' Although at the mention of her dead son's name old Mrs Linden was evidently distressed, she was still mindful of the Atheist's presence, and hastened to rebuke her daughter-in-law. `You shouldn't say we've got no one to look to, Mary,' she said. `We're not as them who are without God and without hope in the world. The Lord is our shepherd. He careth for the widow and the fatherless.' Owen was very doubtful about this also. He had seen so many badly cared-for children about the streets lately, and what he remembered of his own sorrowful childhood was all evidence to the contrary. An awkward silence succeeded. Owen did not wish to continue this conversation: he was afraid that he might say something that would hurt the old woman. Besides, he was anxious to get away; he began to feel cold in his wet clothes. As he put his empty cup on the table he said: `Well, I must be going. They'll be thinking I'm lost, at home.' The kitten had finished all the bread and milk and was gravely washing its face with one of its forepaws, to the great admiration of the two children, who were sitting on the floor beside it. It was an artful-looking kitten, all black, with a very large head and a very small body. It reminded Owen of a tadpole. `Do you like cats?' he asked, addressing the children. `Yes,' said the boy. `Give it to us, will you, mister?' `Oh, do leave it 'ere, mister,' exclaimed the little girl. `I'll look after it.' `So will I,' said the boy . `But haven't you one of your own?' asked Owen. `Yes; we've got a big one.' `Well, if you have one already and I give you this, then you'd have two cats, and I'd have none. That wouldn't be fair, would it?' `Well, you can 'ave a lend of our cat for a little while if you give us this kitten,' said the boy, after a moment's thought. `Why would you rather have the kitten?' `Because it would play: our cat don't want to play, it's too old.' `Perhaps you're too rough with it,' returned Owen. `No, it ain't that; it's just because it's old.' `You know cats is just the same as people,' explained the little girl, wisely. `When they're grown up I suppose they've got their troubles to think about.' Owen wondered how long it would be before her troubles commenced. As he gazed at these two little orphans he thought of his own child, and of the rough and thorny way they would all three have to travel if they were so unfortunate as to outlive their childhood. `Can we 'ave it, mister?' repeated the boy. Owen would have liked to grant the children's request, but he wanted the kitten himself. Therefore he was relieved when their grandmother exclaimed: `We don't want no more cats 'ere: we've got one already; that's quite enough.' She was not yet quite satisfied in her mind that the creature was not an incarnation of the Devil, but whether it was or not she did not want it, or anything else of Owen's, in this house. She wished he would go, and take his kitten or his familiar or whatever it was, with him. No good could come of his being there. Was it not written in the Word: `If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema Maran-atha.' She did not know exactly what Anathema Maran-atha meant, but there could be no doubt that it was something very unpleasant. It was a terrible thing that this blasphemer who - as she had heard - did not believe there was a Hell and said that the Bible was not the Word of God, should be here in the house sitting on one of their chairs, drinking from one of their cups, and talking to their children. The children stood by wistfully when Owen put the kitten under his coat and rose to go away. As Linden prepared to accompany him to the front door, Owen, happening to notice a timepiece standing on a small table in the recess at one side of the fireplace, exclaimed: `That's a very nice clock.' `Yes, it's all right, ain't it?' said old Jack, with a touch of pride. `Poor Tom made that: not the clock itself, but just the case.' It was the case that had attracted Owen's attention. It stood about two feet high and was made of fretwork in the form of an Indian mosque, with a pointed dome and pinnacles. It was a very beautiful thing and must have cost many hours of patient labour. `Yes,' said the old woman, in a trembling, broken voice, and looking at Owen with a pathetic expression. `Months and months he worked at it, and no one ever guessed who it were for. And then, when my birthday came round, the very first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning were the clock standing on a chair by the bed with a card: 'To dear mother, from her loving son, Tom. Wishing her many happy birthdays.' `But he never had another birthday himself, because just five months afterwards he were sent out to Africa, and he'd only been there five weeks when he died. Five years ago, come the fifteenth of next month.' Owen, inwardly regretting that he had unintentionally broached so painful a subject, tried to think of some suitable reply, but had to content himself with murmuring some words of admiration of the work. As he wished her good night, the old woman, looking at him, could not help observing that he appeared very frail and ill: his face was very thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. Possibly the Lord in His infinite loving kindness and mercy was chastening this unhappy castaway in order that He might bring him to Himself. After all, he was not altogether bad: it was certainly very thoughtful of him to come all this way to let John know about that job. She observed that he had no overcoat, and the storm was still raging fiercely outside, furious gusts of wind frequently striking the house and shaking it to its very foundations. The natural kindliness of her character asserted itself; her better feelings were aroused, triumphing momentarily over the bigotry of her religious opinions. `Why, you ain't got no overcoat!' she exclaimed. `You'll be soaked goin' 'ome in this rain.' Then, turning to her husband, she continued: `There's that old one of yours; you might lend him that; it would be better than nothing.' But Owen would not hear of this: he thought, as he became very conscious of the clammy feel of his saturated clothing, that he could not get much wetter than he already was. Linden accompanied him as far as the front door, and Owen once more set out on his way homeward through the storm that howled around like a wild beast hungry for its prey. Chapter 6 It is not My Crime Owen and his family occupied the top floor of a house that had once been a large private dwelling but which had been transformed into a series of flats. It was situated in Lord Street, almost in the centre of the town. At one time this had been a most aristocratic locality, but most of the former residents had migrated to the newer suburb at the west of the town. Notwithstanding this fact, Lord Street was still a most respectable neighbourhood, the inhabitants generally being of a very superior type: shop-walkers, shop assistants, barber's clerks, boarding house keepers, a coal merchant, and even two retired jerry-builders. There were four other flats in the house in which Owen lived. No. 1 (the basement) was occupied by an estate agent's clerk. No. 2 - on a level with the street - was the habitat of the family of Mr Trafaim, a cadaverous-looking gentleman who wore a top hat, boasted of his French descent, and was a shop-walker at Sweater's Emporium. No. 3 was tenanted by an insurance agent, and in No. 4 dwelt a tallyman's traveller. Lord Street - like most other similar neighbourhoods - supplied a striking answer to those futile theorists who prate of the equality of mankind, for the inhabitants instinctively formed themselves into groups, the more superior types drawing together, separating themselves from the inferior, and rising naturally to the top, while the others gathered themselves into distinct classes, grading downwards, or else isolated themselves altogether; being refused admission to the circles they desired to enter, and in their turn refusing to associate with their inferiors. The most exclusive set consisted of the families of the coal merchant, the two retired jerry-builders and Mr Trafaim, whose superiority was demonstrated by the fact that, to say nothing of his French extraction, he wore - in addition to the top hat aforesaid - a frock coat and a pair of lavender trousers every day. The coal merchant and the jerry builders also wore top hats, lavender trousers and frock coats, but only on Sundays and other special occasions. The estate agent's clerk and the insurance agent, though excluded from the higher circle, belonged to another select coterie from which they excluded in their turn all persons of inferior rank, such as shop assistants or barbers. The only individual who was received with equal cordiality by all ranks, was the tallyman's traveller. But whatever differences existed amongst them regarding each other's social standing they were unanimous on one point at least: they were indignant at Owen's presumption in coming to live in such a refined locality. This low fellow, this common workman, with his paint-bespattered clothing, his broken boots, and his generally shabby appearance, was a disgrace to the street; and as for his wife she was not much better, because although whenever she came out she was always neatly dressed, yet most of the neighbours knew perfectly well that she had been wearing the same white straw hat all the time she had been there. In fact, the only tolerable one of the family was the boy, and they were forced to admit that he was always very well dressed; so well indeed as to occasion some surprise, until they found out that all the boy's clothes were home-made. Then their surprise was changed into a somewhat grudging admiration of the skill displayed, mingled with contempt for the poverty which made its exercise necessary. The indignation of the neighbours was increased when it became known that Owen and his wife were not Christians: then indeed everyone agreed that the landlord ought to be ashamed of himself for letting the top flat to such people. But although the hearts of these disciples of the meek and lowly Jewish carpenter were filled with uncharitableness, they were powerless to do much harm. The landlord regarded their opinion with indifference. All he cared about was the money: although he also was a sincere Christian, he would not have hesitated to let the top flat to Satan himself, provided he was certain of receiving the rent regularly. The only one upon whom the Christians were able to inflict any suffering was the child. At first when he used to go out into the street to play, the other children, acting on their parents' instructions, refused to associate with him, or taunted him with his parents' poverty. Occasionally he came home heartbroken and in tears because he had been excluded from some game. At first, sometimes the mothers of some of the better-class children used to come out with a comical assumption of superiority and dignity and compel their children to leave off playing with Frankie and some other poorly dressed children who used to play in that street. These females were usually overdressed and wore a lot of jewellery. Most of them fancied they were ladies, and if they had only had the sense to keep their mouths shut, other people might possibly have shared the same delusion. But this was now a rare occurrence, because the parents of the other children found it a matter of considerable difficulty to prevent their youngsters from associating with those of inferior rank, for when left to themselves the children disregarded all such distinctions. Frequently in that street was to be seen the appalling spectacle of the ten-year-old son of the refined and fashionable Trafaim dragging along a cart constructed of a sugar box and an old pair of perambulator wheels with no tyres, in which reposed the plebeian Frankie Owen, armed with a whip, and the dowdy daughter of a barber's clerk: while the nine-year-old heir of the coal merchant rushed up behind ... Owen's wife and little son were waiting for him in the living room. This room was about twelve feet square and the ceiling - which was low and irregularly shaped, showing in places the formation of the roof - had been decorated by Owen with painted ornaments. There were three or four chairs, and an oblong table, covered with a clean white tablecloth, set ready for tea. In the recess at the right of fireplace - an ordinary open grate - were a number of shelves filled with a miscellaneous collection of books, most of which had been bought second-hand. There were also a number of new books, mostly cheap editions in paper covers. Over the back of a chair at one side of the fire, was hanging an old suit of Owen's, and some underclothing, which his wife had placed there to air, knowing that he would be wet through by the time he arrived home ... The woman was half-sitting, half lying, on a couch by the other side of the fire. She was very thin, and her pale face bore the traces of much physical and mental suffering. She was sewing, a task which her reclining position rendered somewhat difficult. Although she was really only twenty-eight years of age, she appeared older. The boy, who was sitting on the hearthrug playing with some toys, bore a strong resemblance to his mother. He also, appeared very fragile and in his childish face was reproduced much of the delicate prettiness which she had once possessed. His feminine appearance was increased by the fact that his yellow hair hung in long curls on his shoulders. The pride with which his mother regarded this long hair was by no means shared by Frankie himself, for he was always entreating her to cut it off. Presently the boy stood up and walking gravely over to the window, looked down into the street, scanning the pavement for as far as he could see: he had been doing this at intervals for the last hour. `I wonder wherever he's got to,' he said, as he returned to the fire. `I'm sure I don't know,' returned his mother. `Perhaps he's had to work overtime.' `You know, I've been thinking lately,' observed Frankie, after a pause, `that it's a great mistake for Dad to go out working at all. I believe that's the very reason why we're so poor.' `Nearly everyone who works is more or less poor, dear, but if Dad didn't go out to work we'd be even poorer than we are now. We should have nothing to eat.' `But Dad says that the people who do nothing get lots of everything.' `Yes, and it's quite true that most of the people who never do any work get lots of everything, but where do they get it from? And how do they get it?' `I'm sure i don't know,' replied Frankie, shaking his head in a puzzled fashion. `Supposing Dad didn't go to work, or that he had no work to go to, or that he was ill and not able to do any work, then we'd have no money to buy anything. How should we get on then?' `I'm sure I don't know,' repeated Frankie, looking round the room in a thoughtful manner, `The chairs that's left aren't good enough to sell, and we can't sell the beds, or your sofa, but you might pawn my velvet suit.' `But even if all the things were good enough to sell, the money we'd get for them wouldn't last very long, and what should we do then?' `Well, I suppose we'd have to go without, that's all, the same as we did when Dad was in London .' `But how do the people who never do any work manage to get lots of money then?' added Frankie. `Oh, there's lots of different ways. For instance, you remember when Dad was in London, and we had no food in the house, I had to sell the easy chair.' Frankie nodded. `Yes,' he said, `I remember you wrote a note and I took it to the shop, and afterwards old Didlum came up here and bought it, and then his cart came and a man took it away.' `And do you remember how much he gave us for it?' `Five shillings,' replied Frankie, promptly. He was well acquainted with the details of the transaction, having often heard his father and mother discuss it. `And when we saw it in his shop window a little while afterwards, what price was marked on it?' 'Fifteen shillings.' Well, that's one way of getting money without working. Frankie played with his toys in silence for some minutes. At last he said: `What other ways?' `Some people who have some money already get more in this way: they find some people who have no money and say to them, "Come and work for us." Then the people who have the money pay the workers just enough wages to keep them alive whilst they are at work. Then, when the things that the working people have been making are finished, the workers are sent away, and as they still have no money, they are soon starving. In the meantime the people who had the money take all the things that the workers have made and sell them for a great deal more money than they gave to the workers for making them. That's another way of getting lots of money without doing any useful work.' `But is there no way to get rich without doing such things as that?' `It's not possible for anyone to become rich without cheating other people.' `What about our schoolmaster then? He doesn't do any work.' `Don't you think it's useful and and also very hard work teaching all those boys every day? I don't think I should like to have to do it.' `Yes, I suppose what he does is some use,' said Frankie thoughtfully. `And it must be rather hard too, I should think. I've noticed he looks a bit worried sometimes, and sometimes he gets into a fine old wax when the boys don't pay proper attention.' The child again went over to the window, and pulling back the edge of the blind looked down the deserted rain washed street. `What about the vicar?' he remarked as he returned. Although Frankie did not go to church or Sunday School, the day school that he had attended was that attached to the parish church, and the vicar was in the habit of looking in occasionally. `Ah, he really is one of those who live without doing any necessary work, and of all the people who do nothing, the vicar is one of the very worst.' Frankie looked up at his mother with some surprise, not because he entertained any very high opinion of clergymen in general, for, having been an attentive listener to many conversations between his parents, he had of course assimilated their opinions as far as his infant understanding permitted, but because at the school the scholars were taught to regard the gentleman in question with the most profound reverence and respect. `Why, Mum?' he asked. `For this reason, dearie. You know that all the beautiful things which the people who do nothing have are made by the people who work, don't you?' `Yes.' `And you know that those who work have to eat the very worst food, and wear the very worst clothes, and live in the very worst homes.' `Yes,' said Frankie. `And sometimes they have nothing to eat at all, and no clothes to wear except rags, and even no homes to live in.' `Yes,' repeated the child. `Well, the vicar goes about telling the Idlers that it's quite right for them to do nothing, and that God meant them to have nearly everything that is made by those who work. In fact, he tells them that God made the poor for the use of the rich. Then he goes to the workers and tells them that God meant them to work very hard and to give all the good things they make to those who do nothing, and that they should be very thankful to God and to the idlers for being allowed to have even the very worst food to eat and the rags, and broken boots to wear. He also tells them that they mustn't grumble, or be discontented because they're poor in this world, but that they must wait till they're dead, and then God will reward them by letting them go to a place called Heaven.' Frankie laughed. `And what about the Idlers?' he asked. `The vicar says that if they believe everything he tells them and give him some of the money they make out of the workers, then God will let them into heaven also.' `Well, that's not fair doos, is it, Mum?' said Frankie with some indignation. `It wouldn't be if it were true, but then you see it's not true, it can't be true.' `Why can't it, Mum?' `Oh, for many reasons: to begin with, the vicar doesn't believe it himself: he only pretends to. For instance, he pretends to believe the Bible, but if we read the Bible we find that Jesus said that God is our father and that all the people in the world are His children, all brothers and sisters. But the vicar says that although Jesus said "brothers and sisters" He really ought to have said "masters and servants". Again, Jesus said that His disciples should not think of tomorrow, or save up a lot of money for themselves, but they should be unselfish and help those who are in need. Jesus said that His disciples must not think about their own future needs at all, because God will provide for them if they only do as He commands. But the vicar says that is all nonsense. `Jesus also said that if anyone tried to do His disciples harm, they must never resist, but forgive those who injured them and pray God to forgive them also. But the vicar says this is all nonsense too. He says that the world would never be able to go on if we did as Jesus taught. The vicar teaches that the way to deal with those that injure us is to have them put into prison, or - if they belong to some other country - to take guns and knives and murder them, and burn their houses. So you see the vicar doesn't really believe or do any of the things that Jesus said: he only pretends.' `But why does he pretend, and go about talking like that, Mum? What does he do it for?' `Because he wishes to live without working himself, dear.' `And don't the people know he's only pretending?' `Some of them do. Most of the idlers know that what the vicar says is not true, but they pretend to believe it, and give him money for saying it, because they want him to go on telling it to the workers so that they will go on working and keep quiet and be afraid to think for themselves.' `And what about the workers? Do they believe it? `Most of them do, because when they were little children like you, their mothers taught them to believe, without thinking, whatever the vicar said, and that God made them for the use of the idlers. When they went to school, they were taught the same thing: and now that they're grown up they really believe it, and they go to work and give nearly everything they make to the idlers, and have next to nothing left for themselves and their children. That's the reason why the workers' children have very bad clothes to wear and sometimes no food to eat; and that's how it is that the idlers and their children have more clothes than they need and more food than they can eat. Some of them have so much food that they are not able to eat it. They just waste it or throw it away.' `When I'm grown up into a man,' said Frankie, with a flushed face, `I'm going to be one of the workers, and when we've made a lot of things, I shall stand up and tell the others what to do. If any of the idlers come to take our things away, they'll get something they won't like.' In a state of suppressed excitement and scarcely conscious of what he was doing, the boy began gathering up the toys and throwing the violently one by one into the box. `I'll teach 'em to come taking our things away,' he exclaimed, relapsing momentarily into his street style of speaking. `First of all we'll all stand quietly on one side. Then when the idlers come in and start touching our things, we'll go up to 'em and say, "`Ere, watcher doin' of? Just you put it down, will yer?" And if they don't put it down at once, it'll be the worse for 'em, I can tell you.' All the toys being collected, Frankie picked up the box and placed it noisily in its accustomed corner of the room. `I should think the workers will be jolly glad when they see me coming to tell them what to do, shouldn't you, Mum?' `I don't know dear; you see so many people have tried to tell them, but they won't listen, they don't want to hear. They think it's quite right that they should work very hard all their lives, and quite right that most of the things they help to make should be taken away from them by the people who do nothing. The workers think that their children are not as good as the children of the idlers, and they teach their children that as soon as ever they are old enough they must be satisfied to work very hard and to have only very bad good and clothes and homes.' `Then I should think the workers ought to be jolly ashamed of themselves, Mum, don't you?' `Well, in one sense they ought, but you must remember that that's what they've always been taught themselves. First, their mothers and fathers told them so; then, their schoolteachers told them so; and then, when they went to church, the vicar and the Sunday School teacher told them the same thing. So you can't be surprised that they now really believe that God made them and their children to make things for the use of the people who do nothing.' `But you'd think their own sense would tell them! How can it be right for the people who do nothing to have the very best and most of everything thats made, and the very ones who make everything to have hardly any. Why even I know better than that, and I'm only six and a half years old.' `But then you're different, dearie, you've been taught to think about it, and Dad and I have explained it to you, often.' `Yes, I know,' replied Frankie confidently. `But even if you'd never taught me, I'm sure I should have tumbled to it all right by myself; I'm not such a juggins as you think I am.' `So you might, but you wouldn't if you'd been brought up in the same way as most of the workers. They've been taught that it's very wicked to use their own judgement, or to think. And their children are being taught so now. Do you remember what you told me the other day, when you came home from school, about the Scripture lesson?' `About St Thomas?' `Yes. What did the teacher say St Thomas was?' `She said he was a bad example; and she said I was worse than him because I asked too many foolish questions. She always gets in a wax if I talk too much.' `Well, why did she call St Thomas a bad example?' `Because he wouldn't believe what he was told.' `Exactly: well, when you told Dad about it what did he say?' `Dad told me that really St Thomas was the only sensible man in the whole crowd of Apostles. That is,' added Frankie, correcting himself, `if there ever was such a man at all.' `But did Dad say that there never was such a man?' `No; he said HE didn't believe there ever was, but he told me to just listen to what the teacher said about such things, and then to think about it in my own mind, and wait till I'm grown up and then I can use my own judgement.' `Well, now, that's what YOU were told, but all the other children's mothers and fathers tell them to believe, without thinking, whatever the teacher says. So it will be no wonder if those children are not able to think for themselves when they're grown up, will it?' `Don't you think it will be any use, then, for me to tell them what to do to the Idlers?' asked Frankie, dejectedly. `Hark!' said his mother, holding up her finger. `Dad!' cried Frankie, rushing to the door and flinging it open. He ran along the passage and opened the staircase door before Owen reached the top of the last flight of stairs. `Why ever do you come up at such a rate,' reproachfully exclaimed Owen's wife as he came into the room exhausted from the climb upstairs and sank panting into the nearest chair. `I al-ways-for-get,' he replied, when he had in some degree recovered. As he lay back in the chair, his face haggard and of a ghastly whiteness, and with the water dripping from his saturated clothing, Owen presented a terrible appearance. Frankie noticed with childish terror the extreme alarm with which his mother looked at his father. `You're always doing it,' he said with a whimper. `How many more times will Mother have to tell you about it before you take nay notice?' `It's all right, old chap,' said Owen, drawing the child nearer to him and kissing the curly head. `Listen, and see if you can guess what I've got for you under my coat.' In the silence the purring of the kitten was distinctly audible. `A kitten!' cried the boy, taking it out of its hiding-place. `All black, and I believe it's half a Persian. Just the very thing I wanted.' While Frankie amused himself playing with the kitten, which had been provided with another saucer of bread and milk, Owen went into the bedroom to put on the dry clothes, and then, those that he had taken off having been placed with his boots near the fire to dry, he explained as they were taking tea the reason of his late homecoming. `I'm afraid he won't find it very easy to get another job,' he remarked, referring to Linden. `Even in the summer nobody will be inclined to take him on. He's too old.' `It's a dreadful prospect for the two children,' answered his wife. `Yes,' replied Owen bitterly. `It's the children who will suffer most. As for Linden and his wife, although of course one can't help feeling sorry for them, at the same time there's no getting away from the fact that they deserve to suffer. All their lives they've been working like brutes and living in poverty. Although they have done more than their fair share of the work, they have never enjoyed anything like a fair share of the things they have helped to produce. And yet, all their lives they have supported and defended the system that robbed them, and have resisted and ridiculed every proposal to alter it. It's wrong to feel sorry for such people; they deserve to suffer.' After tea, as he watched his wife clearing away the tea things and rearranging the drying clothing by the fire, Owen for the first time noticed that she looked unusually ill. `You don't look well tonight, Nora,' he said, crossing over to her and putting his arm around her. `I don't feel well,' she replied, resting her head wearily against his shoulder. `I've been very bad all day and I had to lie down nearly all the afternoon. I don't know how I should have managed to get the tea ready if it had not been for Frankie.' `I set the table for you, didn't I, Mum?' said Frankie with pride; `and tidied up the room as well.' `Yes, darling, you helped me a lot,' she answered, and Frankie went over to her and kissed her hand. `Well, you'd better go to bed at once,' said Owen. `I can put Frankie to bed presently and do whatever else is necessary.' `But there are so many things to attend to. I want to see that your clothes are properly dry and to put something ready for you to take in the morning before you go out, and then there's your breakfast to pack up -' `I can manage all that.' `I didn't want to give way to it like this,' the woman said, `because I know you must be tired out yourself, but I really do feel quite done up now.' `Oh, I'm all right,' replied Owen, who was really so fatigued that he was scarcely able to stand. `I'll go and draw the blinds down and light the other lamp; so say good night to Frankie and come at once.' `I won't say good night properly, now, Mum,' remarked the boy, `because Dad can carry me into your room before he puts me into bed.' A little later, as Owen was undressing Frankie, the latter remarked as he looked affectionately at the kitten, which was sitting on the hearthrug watching the child's every movement under the impression that it was part of some game: `What name do you think we ought to call it, Dad?' `You may give him any name you like,' replied Owen, absently. `I know a dog that lives down the road,' said the boy, `his name is Major. How would that do? Or we might call him Sergeant.' The kitten, observing that he was the subject of their conversation, purred loudly and winked as if to intimate that he did not care what rank was conferred upon him so long as the commisariat department was properly attended to. `I don't know, though,' continued Frankie, thoughtfully. `They're all right names for dogs, but I think they're too big for a kitten, don't you, Dad?' `Yes, p'raps they are,' said Owen. `Most cats are called Tom or Kitty, but I don't want a COMMON name for him.' `Well, can't you call him after someone you know?' `I know; I'll call him after a little girl that comes to our school; a fine name, Maud! That'll be a good one, won't it Dad?' `Yes,' said Owen. `I say, Dad,' said Frankie, suddenly realizing the awful fact that he was being put to bed. `You're forgetting all about my story, and you promised that you'd have a game of trains with me tonight.' `I hadn't forgotten, but I was hoping that you had, because I'm very tired and it's very late, long past your usual bedtime, you know. You can take the kitten to bed with you tonight and I'll tell you two stories tomorrow, because it's Saturday.' `All right, then,' said the boy, contentedly; `and I'll get the railway station built and I'll have the lines chalked on the floor, and the signals put up before you come home, so that there'll be no time wasted. And I'll put one chair at one end of the room and another chair at the other end, and tie some string across for telegraph wires. That'll be a very good idea, won't it, Dad?' and Owen agreed. `But of course I'll come to meet you just the same as other Saturdays, because I'm going to buy a ha'porth of milk for the kitten out of my penny.' After the child was in bed, Owen sat alone by the table in the draughty sitting-room, thinking. Although there was a bright fire, the room was very cold, being so close to the roof. The wind roared loudly round the gables, shaking the house in a way that threatened every moment to hurl it to the ground. The lamp on the table had a green glass reservoir which was half full of oil. Owen watched this with unconscious fascination. Every time a gust of wind struck the house the oil in the lamp was agitated and rippled against the glass like the waves of a miniature sea. Staring abstractedly at the lamp, he thought of the future. A few years ago the future had seemed a region of wonderful and mysterious possibilities of good, but tonight the thought brought no such illusions, for he knew that the story of the future was to be much the same as the story of the past. The story of the past would continue to repeat itself for a few years longer. He would continue to work and they would all three continue to do without most of the necessaries of life. When there was no work they would starve. For himself he did not care much because he knew that at the best - or worst - it would only be a very few years. Even if he were to have proper food and clothing and be able to take reasonable care of himself, he could not live much longer; but when that time came, what was to become of THEM? There would be some hope for the boy if he were more robust and if his character were less gentle and more selfish. Under the present system it was impossible for anyone to succeed in life without injuring other people and treating them and making use of them as one would not like to be treated and made use of oneself. In order to succeed in the world it was necessary to be brutal, selfish and unfeeling: to push others aside and to take advantage of their misfortunes: to undersell and crush out one's competitors by fair means or foul: to consider one's own interests first in every case, absolutely regardless of the wellbeing of others. That was the ideal character. Owen knew that Frankie's character did not come up to this lofty ideal. Then there was Nora, how would she fare? Owen stood up and began walking about the room, oppressed with a kind of terror. Presently he returned to the fire and began rearranging the clothes that were drying. He found that the boots, having been placed too near the fire, had dried too quickly and consequently the sole of one of them had begun to split away from the upper: he remedied this as well as he was able and then turned the wetter parts of the clothing to the fire. Whilst doing this he noticed the newspaper, which he had forgotten, in the coat pocket. He drew it out with an exclamation of pleasure. Here was something to distract his thoughts: if not instructive or comforting, it would at any rate be interesting and even amusing to read the reports of the self-satisfied, futile talk of the profound statesmen who with comical gravity presided over the working of the Great System which their combined wisdom pronounced to be the best that could possibly be devised. But tonight Owen was not to read of those things, for as soon as he opened the paper his attention was riveted by the staring headline of one of the principal columns: TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY Wife And Two Children Killed Suicide of the Murderer It was one of the ordinary poverty crimes. The man had been without employment for many weeks and they had been living by pawning or selling their furniture and other possessions. But even this resource must have failed at last, and when one day the neighbours noticed that the blinds remained down and that there was a strange silence about the house, no one coming out or going in, suspicions that something was wrong were quickly aroused. When the police entered the house, they found, in one of the upper rooms, the dead bodies of the woman and the two children, with their throats severed, laid out side by side upon the bed, which was saturated with their blood. There was no bedstead and no furniture in the room except the straw mattress and the ragged clothes and blankets which formed the bed upon the floor. The man's body was found in the kitchen, lying with outstretched arms face downwards on the floor, surrounded by the blood that had poured from the wound in his throat which had evidently been inflicted by the razor that was grasped in his right hand. No particle of food was found in the house, and on a nail in the wall in the kitchen was hung a piece of blood-smeared paper on which was written in pencil: `This is not my crime, but society's.' The report went on to explain that the deed must have been perpetrated during a fit of temporary insanity brought on by the sufferings the man had endured. `Insanity!' muttered Owen, as he read this glib theory. `Insanity! It seems to me that he would have been insane if he had NOT killed them.' Surely it was wiser and better and kinder to send them all to sleep, than to let them continue to suffer. At the same time he thought it very strange that the man should have chosen to do it that way, when there were so many other cleaner, easier and more painless ways of accomplishing the same object. He wondered why it was that most of these killings were done in more or less the same crude, cruel messy way. No; HE would set about it in a different fashion. He would get some charcoal, then he would paste strips of paper over the joinings of the door and windows of the room and close the register of the grate. Then he would kindle the charcoal on a tray or something in the middle of the room, and then they would all three just lie down together and sleep; and that would be the end of everything. There would be no pain, no blood, and no mess. Or one could take poison. Of course, there was a certain amount of difficulty in procuring it, but it would not be impossible to find some pretext for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small quantities at different shops until one had sufficient. Then he remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the colours he frequently had to use in his work, was one of the most deadly poisons: and there was some other stuff that photographers used, which was very easy to procure. Of course, one would have to be very careful about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a lot of pain. It would be necessary to find out exactly how the stuff acted before using it. It would not be very difficult to do so. Then he remembered that among his books was one that probably contained some information about this subject. He went over to the book-shelf and presently found the volume; it was called The Cyclopedia of Practical Medicine, rather an old book, a little out of date, perhaps, but still it might contain the information he wanted. Opening it, he turned to the table of contents. Many different subjects were mentioned there and presently he found the one he sought: Poisons: chemically, physiologically and pathologically considered. Corrosive Poisons. Narcotic Poisons. Slow Poisons. Consecutive Poisons. Accumulative Poisons. He turned to the chapter indicated and, reading it, he was astonished to find what a number of poisons there were within easy reach of whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied upon to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. Why, it was not even necessary to buy them: one could gather them from the hedges by the road side and in the fields. The more he thought of it the stranger it seemed that such a clumsy method as a razor should be so popular. Why almost any other way would be better and easier than that. Strangulation or even hanging, though the latter method could scarcely be adopted in that house, because there were no beams or rafters or anything from which it would be possible to suspend a cord. Still, he could drive some large nails or hooks into one of the walls. For that matter, there were already some clothes-hooks on some of the doors. He began to think that this would be an even more excellent way than poison or charcoal; he could easily pretend to Frankie that he was going to show him some new kind of play. He could arrange the cord on the hook on one of the doors and then under pretence of play, it would be done. The boy would offer no resistance, and in a few minutes it would all be over. He threw down the book and pressed his hands over his ears: he fancied he could hear the boy's hands and feet beating against the panels of the door as he struggled in his death agony. Then, as his arms fell nervelessly by his side again, he thought that he heard Frankie's voice calling. `Dad! Dad!' Owen hastily opened the door. `Are you calling, Frankie?' `Yes. I've been calling you quite a long time.' `What do you want?' `I want you to come here. I want to tell you something.' `Well, what is it dear? I thought you were asleep a long time ago,' said Owen as he came into the room. `That's just what I want to speak to you about: the kitten's gone to sleep all right, but I can't go. I've tried all different ways, counting and all, but it's no use, so I thought I'd ask you if you'd mind coming and staying with me, and letting me hold you hand for a little while and the p'raps I could go.' The boy twined his arms round Owen's neck and hugged him very tightly. `Oh, Dad, I love you so much!' he said. `I love you so much, I could squeeze you to death.' `I'm afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tightly as that.' The boy laughed softly as he relaxed his hold. `That WOULD be a funny way of showing you how much I love you, wouldn't it, Dad? Squeezing you to death!' `Yes, I suppose it would,' replied Owen huskily, as he tucked the bedclothes round the child's shoulders. `But don't talk any more, dear; just hold my hand and try to sleep.' `All right,' said Frankie. Lying there very quietly, holding his father's hand and occasionally kissing it, the child presently fell asleep. Then Owen got up very gently and, having taken the kitten out of the bed again and arranged the bedclothes, he softly kissed the boy's forehead and returned to the other room. Looking about for a suitable place for the kitten to sleep in, he noticed Frankie's toy box, and having emptied the toys on to the floor in a corner of the room, he made a bed in the box with some rags and placed it on its side on the hearthrug, facing the fire, and with some difficulty persuaded the kitten to lie in it. Then, having placed the chairs on which his clothes were drying at a safe distance from the fire, he went into the bedroom. Nora was still awake. `Are you feeling any better, dear?' he said. `Yes, I'm ever so much better since I've been in bed, but I can't help worrying about your clothes. I'm afraid they'll never be dry enough for you to put on the first thing in the morning. Couldn't you stay at home till after breakfast, just for once?' `No; I mustn't do that. If I did Hunter would probably tell me to stay away altogether. I believe he would be glad of an excuse to get rid of another full-price man just now.' `But if it's raining like this in the morning, you'll be wet through before you get there.' `It's no good worrying about that dear: besides, I can wear this old coat that I have no now, over the other.' `And if you wrap your old shoes in some paper, and take them with you, you can take off your wet boots as soon as you get to the place.' `Yes, all right,' responded Owen. `Besides,' he added, reassuringly, `even if I do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you know.' `Well, I hope the weather will be a little better than this in the morning,' said Nora. `Isn't it a dreadful night! I keep feeling afraid that the house is going to be blown down.' Long after Nora was asleep, Owen lay listening to the howling of the wind and the noise of the rain as it poured heavily on the roof ... Chapter 7 The Exterminating Machines `Come on, Saturday!' shouted Philpot, just after seven o'clock one Monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work. It was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by the flickering light of two candles which Crass had lighted and stuck on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men. `Yes, it do seem a 'ell of a long week, don't it?' remarked Harlow as he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and blouse. `I've 'ad bloody near enough of it already.' `Wish to Christ it was breakfast-time,' growled the more easily satisfied Easton. Extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their work: they did not `love' it. They had no conception of that lofty ideal of `work for work's sake', which is so popular with the people who do nothing. On the contrary, when the workers arrived in the morning they wished it was breakfast-time. When they resumed work after breakfast they wished it was dinner-time. After dinner they wished it was one o'clock on Saturday. So they went on, day after day, year after year, wishing their time was over and, without realizing it, really wishing that they were dead. How extraordinary this must appear to those idealists who believe in `work for work's sake', but who themselves do nothing but devour or use and enjoy or waste the things that are produced by the labour of those others who are not themselves permitted to enjoy a fair share of the good things they help to create? Crass poured several lots of colour into several pots. `Harlow,' he said, `you and Sawkins, when he comes, can go up and do the top bedrooms out with this colour. You'll find a couple of candles up there. It's only goin' to 'ave one coat, so see that you make it cover all right, and just look after Sawkins a bit so as 'e doesn't make a bloody mess of it. You do the doors and windows, and let 'im do the cupboards and skirtings.' `That's a bit of all right, I must say,' Harlow said, addressing the company generally. `We've got to teach a b--r like 'im so as 'e can do us out of a job presently by working under price.' `Well, I can't 'elp it,' growled Crass. `You know 'ow it is: `Unter sends 'im 'ere to do paintin', and I've got to put 'im on it. There ain't nothing else for 'im to do.' Further discussion on this subject was prevented by Sawkins' arrival, nearly a quarter of an hour late. `Oh, you 'ave come, then,' sneered Crass. `Thought p'raps you'd gorn for a 'oliday.' Sawkins muttered something about oversleeping himself, and having hastily put on his apron, he went upstairs with Harlow. `Now, let's see,' Crass said, addressing Philpot. `You and Newman 'ad better go and make a start on the second floor: this is the colour, and 'ere's a couple of candles. You'd better not both go in one room or 'Unter will growl about it. You take one of the front and let Newman take one of the back rooms. Take a bit of stoppin' with you: they're goin' to 'ave two coats, but you'd better putty up the 'oles as well as you can, this time.' `Only two coats!' said Philpot. `Them rooms will never look nothing with two coats - a light colour like this.' `It's only goin' to get two, anyway,' returned Crass, testily. `'Unter said so, so you'll 'ave to do the best you can with 'em, and get 'em smeared over middlin' sudden, too.' Crass did not think it necessary to mention that according to the copy of the specification of the work which he had in his pocket the rooms in question were supposed to have four coats. Crass now turned to Owen. `There's that drorin'-room,' he said. `I don't know what's goin' to be done with that yet. I don't think they've decided about it. Whatever's to be done to it will be an extra, because all that's said about it in the contract is to face it up with putty and give it one coat of white. So you and Easton 'ad better get on with it.' Slyme was busy softening some putty by rubbing and squeezing it between his hands. `I suppose I'd better finish the room I started on on Saturday?' he asked. `All right,' replied Crass. `Have you got enough colour?' `Yes,' said Slyme. As he passed through the kitchen on the way to his work, Slyme accosted Bert, the boy, who was engaged in lighting, with some pieces of wood, a fire to boil the water to make the tea for breakfast at eight o'clock. `There's a bloater I want's cooked,' he said. `All right,' replied Bert. `Put it over there on the dresser along of Philpot's and mine.' Slyme took the bloater from his food basket, but as he was about to put it in the place indicated, he observed that his was rather a larger one than either of the other two. This was an important matter. After they were cooked it would not be easy to say which was which: he might possibly be given one of the smaller ones instead of his own. He took out his pocket knife and cut off the tail of the large bloater. `'Ere it is, then,' he said to Bert. `I've cut the tail of mine so as you'll know which it is.' It was now about twenty minutes past seven and all the other men having been started at work, Crass washed his hands under the tap. Then he went into the kitchen and having rigged up a seat by taking two of the drawers out of the dresser and placing them on the floor about six feet apart and laying a plank across, he sat down in front of the fire, which was now burning brightly under the pail, and, lighting his pipe, began to smoke. The boy went into the scullery and began washing up the cups and jars for the men to drink out of. Bert was a lean, undersized boy about fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. He had light brown hair and hazel grey eyes, and his clothes were of many colours, being thickly encrusted with paint, the result of the unskillful manner in which he did his work, for he had only been at the trade about a year. Some of the men had nicknamed him `the walking paint-shop', a title which Bert accepted good-humouredly. This boy was an orphan. His father had been a railway porter who had worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for many years, with the usual result, namely, that he and his family lived in a condition of perpetual poverty. Bert, who was their only child and not very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so when his father died a little over a year ago, his mother readily assented when the boy said that he wished to become a decorator. It was a nice light trade, and she thought that a really good painter, such as she was sure he would become, was at least always able to earn a good living. Resolving to give the boy the best possible chance, she decided if possible to place him at Rushton's, that being one of the leading firms in the town. At first Mr Rushton demanded ten pounds as a premium, the boy to be bound for five years, no wages the first year, two shillings a week the second, and a rise of one shilling every year for the remainder of the term. Afterwards, as a special favour - a matter of charity, in fact, as she was a very poor woman - he agreed to accept five pounds. This sum represented the thrifty savings of years, but the poor woman parted with it willingly in order that the boy should become a skilled workman. So Bert was apprenticed - bound for five years - to Rushton & Co. For the first few months his life had been spent in the paint-shop at the yard, a place that was something between a cellar and a stable. There, surrounded by the poisonous pigments and materials of the trade, the youthful artisan worked, generally alone, cleaning the dirty paint-pots brought in by the workmen from finished `jobs' outside, and occasionally mixing paint according to the instructions of Mr Hunter, or one of the sub-foremen. Sometimes he was sent out to carry materials to the places where the men were working - heavy loads of paint or white lead - sometimes pails of whitewash that his slender arms had been too feeble to carry more than a few yards at a time. Often his fragile, childish figure was seen staggering manfully along, bending beneath the weight of a pair of steps or a heavy plank. He could manage a good many parcels at once: some in each hand and some tied together with string and slung over his shoulders. Occasionally, however, there were more than he could carry; then they were put into a handcart which he pushed or dragged after him to the distant jobs. That first winter the boy's days were chiefly spent in the damp, evil-smelling, stone-flagged paint-shop, without even a fire to warm the clammy atmosphere. But in all this he had seen no hardship. With the unconsciousness of boyhood, he worked hard and cheerfully. As time went on, the goal of his childish ambition was reached - he was sent out to work with the men! And he carried the same spirit with him, always doing his best to oblige those with whom he was working. He tried hard to learn, and to be a good boy, and he succeeded, fairly well. He soon became a favourite with Owen, for whom he conceived a great respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any special work of any kind to be done it was Owen who did it. On such occasions, Bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to assist Owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy might be allowed to work with him. Bert's regard for Owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of Crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy's aspirations. `There'll be plenty of time for you to think about doin' fancy work after you've learnt to do plain painting,' he would say. This morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, Bert returned with them to the kitchen. `Now let's see,' said Crass, thoughtfully, `You've put the tea in the pail, I s'pose.' `Yes.' `And now you want a job, don't you?' `Yes,' replied the boy. `Well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and walls.' `All right,' said Bert. When he got as far as the door leading into the scullery he looked round and said: `I've got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.' `Never mind about that,' said Crass. `I'll do them.' Bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded to carry out Crass's instructions. It was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle only made it seem more so. Bert shivered: he would like to have put his jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this. He lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing up on to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a square yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush. He was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down over the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm, wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt. When he had scrubbed it sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and, taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of the ceiling that he had washed. Then he dropped it back into the pail, and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation. Then he peeped into the kitchen, where Crass was still seated by the fire, smoking and toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed stick. Bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he himself might go and have a warm at the fire. `'E might just as well 'ave let me do them bloaters,' he muttered to himself, regarding Crass malignantly through the crack of the door. `This is a fine job to give to anybody - a cold mornin' like this.' He shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went on with the work. A little later, Crass, still sitting by the fire, heard footsteps approaching along the passage. He started up guiltily and, thrusting the hand holding his pipe into his apron pocket, retreated hastily into the scullery. He thought it might be Hunter, who was in the habit of turning up at all sorts of unlikely times, but it was only Easton. `I've got a bit of bacon I want the young 'un to toast for me,' he said as Crass came back. `You can do it yourself if you like,' replied Crass affably, looking at his watch. `It's about ten to eight.' Easton had been working for Rushton & Co. for a fortnight, and had been wise enough to stand Crass a drink on several occasions: he was consequently in that gentleman's good books for the time being. `How are you getting on in there?' Crass asked, alluding to the work Easton and Owen were doing in the drawing-room. `You ain't fell out with your mate yet, I s'pose?' `No; 'e ain't got much to say this morning; 'is cough's pretty bad. I can generally manage to get on orl right with anybody, you know,' Easton added. `Well, so can I as a rule, but I get a bit sick listening to that bloody fool. Accordin' to 'im, everything's wrong. One day it's religion, another it's politics, and the next it's something else.' `Yes, it is a bit thick; too much of it,' agreed Easton, `but I don't take no notice of the bloody fool: that's the best way.' `Of course, we know that things is a bit bad just now,' Crass went on, `but if the likes of 'im could 'ave their own way they'd make 'em a bloody sight worse.' `That's just what I say,' replied Easton. `I've got a pill ready for 'im, though, next time 'e start yappin',' Crass continued as he drew a small piece of printed paper from his waistcoat pocket. `Just read that; it's out of the Obscurer.' Easton took the newspaper cutting and read it: `Very good,' he remarked as he handed it back. `Yes, I think that'll about shut 'im up. Did yer notice the other day when we was talking about poverty and men bein' out of work, 'ow 'e dodged out of answerin' wot I said about machinery bein' the cause of it? 'e never answered me! Started talkin' about something else.' `Yes, I remember 'e never answered it,' said Easton, who had really no recollection of the incident at all. `I mean to tackle 'im about it at breakfast-time. I don't see why 'e should be allowed to get out of it like that. There was a bloke down at the "Cricketers" the other night talkin' about the same thing - a chap as takes a interest in politics and the like, and 'e said the very same as me. Why, the number of men what's been throwed out of work by all this 'ere new-fangled machinery is something chronic!' `Of course,' agreed Easton, `everyone knows it.' `You ought to give us a look in at the "Cricketers" some night. There's a lot of decent chaps comes there.' `Yes, I think I will.' `What 'ouse do you usually use?' asked Crass after a pause. Easton laughed. `Well, to tell you the truth I've not used anywhere's lately. Been 'avin too many 'ollerdays.' `That do make a bit of difference, don't it?' said Crass. `But you'll be all right 'ere, till this job's done. Just watch yerself a bit, and don't get comin' late in the mornin's. Old Nimrod's dead nuts on that.' `I'll see to that all right,' replied Easton. `I don't believe in losing time when there IS work to do. It's bad enough when you can't get it.' `You know,' Crass went on, confidentially. `Between me an' you an' the gatepost, as the sayin' is, I don't think Mr bloody Owen will be 'ere much longer. Nimrod 'ates the sight of 'im.' Easton had it in his mind to say that Nimrod seemed to hate the sight of all of them: but he made no remark, and Crass continued: `'E's 'eard all about the way Owen goes on about politics and religion, an' one thing an' another, an' about the firm scampin' the work. You know that sort of talk don't do, does it?' `Of course not.' `'Unter would 'ave got rid of 'im long ago, but it wasn't 'im as took 'im on in the first place. It was Rushton 'imself as give 'im a start. It seems Owen took a lot of samples of 'is work an' showed 'em to the Bloke.' `Is them the things wot's 'angin' up in the shop-winder?' `Yes!' said Crass, contemptuously. `But 'e's no good on plain work. Of course 'e does a bit of grainin' an' writin' - after a fashion - when there's any to do, and that ain't often, but on plain work, why, Sawkins is as good as 'im for most of it, any day!' `Yes, I suppose 'e is,' replied Easton, feeling rather ashamed of himself for the part he was taking in this conversation. Although he had for the moment forgotten the existence of Bert, Crass had instinctively lowered his voice, but the boy - who had left off working to warm his hands by putting them into his trousers pockets - managed, by listening attentively, to hear every word. `You know there's plenty of people wouldn't give the firm no more work if they knowed about it,' Crass continued. `Just fancy sendin' a b--r like that to work in a lady's or gentleman's 'ouse - a bloody Atheist!' `Yes, it is a bit orf, when you look at it like that.' `I know my missis - for one - wouldn't 'ave a feller like that in our place. We 'ad a lodger once and she found out that 'e was a freethinker or something, and she cleared 'im out, bloody quick, I can tell yer!' `Oh, by the way,' said Easton, glad of an opportunity to change the subject, `you don't happen to know of anyone as wants a room, do you? We've got one more than we want, so the wife thought that we might as well let it.' Crass thought for a moment. `Can't say as I do,' he answered, doubtfully. `Slyme was talking last week about leaving the place 'e's lodging at, but I don't know whether 'e's got another place to go to. You might ask him. I don't know of anyone else.' `I'll speak to 'im,' replied Easton. `What's the time? it must be nearly on it.' `So it is: just on eight,' exclaimed Crass, and drawing his whistle he blew a shrill blast upon it to apprise the others of the fact. `Has anyone seen old Jack Linden since 'e got the push?' inquired Harlow during breakfast. `I seen 'im Saterdy,' said Slyme. `Is 'e doin' anything?' `I don't know: I didn't 'ave time to speak to 'im.' `No, 'e ain't got nothing,' remarked Philpot. `I seen 'im Saterdy night, an' 'e told me 'e's been walkin' about ever since.' Philpot did not add that he had `lent' Linden a shilling, which he never expected to see again. `'E won't be able to get a job again in a 'urry,' remarked Easton. `'E's too old.' `You know, after all, you can't blame Misery for sackin' 'im,' said Crass after a pause. `'E was too slow for a funeral.' `I wonder how much YOU'LL be able to do when you're as old as he is?' said Owen. `P'raps I won't want to do nothing,' replied Crass with a feeble laugh. `I'm goin' to live on me means.' `I should say the best thing old Jack could do would be to go in the union,' said Harlow. `Yes: I reckon that's what'll be the end of it,' said Easton in a matter-of-fact tone. `It's a grand finish, isn't it?' observed Owen. `After working hard all one's life to be treated like a criminal at the end.' `I don't know what you call bein' treated like criminals,' exclaimed Crass. `I reckon they 'as a bloody fine time of it, an' we've got to find the money.' `Oh, for God's sake don't start no more arguments,' cried Harlow, addressing Owen. `We 'ad enough of that last week. You can't expect a boss to employ a man when 'e's too old to work.' `Of course not,' said Crass. Philpot said - nothing. `I don't see no sense in always grumblin',' Crass proceeded. `These things can't be altered. You can't expect there can be plenty of work for everyone with all this 'ere labour-savin' machinery what's been invented.' `Of course,' said Harlow, `the people what used to be employed on the work what's now done by machinery, has to find something else to do. Some of 'em goes to our trade, for instance: the result is there's too many at it, and there ain't enough work to keep 'em all goin'.' `Yes,' cried Crass, eagerly. `That's just what I say. Machinery is the real cause of the poverty. That's what I said the other day.' `Machinery is undoubtedly the cause of unemployment,' replied Owen, `but it's not the cause of poverty: that's another matter altogether.' The others laughed derisively. `Well, it seems to me to amount to the same thing,' said Harlow, and nearly everyone agreed. `It doesn't seem to me to amount to the same thing,' Owen replied. `In my opinion, we are all in a state of poverty even when we have employment - the condition we are reduced to when we're out of work is more properly described as destitution.' `Poverty,' continued Owen after a short silence, `consists in a shortage of the necessaries of life. When those things are so scarce or so dear that people are unable to obtain sufficient of them to satisfy all their needs, those people are in a condition of poverty. If you think that the machinery, which makes it possible to produce all the necessaries of life in abundance, is the cause of the shortage, it seems to me that there must be something the matter with your minds.' `Oh, of course we're all bloody fools except you,' snarled Crass. `When they were servin' out the sense, they give you such a 'ell of a lot, there wasn't none left for nobody else.' `If there wasn't something wrong with your minds,' continued Owen, `you would be able to see that we might have "Plenty of Work" and yet be in a state of destitution. The miserable wretches who toil sixteen or eighteen hours a day - father, mother and even the little children - making match-boxes, or shirts or blouses, have "plenty of work", but I for one don't envy them. Perhaps you think that if there was no machinery and we all had to work thirteen or fourteen hours a day in order to obtain a bare living, we should not be in a condition of poverty? Talk about there being something the matter with your minds! If there were not, you wouldn't talk one day about Tariff Reform as a remedy for unemployment and then the next day admit that Machinery is the cause of it! Tariff Reform won't do away with the machinery, will it?' `Tariff Reform is the remedy for bad trade,' returned Crass. `In that case Tariff Reform is the remedy for a disease that does not exist. If you would only take the trouble to investigate for yourself you would find out that trade was never so good as it is at present: the output - the quantity of commodities of every kind - produced in and exported from this country is greater than it has ever been before. The fortunes amassed in business are larger than ever before: but at the same time - owing, as you have just admitted - to the continued introduction and extended use of wages-saving machinery, the number of human beings being employed is steadily decreasing. I have here,' continued Owen, taking out his pocket-book, `some figures which I copied from the Daily Mail Year Book for 1907, page 33: `"It is a very noticeable fact that although the number of factories and their value have vastly increased in the United Kingdom, there is an absolute decrease in the number of men and women employed in those factories between 1895 and 1901. This is doubtless due to the displacement of hand labour by machinery!" `Will Tariff Reform deal with that? Are the good, kind capitalists going to abandon the use of wages-saving machinery if we tax all foreign-made goods? Does what you call "Free Trade" help us here? Or do you think that abolishing the House of Lords, or disestablishing the Church, will enable the workers who are displaced to obtain employment? Since it IS true - as you admit - that machinery is the principal cause of unemployment, what are you going to do about it? What's your remedy?' No one answered, because none of them knew of any remedy: and Crass began to feel sorry that he had re-introduced the subject at all. `In the near future,' continued Owen, `it is probable that horses will be almost entirely superseded by motor cars and electric trams. As the services of horses will be no longer required, all but a few of those animals will be caused to die out: they will no longer be bred to the same extent as formerly. We can't blame the horses for allowing themselves to be exterminated. They have not sufficient intelligence to understand what's being done. Therefore they will submit tamely to the extinction of the greater number of their kind. `As we have seen, a great deal of the work which was formerly done by human beings is now being done by machinery. This machinery belongs to a few people: it is worked for the benefit of those few, just the same as were the human beings it displaced. These Few have no longer any need of the services of so many human workers, so they propose to exterminate them! The unnecessary human beings are to be allowed to starve to death! And they are also to be taught that it is wrong to marry and breed children, because the Sacred Few do not require so many people to work for them as before!' `Yes, and you'll never be able to prevent it, mate!' shouted Crass. `Why can't we?' `Because it can't be done!' cried Crass fiercely. `It's impossible!' `You're always sayin' that everything's all wrong,' complained Harlow, `but why the 'ell don't you tell us 'ow they're goin' to be put right?' `It doesn't seem to me as if any of you really wish to know. I believe that even if it were proved that it could be done, most of you would be sorry and would do all you could to prevent it.' `'E don't know 'isself,' sneered Crass. `Accordin' to 'im, Tariff Reform ain't no bloody good - Free Trade ain't no bloody good, and everybody else is wrong! But when you arst 'im what ought to be done - 'e's flummoxed.' Crass did not feel very satisfied with the result of this machinery argument, but he consoled himself with the reflection that he would be able to flatten out his opponent on another subject. The cutting from the Obscurer which he had in his pocket would take a bit of answering! When you have a thing in print - in black and white - why there it is, and you can't get away from it! If it wasn't right, a paper like that would never have printed it. However, as it was now nearly half past eight, he resolved to defer this triumph till another occasion. It was too good a thing to be disposed of in a hurry. Chapter 8 The Cap on the Stairs After breakfast, when they were working together in the drawing-room, Easton, desiring to do Owen a good turn, thought he would put him on his guard, and repeated to him in a whisper the substance of the conversation he had held with Crass concerning him. `Of course, you needn't mention that I told you, Frank,' he said, `but I thought I ought to let you know: you can take it from me, Crass ain't no friend of yours.' `I've know that for a long time, mate,' replied Owen. `Thanks for telling me, all the same.' `The bloody rotter's no friend of mine either, or anyone else's, for that matter,' Easton continued, `but of course it doesn't do to fall out with 'im because you never know what he'd go and say to ol' 'Unter.' `Yes, one has to remember that.' `Of course we all know what's the matter with 'im as far as YOU'RE concerned,' Easton went on. `He don't like 'avin' anyone on the firm wot knows more about the work than 'e does 'imself - thinks 'e might git worked out of 'is job.' Owen laughed bitterly. `He needn't be afraid of ME on THAT account. I wouldn't have his job if it were offered to me.' `But 'e don't think so,' replied Easton, `and that's why 'e's got 'is knife into you,' `I believe that what he said about Hunter is true enough,' said Owen. `Every time he comes here he tries to goad me into doing or saying something that would give him an excuse to tell me to clear out. I might have done it before now if I had not guessed what he was after, and been on my guard.' Meantime, Crass, in the kitchen, had resumed his seat by the fire with the purpose of finishing his pipe of tobacco. Presently he took out his pocket-book and began to write in it with a piece of black-lead pencil. When the pipe was smoked out he knocked the bowl against the grate to get rid of the ash, and placed the pipe in his waistcoat pocket. Then, having torn out the leaf on which he had been writing, he got up and went into the pantry, where Bert was still struggling with the old whitewash. `Ain't yer nearly finished? I don't want yer to stop in 'ere all day, yer know.' `I ain't got much more to do now,' said the boy. `Just this bit under the bottom shelf and then I'm done.' `Yes, and a bloody fine mess you've made, what I can see of it!' growled Crass. `Look at all this water on the floor!' Bert looked guiltily at the floor and turned very red. `I'll clean it all up', he stammered. `As soon as I've got this bit of wall done, I'll wipe all the mess up with the swab.' Crass now took a pot of paint and some brushes and, having put some more fuel on the fire, began in a leisurely way to paint some of the woodwork in the kitchen. Presently Bert came in. `I've finished there,' he said. `About time, too. You'll 'ave to look a bit livelier than you do, you know, or me and you will fall out.' Bert did not answer. `Now I've got another job for yer. You're fond of drorin, ain't yer?' continued Crass in a jeering tone. `Yes, a little,' replied the boy, shamefacedly. `Well,' said Crass, giving him the leaf he had torn out of the pocket-book, `you can go up to the yard and git them things and put 'em on a truck and dror it up 'ere, and git back as soon as you can. Just look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. I don't want you to make no mistakes.' Bert took the paper and with some difficulty read as follows: I pare steppes 8 foot 1/2 gallon Plastor off perish 1 pale off witewosh 12 lbs wite led 1/2 gallon Linsede Hoil Do. Do. turps `I can make it out all right.' `You'd better bring the big truck,' said Crass, `because I want you to take the venetian blinds with you on it when you take it back tonight. They've got to be painted at the shop.' `All right.' When the boy had departed Crass took a stroll through the house to see how the others were getting on. Then he returned to the kitchen and proceeded with his work. Crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rather above middle height and rather stout. He had a considerable quantity of curly black hair and wore a short beard of the same colour. His head was rather large, but low, and flat on top. When among his cronies he was in the habit of referring to his obesity as the result of good nature and a contented mind. Behind his back other people attributed it to beer, some even going to far as to nickname him the `tank'. There was no work of a noisy kind being done this morning. Both the carpenters and the bricklayers having been taken away, temporarily, to another `job'. At the same time there was not absolute silence: occasionally Crass could hear the voices of the other workmen as they spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. Now and then Harlow's voice rang through the house as he sang snatches of music-hall songs or a verse of a Moody and Sankey hymn, and occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupted the singer with squeals and catcalls. Once or twice Crass was on the point of telling them to make less row: there would be a fine to do if Nimrod came and heard them. Just as he had made up his mind to tell them to stop the noise, it ceased of itself and he heard loud whispers: `Look out! Someone's comin'.' The house became very quiet. Crass put out his pipe and opened the window and the back door to get rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. Then he shifted the pair of steps noisily, and proceeded to work more quickly than before. Most likely it was old Misery. He worked on for some time in silence, but no one came to the kitchen: whoever it was must have gone upstairs. Crass listened attentively. Who could it be? He would have liked to go to see whom it was, but at the same time, if it were Nimrod, Crass wished to be discovered at work. He therefore waited a little longer and presently he heard the sound of voices upstairs but was unable to recognize them. He was just about to go out into the passage to listen, when whoever it was began coming downstairs. Crass at once resumed his work. The footsteps came along the passage leading to the kitchen: slow, heavy, ponderous footsteps, but yet the sound was not such as would be made by a man heavily shod. It was not Misery, evidently. As the footsteps entered the kitchen, Crass looked round and beheld a very tall, obese figure, with a large, fleshy, coarse-featured, clean-shaven face, and a great double chin, the complexion being of the colour and appearance of the fat of uncooked bacon. A very large fleshy nose and weak-looking pale blue eyes, the slightly inflamed lids being almost destitute of eye-lashes. He had large fat feet cased in soft calfskin boots, with drab-coloured spats. His overcoat, heavily trimmed with sealskin, reached just below the knees, and although the trousers were very wide they were filled by the fat legs within, the shape of the calves being distinctly perceptible. Even as the feet seemed about to burst the uppers of the boots, so the legs appeared to threaten the trousers with disruption. This man was so large that his figure completely filled up the doorway, and as he came in he stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glittering silk hat on his head. One gloved hand was thrust into the pocket of the overcoat and in the other he carried a small Gladstone bag. When Crass beheld this being, he touched his cap respectfully. `Good morning, sir!' `Good morning. They told me upstairs that I should find the foreman here. Are you the foreman?' `Yes, sir.' `I see you're getting on with the work here.' `Ho yes sir, we're beginning to make a bit hov a show now, sir,' replied Crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth. `Mr Rushton isn't here yet, I suppose?' `No, sir: 'e don't horfun come hon the job hin the mornin, sir; 'e generally comes hafternoons, sir, but Mr 'Unter's halmost sure to be 'ere presently, sir.' `It's Mr Rushton I want to see: I arranged to meet him here at ten o'clock; but' - looking at his watch - `I'm rather before my time.' `He'll be here presently, I suppose,' added Mr Sweater. `I'll just take a look round till he comes.' `Yes, sir,' responded Crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went out of the room. Hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, Crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what progress had so far been made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered only by monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen. Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman's room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the price of a little light refreshment. `I think,' he remarked, `that we oughter see-ise this 'ere tuneropperty to touch 'im for an allowance.' `We won't git nothin' out of 'IM, mate,' returned Newman. `'E's a red-'ot teetotaller.' `That don't matter. 'Ow's 'e to know that we buys beer with it? We might 'ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all 'e knows!' Mr Sweater now bgan ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently came into the room where Philpot was. The latter greeted him with respectful cordiality: `Good morning, sir.' `Good morning. You've begun painting up here, then.' `Yes, sir, we've made a start on it,' replied Philpot, affably. `Is this door wet?' asked Sweater, glancing apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat. `Yes, sir,' answered Philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the great man, `the paint is wet, sir, but the PAINTERS is dry.' `Confound it!' exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter part of Philpot's reply. `I've got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.' `Oh, that's nothing, sir,' cried Philpot, secretly delighted. `I'll get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just 'arf a mo!' He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and there was a can of turps in the room. Moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint from Sweater's sleeve. `It's all orf not, sir,' he remarked, as he rubbed the place with a dry part of the rag. `The smell of the turps will go away in about a hour's time.' `Thanks,' said Sweater. Philpot looked at him wistfully, but Sweater evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room. `I see they've put a new piece of skirting here,' he observed. `Yes, sir,' said Newman, who came into the room just then to get the turps. `The old piece was all to bits with dry-rot.' `I feel as if I 'ad a touch of the dry-rot meself, don't you?' said Philpot to Newman, who smiled feebly and cast a sidelong glance at Sweater, who did not appear to notice the significance of the remark, but walked out of the room and began climbing up to the next floor, where Harlow and Sawkins were working. `Well, there's a bleeder for yer!' said Philpot with indignation. `After all the trouble I took to clean 'is coat! Not a bloody stiver! Well, it takes the cake, don't it?' `I told you 'ow it would be, didn't I?' replied Newman. `P'raps I didn't make it plain enough,' said Philpot, thoughtfully. `We must try to get some of our own back somehow, you know.' Going out on the landing he called softly upstairs. `I say, Harlow.' `Hallo,' said that individual, looking over the banisters. `'Ow are yer getting on up there?' `Oh, all right, you know.' `Pretty dry job, ain't it?' Philpot continued, raising his voice a little and winking at Harlow. `Yes, it is, rather,' replied Harlow with a grin. `I think this would be a very good time to take up the collection, don't you?' `Yes, it wouldn't be a bad idear.' `Well, I'll put me cap on the stairs,' said Philpot, suiting the action to the word. `You never knows yer luck. Things is gettin' a bit serious on this floor, you know; my mate's fainted away once already!' Philpot now went back to his room to await developments: but as Sweater made no sign, he returned to the landing and again hailed Harlow. `I always reckon a man can work all the better after 'e's 'ad a drink: you can seem to get over more of it, like.' `Oh, that's true enough,' responded Harlow. `I've often noticed it meself.' Sweater came out of the front bedroom and passed into one of the back rooms without any notice of either of the men. `I'm afraid it's a frost, mate,' Harlow whispered, and Philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little while he came out again and once more accosted Harlow. `I knowed a case once,' he said in a melancholy tone, `where a chap died - of thirst - on a job just like this; and at the inquest the doctor said as 'arf a pint would 'a saved 'im!' `It must 'ave been a norrible death,' remarked Harlow. `'Orrible ain't the work for it, mate,' replied Philpot, mournfully. `It was something chronic!' After this final heartrending appeal to Sweater's humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their efforts, they had done their best. They had placed the matter fully and fairly before him: nothing more could be said: the issue now rested entirely with him. But it was all in vain. Sweater either did not or would not understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the cap which Philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floor. Chapter 9 Who is to Pay? Sweater reached the hall almost at the same moment that Rushton entered by the front door. They greeted each other in a friendly way and after a few remarks concerning the work that was being done, they went into the drawing-room where Owen and Easton were and Rushton said: `What about this room? Have you made up your mind what you're going to have done to it?' `Yes,' replied Sweater; `but I'll tell you about that afterwards. What I'm anxious about is the drains. Have you brought the plans?' `Yes.' `What's it going to cost?' `Just wait a minute,' said Rushton, with a slight gesture calling Sweater's attention to the presence of the two workmen. Sweater understood. `You might leave that for a few minutes, will you?' Rushton continued, addressing Owen and Easton. `Go and get on with something else for a little while.' When they were alone, Rushton closed the door and remarked: `It's always as well not to let these fellows know more than is necessary.' Sweater agreed. `Now this 'ere drain work is really two separate jobs,' said Rushton. `First, the drains of the house: that is, the part of the work that' actually on your ground. When that's done, there will 'ave to be a pipe carried right along under this private road to the main road to connect the drains of the house with the town main. You follow me?' `Perfectly. What's it going to cost for the lot?' `For the drains of the house, ?5.0.0. and for the connecting pipe ?0.0.0. ?5.0.0. for the lot.' `Um! That the lower you can do it for, eh?' `That's the lowest. I've figured it out most carefully, the time and materials, and that's practically all I'm charging you.' The truth of the matter was that Rushton had had nothing whatever to do with estimating the cost of this work: he had not the necessary knowledge to do so. Hunter had drawn the plans, calculated the cost and prepared the estimate. `I've been thinking over this business lately,' said Sweater, looking at Rushton with a cunning leer. `I don't see why I should have to pay for the connecting pipe. The Corporation ought to pay for that. What do you say?' Rushton laughed. `I don't see why not,' he replied. `I think we could arrange it all right, don't you?' Sweater went on. `Anyhow, the work will have to be done, so you'd better let 'em get on with it. ?5.0.0. covers both jobs, you say?' `Yes.' `Oh, all right, you get on with it and we'll see what can be done with the Corporation later on.' `I don't suppose we'll find 'em very difficult to deal with,' said Rushton with a grin, and Sweater smiled agreement. As they were passing through the hall they met Hunter, who had just arrived. He was rather surprised to see them, as he knew nothing of their appointment. He wished them `Good morning' in an awkward hesitating undertone as if he were doubtful how his greeting would be received. Sweater nodded slightly, but Rushton ignored him altogether and Nimrod passed on looking and feeling like a disreputable cur that had just been kicked. As Sweater and Rushton walked together about the house, Hunter hovered about them at a respectable distance, hoping that presently some notice might be taken of him. His dismal countenance became even longer than usual when he observed that they were about to leave the house without appearing even to know that he was there. However, just as they were going out, Rushton paused on the threshold and called him: `Mr Hunter!' `Yes, sir.' Nimrod ran to him like a dog taken notice of by his master: if he had possessed a tail, it is probable that he would have wagged it. Rushton gave him the plans with an intimation that the work was to be proceeded with. For some time after they were gone, Hunter crawled silently about the house, in and out of the rooms, up and down the corridors and the staircases. After a while he went into the room where Newman was and stood quietly watching him for about ten minutes as he worked. The man was painting the skirting, and just then he came to a part that was split in several places, so he took his knife and began to fill the cracks with putty. He was so nervous under Hunter's scrutiny that his hand trembled to such an extent that it took him about twice as long as it should have done, and Hunter told him so with brutal directness. `Never mind about puttying up such little cracks as them!' he shouted. `Fill 'em up with the paint. We can't afford to pay you for messing about like that!' Newman made no reply. Misery found no excuse for bullying anyone else, because they were all tearing into it for all they were worth. As he wandered up and down the house like an evil spirit, he was followed by the furtively unfriendly glances of the men, who cursed him in their hearts as he passed. He sneaked into the drawing-room and after standing with a malignant expression, silently watching Owen and Easton, he came out again without having uttered a word. Although he frequently acted in this manner, yet somehow today the circumstance worried Owen considerably. He wondered uneasily what it meant, and began to feel vaguely apprehensive. Hunter's silence seemed more menacing than his speech. Chapter 10 The Long Hill Bert arrived at the shop and with as little delay as possible loaded up the handcart with all the things he had been sent for and start on the return journey. He got on all right in the town, because the roads were level and smooth, being paved with wood blocks. If it had only been like that all the way it would have been easy enough, although he was a small boy for such a large truck, and such a heavy load. While the wood road lasted the principal trouble he experienced was the difficulty of seeing where he was going, the handcart being so high and himself so short. The pair of steps on the cart of course made it all the worse in that respect. However, by taking great care he managed to get through the town all right, although he narrowly escaped colliding with several vehicles, including two or three motor cars and an electric tram, besides nearly knocking over an old woman who was carrying a large bundle of washing. From time to time he saw other small boys of his acquaintance, some of them former schoolmates. Some of these passed by carrying heavy loads of groceries in baskets, and others with wooden trays full of joints of meat. Unfortunately, the wood paving ceased at the very place where the ground began to rise. Bert now found himself at the beginning of a long stretch of macadamized road which rose slightly and persistently throughout its whole length. Bert had pushed a cart up this road many times before and consequently knew the best method of tackling it. Experience had taught him that a full frontal attack on this hill was liable to failure, so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of making diagonal movements, crossing the road repeatedly from right to left and left to right, after the fashion of a sailing ship tacking against the wind, and halting about every twenty yards to rest and take breath. The distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by his powers of endurance as by the various objects by the wayside - the lamp-posts, for instance. During each rest he used to look ahead and select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next stopping-place, and when he start again he used to make the most strenuous and desperate efforts to reach it. Generally the goal he selected was too distant, for he usually overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to give in he ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure. On the present occasion, during one of these rests, it flashed upon him that he was being a very long time: he would have to buck up or he would get into a row: he was not even half-way up the road yet! Selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to reach it before resting again. The cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece at the end, forming the handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and, placing his chest against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before him. It seemed to get heavier and heavier every foot of the way. His whole body, but especially the thighs and calves of his legs, pained terribly, but still he strained and struggled and said to himself that he would not give in until he reached the lamp-post. Finding that the handle hurt his chest, he lowered it to his waist, but that being even more painful he raised it again to his chest, and struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart beating wildly. The cart became heavier and heavier. After a while it seemed to the boy as if there were someone at the front of it trying to push him back down the hill. This was such a funny idea that for a moment he felt inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as soon as it came and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold out long enough to reach the lamp-post, after all. Clenching his teeth, he made a tremendous effort and staggered forward two or three more steps and then - the cart stopped. He struggled with it despairingly for a few seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone out of him: his legs felt so weak that he nearly collapsed on to the ground, and the cart began to move backwards down the hill. He was just able to stick to it and guide it so that it ran into and rested against the kerb, and then he stood holding it in a half-dazed way, very pale, saturated with perspiration, and trembling. His legs in particular shook so much that he felt that unless he could sit down for a little, he would FALL down. He lowered the handle very carefully so as not to spill the whitewash out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the cart, then, sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wheel. A little way down the road was a church with a clock in the tower. It was five minutes to ten by this clock. Bert said to himself that when it was ten he would make another start. Whilst he was resting he thought of many things. Just behind that church was a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with other boys to catch effets. It if were not for the cart he would go across now, to see whether there were any there still. He remembered that he had been very eager to leave school and go to work, but they used to be fine old times after all. Then he thought of the day when his mother took him to Mr Rushton's office to `bind' him. He remembered that day very vividly: it was almost a year ago. How nervous he had been! His hand had trembled so that he was scarcely able to hold the pen. And even when it was all over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. His mother had been very nervous in the office also, and when they got home she cried a lot and called him her poor little fatherless boy, and said she hoped he would be good and try to learn. And then he cried as well, and promised her that he would do his best. He reflected with pride that he was keeping his promise about being a good boy and trying to learn: in fact, he knew a great deal about the trade already - he could paint back doors as well as anybody! and railings as well. Owen had taught him lots of things and had promised to do some patterns of graining for him so that he might practise copying them at home in the evenings. Owen was a fine chap. Bert resolved that he would tell him what Crass had been saying to Easton. Just fancy, the cheek of a rotter like Crass, trying to get Owen the sack! It would be more like it if Crass was to be sacked himself, so that Owen could be the foreman. One minute to ten. With a heavy heart Bert watched the clock. His legs were still aching very badly. He could not see the hands of the clock moving, but they were creeping on all the same. Now, the minute hand was over the edge of the number, and he began to deliberate whether he might not rest for another five minutes? But he had been such a long time already on his errand that he dismissed the thought. The minute hand was now upright and it was time to go on. Just as he was about to get up a harsh voice behind him said: `How much longer are you going to sit there?' Bert started up guiltily, and found himself confronted by Mr Rushton, who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst close by towered the colossal figure of the obese Sweater, the expression on his greasy countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such as appalling example of juvenile depravity. `What do you mean by sich conduct?' demanded Rushton, indignantly. `The idear of sitting there like that when most likely the men are waiting for them things?' Crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made no reply. `You've been there a long time,' continued Rushton, `I've been watchin' you all the time I've been comin' down the road.' Bert tried to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable to articulate a single word. `You know, that's not the way to get on in life, my boy,' observed Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully. `Get along with you at once!' Rushton said, roughly. `I'm surprised at yer! The idear! Sitting down in my time!' This was quite true. Rushton was not merely angry, but astonished at the audacity of the boy. That anyone in his employment should dare to have the impertinence to sit down in his time was incredible. The boy lifted the handle of the cart and once more began to push it up the hill. It seemed heavier now that ever, but he managed to get on somehow. He kept glancing back after Rushton and Sweater, who presently turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran the cart to the kerb again to have a breathe. He couldn't have kept up much further without a spell even if they had still been watching him, but he didn't rest for more than about half a minute this time, because he was afraid they might be peeping round the corner at him. After this he gave up the lamp-post system and halted for a minute or so at regular short intervals. In this way, he at length reached the top of the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that the journey was practically over. Just before he arrived at the gate of the house, he saw Hunter sneak out and mount his bicycle and ride away. Bert wheeled his cart up to the front door and began carrying in the things. Whilst thus engaged he noticed Philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the staircase, and called out to him: `Give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash, will yer, Joe?' `Certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagony,' replied Philpot as he hurried down the stairs. As they were carrying it in Philpot winked at Bert and whispered: `Did yer see Pontius Pilate anywheres outside?' `'E went away on 'is bike just as I come in at the gate.' `Did 'e? Thank Gord for that! I don't wish 'im no 'arm,' said Philpot, fervently, `but I 'opes 'e gets runned over with a motor.' In this wish Bert entirely concurred, and similar charitable sentiments were expressed by all the others as soon as they heard that Misery was gone. Just before four o'clock that afternoon Bert began to load up the truck with the venetian blinds, which had been taken down some days previously. `I wonder who'll have the job of paintin' 'em?' remarked Philpot to Newman. `P'raps's they'll take a couple of us away from ere.' `I shouldn't think so. We're short-'anded 'ere already. Most likely they'll put on a couple of fresh 'ands. There's a 'ell of a lot of work in all them blinds, you know: I reckon they'll 'ave to 'ave there or four coats, the state they're in.' `Yes. No doubt that's what will be done,' replied Newman, and added with a mirthless laugh: `I don't suppose they'll have much difficulty in getting a couple of chaps.' `No, you're right, mate. There's plenty of 'em walkin' about as a week's work would be a Gordsend to.' `Come to think of it,' continued Newman after a pause, `I believe the firm used to give all their blind work to old Latham, the venetian blind maker. Prap's they'll give 'im this lot to do.' `Very likely,' replied Philpot, `I should think 'e can do 'em cheaper even than us chaps, and that's all the firm cares about,' How far their conjectures were fulfilled will appear later. Shortly after Bert was gone it became so dark that it was necessary to light the candles, and Philpot remarked that although he hated working under such conditions, yet he was always glad when lighting up time came, because then knocking off time was not very far behind. About five minutes to five, just as they were all putting their things away for the night, Nimrod suddenly appeared in the house. He had come hoping to find some of them ready dressed to go home before the proper time. Having failed in this laudable enterprise, he stood silently by himself for some seconds in the drawing-room. This was a spacious and lofty apartment with a large semicircular bay window. Round the ceiling was a deep cornice. In the semi-darkness the room appeared to be of even greater proportions than it really was. After standing thinking in this room for a little while, Hunter turned and strode out to the kitchen, where the men were preparing to go home. Owen was taking off his blouse and apron as the other entered. Hunter addressed him with a malevolent snarl: `You can call at the office tonight as you go home.' Owen's heart seemed to stop beating. All the petty annoyances he had endured from Hunter rushed into his memory, together with what Easton had told him that morning. He stood, still and speechless, holding his apron in his hand and staring at the manager. `What for?' he ejaculated at length. `What's the matter?' `You'll find out what you're wanted for when you get there,' returned Hunter as he went out of the room and away from the house. When he was gone a dead silence prevailed. The hands ceased their preparations for departure and looked at each other and at Owen in astonishment. To stand a man off like that - when the job was not half finished - and for no apparent reason: and of a Monday, too. It was unheard of. There was a general chorus of indignation. Harlow and Philpot especially were very wroth. `If it comes to that,' Harlow shouted, `they've got no bloody right to do it! We're entitled to an hour's notice.' `Of course we are!' cried Philpot, his goggle eyes rolling wildly with wrath. `And I should 'ave it too, if it was me. You take my tip, Frank: CHARGE UP TO SIX O'CLOCK on yer time sheet and get some of your own back.' Everyone joined in the outburst of indignant protest. Everyone, that is, except Crass and Slyme. But then they were not exactly in the kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, and so it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged significant looks. Owen had by this time recovered his self-possession. He collected all his tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag with the purpose of taking them with him that night, but on reflection he resolved not to do so. After all, it was not absolutely certain that he was going to be `stood off': possibly they were going to send him on some other job. They kept all together - some walking on the pavement and some in the road - until they got down town, and then separated. Crass, Sawkins, Bundy and Philpot adjourned to the `Cricketers' for a drink, Newman went on by himself, Slyme accompanied Easton who had arranged with him to come that night to see the bedroom, and Owen went in the direction of the office. Chapter 11 Hands and Brains Rushton & Co.'s premises were situated in one of the principal streets of Mugsborough and consisted of a double-fronted shop with plate glass windows. The shop extended right through to the narrow back street which ran behind it. The front part of the shop was stocked with wall-hangings, mouldings, stands showing patterns of embossed wall and ceiling decorations, cases of brushes, tins of varnish and enamel, and similar things. The office was at the rear and was separated from the rest of the shop by a partition, glazed with muranese obscured glass. This office had two doors, one in the partition, giving access to the front shop, and the other by the side of the window and opening on to the back street. The glass of the lower sash of the back window consisted of one large pane on which was painted `Rushton & Co.' in black letters on a white ground. Owen stood outside this window for two or three seconds before knocking. There was a bright light in the office. Then he knocked at the door, which was at once opened from the inside by Hunter, and Owen went in. Rushton was seated in an armchair at his desk, smoking a cigar and reading one of several letters that were lying before him. At the back was a large unframed photograph of the size known as half-plate of the interior of some building. At another desk, or rather table, at the other side of the office, a young woman was sitting writing in a large ledger. There was a typewriting machine on the table at her side. Rushton glanced up carelessly as Owen came in, but took no further notice of him. `Just wait a minute,' Hunter said to Owen, and then, after conversing in a low tone with Rushton for a few minutes, the foreman put on his hat and went out of the office through the partition door which led into the front shop. Owen stood waiting for Rushton to speak. He wondered why Hunter had sneaked off and felt inclined to open the door and call him back. One thing he was determined about: he meant to have some explanation: he would not submit tamely to be dismissed without any just reason. When he had finished reading the letter, Rushton looked up, and, leaning comfortably back in his chair, he blew a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and said in an affable, indulgent tone, such as one might use to a child: `You're a bit of a hartist, ain't yer?' Owen was so surprised at this reception that he was for the moment unable to reply. `You know what I mean,' continued Rushton; `decorating work, something like them samples of yours what's hanging up there.' He noticed the embarrassment of Owen's manner, and was gratified. He thought the man was confused at being spoken to by such a superior person as himself. Mr Rushton was about thirty-five years of age, with light grey eyes, fair hair and moustache, and his complexion was a whitey drab. He was tall - about five feet ten inches - and rather clumsily built; not corpulent, but fat - in good condition. He appeared to be very well fed and well cared for generally. His clothes were well made, of good quality and fitted him perfectly. He was dressed in a grey Norfolk suit, dark brown boots and knitted woollen stockings reaching to the knee. He was a man who took himself very seriously. There was an air of pomposity and arrogant importance about him which - considering who and what he was - would have been entertaining to any observer gifted with a sense of humour. `Yes,' replied Owen at last. `I can do a little of that sort of work, although of course I don't profess to be able to do it as well or as quickly as a man who does nothing else.' `Oh, no, of course not, but I think you could manage this all right. It's that drawing-room at the `Cave'. Mr Sweater's been speaking to me about it. It seems that when he was over in Paris some time since he saw a room that took his fancy. The walls and ceiling was not papered, but painted: you know what I mean; sort of panelled out, and decorated with stencils and hand painting. This 'ere's a photer of it: it's done in a sort of JAPANESE fashion.' He handed the photograph to Owen as he spoke. It represented a room, the walls and ceiling of which were decorated in a Moorish style. `At first Mr Sweater thought of getting a firm from London to do it, but 'e gave up the idear on account of the expense; but if you can do it so that it doesn't cost too much, I think I can persuade 'im to go in for it. But if it's goin' to cost a lot it won't come off at all. 'E'll just 'ave a frieze put up and 'ave the room papered in the ordinary way.' This was not true: Rushton said it in case Owen might want to be paid extra wages while doing the work. The truth was that Sweater was going to have the room decorated in any case, and intended to get a London firm to do it. He had consented rather unwillingly to let Rushton & Co. submit him an estimate, because he thought they would not be able to do the work satisfactorily. Owen examined the photograph closely. `Could you do anything like that in that room?' `Yes, I think so,' replied Owen. `Well, you know, I don't want you to start on the job and not be able to finish it. Can you do it or not?' Rushton felt sure that Owen could do it, and was very desirous that he should undertake it, but he did not want him to know that. He wished to convey the impression that he was almost indifferent whether Owen did the work or not. In fact, he wished to seem to be conferring a favour upon him by procuring him such a nice job as this. `I'll tell you what I CAN do,' Owen replied. `I can make you a watercolour sketch - a design - and if you think it good enough, of course, I can reproduce it on the ceiling and the walls, and I can let you know, within a little, how long it will take.' Rushton appeared to reflect. Owen stood examining the photograph and began to feel an intense desire to do the work. Rushton shook his head dubiously. `If I let you spend a lot of time over the sketches and then Mr Sweater does not approve of your design, where do I come in?' `Well, suppose we put it like this: I'll draw the design at home in the evenings - in my own time. If it's accepted, I'll charge you for the time I've spent upon it. If it's not suitable, I won't charge the time at all.' Rushton brightened up considerably. `All right. You can do so,' he said with an affectation of good nature, `but you mustn't pile it on too thick, in any case, you know, because, as I said before, 'e don't want to spend too much money on it. In fact, if it's going to cost a great deal 'e simply won't 'ave it done at all.' Rushton knew Owen well enough to be sure that no consideration of time or pains would prevent him from putting the very best that was in him into this work. He knew that if the man did the room at all there was no likelihood of his scamping it for the sake of getting it done quickly; and for that matter Rushton did not wish him to hurry over it. All that he wanted to do was to impress upon Owen from the very first that he must not charge too much time. Any profit that it was possible to make out of the work, Rushton meant to secure for himself. He was a smart man, this Rushton, he possessed the ideal character: the kind of character that is necessary for any man who wishes to succeed in business - to get on in life. In other words, his disposition was very similar to that of a pig - he was intensely selfish. No one had any right to condemn him for this, because all who live under the present system practise selfishness, more or less. We must be selfish: the System demands it. We must be selfish or we shall be hungry and ragged and finally die in the gutter. The more selfish we are the better off we shall be. In the `Battle of Life' only the selfish and cunning are able to survive: all others are beaten down and trampled under foot. No one can justly be blamed for acting selfishly - it is a matter of self-preservation - we must either injure or be injured. It is the system that deserves to be blamed. What those who wish to perpetuate the system deserve is another question. `When do you think you'll have the drawings ready?' inquired Rushton. `Can you get them done tonight?' `I'm afraid not,' replied Owen, feeling inclined to laugh at the absurdity of the question. `It will need a little thinking about.' `When can you have them ready then? This is Monday. Wednesday morning?' Owen hesitated. `We don't want to keep 'im waiting too long, you know, or 'e may give up the idear altogether.' `Well, sat Friday morning, then,' said Owen, resolving that he would stay up all night if necessary to get it done. Rushton shook his head. `Can't you get it done before that? I'm afraid that if we keeps 'im waiting all that time we may lose the job altogether.' `I can't get them done any quicker in my spare time,' returned Owen, flushing. `If you like to let me stay home tomorrow and charge the time the same as if I had gone to work at the house, I could go to my ordinary work on Wednesday and let you have the drawings on Thursday morning.' `Oh, all right,' said Rushton as he returned to the perusal of his letters. That night, long after his wife and Frankie were asleep, Owen worked in the sitting-room, searching through old numbers of the Decorators' Journal and through the illustrations in other books of designs for examples of Moorish work, and making rough sketches in pencil. He did not attempt to finish anything yet: it was necessary to think first; but he roughed out the general plan, and when at last he did go to bed he could not sleep for a long time. He almost fancied he was in the drawing-room at the `Cave'. First of all it would be necessary to take down the ugly plaster centre flower with its crevices all filled up with old whitewash. The cornice was all right; it was fortunately a very simple one, with a deep cove and without many enrichments. Then, when the walls and the ceiling had been properly prepared, the ornamentation would be proceeded with. The walls, divided into panels and arches containing painted designs and lattice-work; the panels of the door decorated in a similar manner. The mouldings of the door and window frames picked out with colours and gold so as to be in character with the other work; the cove of the cornice, a dull yellow with a bold ornament in colour - gold was not advisable in the hollow because of the unequal distribution of the light, but some of the smaller mouldings of the cornice should be gold. On the ceiling there would be one large panel covered with an appropriate design in gold and colours and surrounded by a wide margin or border. To separate this margin from the centre panel there would be a narrow border, and another border - but wider - round the outer edge of the margin, where the ceiling met the cornice. Both these borders and the margin would be covered with ornamentation in colour and gold. Great care would be necessary when deciding what parts were to be gilded because - whilst large masses of gilding are apt to look garish and in bad taste - a lot of fine gold lines are ineffective, especially on a flat surface, where they do not always catch the light. Process by process he traced the work, and saw it advancing stage by stage until, finally, the large apartment was transformed and glorified. And then in the midst of the pleasure he experienced in the planning of the work there came the fear that perhaps they would not have it done at all. The question, what personal advantage would he gain never once occurred to Owen. He simply wanted to do the work; and he saw so fully occupied with thinking and planning how it was to be done that the question of profit was crowded out. But although this question of what profit could be made out of the work never occurred to Owen, it would in due course by fully considered by Mr Rushton. In fact, it was the only thing about the work that Mr Rushton would think of at all: how much money could be made out of it. This is what is meant by the oft-quoted saying, `The men work with their hands - the master works with his brains.' Chapter 12 The Letting of the Room It will be remembered that when the men separated, Owen going to the office to see Rushton, and the others on their several ways, Easton and Slyme went together. During the day Easton had found an opportunity of speaking to him about the bedroom. Slyme was about to leave the place where he was at present lodging, and he told Easton that although he had almost decided on another place he would take a look at the room. At Easton's suggestion they arranged that Slyme was to accompany him home that night. As the former remarked, Slyme could come to see the place, and if he didn't like it as well as the other he was thinking of taking, there was no harm done. Ruth had contrived to furnish the room. Some of the things she had obtained on credit from a second-hand furniture dealer. Exactly how she had managed, Easton did not know, but it was done. `This is the house,' said Easton. As they passed through, the gate creaked loudly on its hinges and then closed of itself rather noisily. Ruth had just been putting the child to sleep and she stood up as they came in, hastily fastening the bodice of her dress as she did so. `I've brought a gentleman to see you,' said Easton. Although she knew that he was looking out for someone for the room, Ruth had not expected him to bring anyone home in this sudden manner, and she could not help wishing that he had told her beforehand of his intention. It being Monday, she had been very busy all day and she was conscious that she was rather untidy in her appearance. Her long brown hair was twisted loosely into a coil behind her head. She blushed in an embarrassed way as the young man stared at her. Easton introduced Slyme by name and they shook hands; and then at Ruth's suggestion Easton took a light to show him the room, and while they were gone Ruth hurriedly tidied her hair and dress. When they came down again Slyme said he thought the room would suit him very well. What were the terms? Did he wish to take the room only - just to lodge? inquired Ruth, or would he prefer to board as well? Slyme intimated that he desired the latter arrangement. In that case she thought twelve shillings a week would be fair. She believed that was about the usual amount. Of course that would include washing, and if his clothes needed a little mending she would do it for him. Slyme expressed himself satisfied with these terms, which were as Ruth had said - about the usual ones. He would take the room, but he was not leaving his present lodgings until Saturday. It was therefore agreed that he was to bring his box on Saturday evening. When he had gone, Easton and Ruth stood looking at each other in silence. Ever since this plan of letting the room first occurred to them they had been very anxious to accomplish it; and yet, now that it was done, they felt dissatisfied and unhappy, as if they had suddenly experienced some irreparable misfortune. In that moment they remembered nothing of the darker side of their life together. The hard times and the privations were far off and seemed insignificant beside the fact that this stranger was for the future to share their home. To Ruth especially it seemed that the happiness of the past twelve months had suddenly come to an end. She shrank with involuntary aversion and apprehension from the picture that rose before her of the future in which this intruder appeared the most prominent figure, dominating everything and interfering with every detail of their home life. Of course they had known all this before, but somehow it had never seemed so objectionable as it did now, and as Easton thought of it he was filled an unreasonable resentment against Slyme, as if the latter had forced himself upon them against their will. `Damn him!' he thought. `I wish I'd never brought him here at all!' Ruth did not appear to him to be very happy about it either. `Well?' he said at last. `What do you think of him?' `Oh, he'll be all right, I suppose.' `For my part, I wish he wasn't coming,' Easton continued. `That's just what I was thinking,' replied Ruth dejectedly. `I don't like him at all. I seemed to turn against him directly he came in the door.' `I've a good mind to back out of it, somehow, tomorrow,' exclaimed Easton after another silence. `I could tell him we've unexpectedly got some friends coming to stay with us.' `Yes,' said Ruth eagerly. `It would be easy enough to make some excuse or other.' As this way of escape presented itself she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her mind, but almost in the same instant she remembered the reasons which had at first led them to think of letting the room, and she added, disconsolately: `It's foolish for us to go on like this, dear. We must let the room and it might just as well be him as anyone else. We must make the best of it, that's all.' Easton stood with his back to the fire, staring gloomily at her. `Yes, I suppose that's the right way to look at it,' he replied at length. `If we can't stand it, we'll give up the house and take a couple of rooms, or a small flat - if we can get one.' Ruth agreed, although neither alternative was very inviting. The unwelcome alteration in their circumstances was after all not altogether without its compensations, because from the moment of arriving at this decision their love for each other seemed to be renewed and intensified. They remembered with acute regret that hitherto they had not always fully appreciated the happiness of that exclusive companionship of which there now remained to them but one week more. For once the present was esteemed at its proper value, being invested with some of the glamour which almost always envelops the past. Chapter 13 Penal Servitude and Death On Tuesday - the day after his interview with Rushton - Owen remained at home working at the drawings. He did not get them finished, but they were so far advanced that he thought he would be able to complete them after tea on Wednesday evening. He did not go to work until after breakfast on Wednesday and his continued absence served to confirm the opinion of the other workmen that he had been discharged. This belief was further strengthened by the fact that a new hand had been sent to the house by Hunter, who came himself also at about a quarter past seven and very nearly caught Philpot in the act of smoking. During breakfast, Philpot, addressing Crass and referring to Hunter, inquired anxiously: `'Ow's 'is temper this mornin', Bob?' `As mild as milk,' replied Crass. `You'd think butter wouldn't melt in 'is mouth.' `Seemed quite pleased with 'isself, didn't 'e?' said Harlow. `Yes,' remarked Newman. `'E said good morning to me!' `So 'e did to me!' said Easton. `'E come inter the drorin'-room an' 'e ses, "Oh, you're in 'ere are yer, Easton," 'e ses - just like that, quite affable like. So I ses, "Yes, sir." "Well," 'e ses, "get it slobbered over as quick as you can," 'e ses, "'cos we ain't got much for this job: don't spend a lot of time puttying up. Just smear it over an' let it go!"' `'E certinly seemed very pleased about something,' said Harlow. `I thought prap's there was a undertaking job in: one o' them generally puts 'im in a good humour.' `I believe that nothing would please 'im so much as to see a epidemic break out,' remarked Philpot. `Small-pox, Hinfluenza, Cholery morbus, or anything like that.' `Yes: don't you remember 'ow good-tempered 'e was last summer when there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?' observed Harlow. `Yes,' said Crass with a chuckle. `I recollect we 'ad six children's funerals to do in one week. Ole Misery was as pleased as Punch, because of course as a rule there ain't many boxin'-up jobs in the summer. It's in winter as hundertakers reaps their 'arvest.' `We ain't 'ad very many this winter, though, so far,' said Harlow. `Not so many as usual,' admitted Crass, `but still, we can't grumble: we've 'ad one nearly every week since the beginning of October. That's not so bad, you know.' Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of Rushton & Co.'s business. He always had the job of polishing or varnishing the coffin and assisting to take it home and to `lift in' the corpse, besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. This work was more highly paid for than painting. `But I don't think there's no funeral job in,' added Crass after a pause. `I think it's because 'e's glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh ask me.' `Praps that 'as got something to do with it,' said Harlow. `But all the same I don't call that a proper way to treat anyone - givin' a man the push in that way just because 'e 'appened to 'ave a spite against 'im.' `It's wot I call a bl--dy shame!' cried Philpot. `Owen's a chap wots always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and 'e knows 'is work, although 'e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when 'e gets on about Socialism.' `I suppose Misery didn't say nothin' about 'im this mornin'?' inquired Easton. `No,' replied Crass, and added: `I only 'ope Owen don't think as I never said anything against 'im. 'E looked at me very funny that night after Nimrod went away. Owen needn't think nothing like that about ME, because I'm a chap like this - if I couldn't do nobody no good, I wouldn't never do 'em no 'arm!' At this some of the others furtively exchanged significant glances, and Harlow began to smile, but no one said anything. Philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not helped himself to any tea, called Bert's attention to the fact and the boy filled Owen's cup and passed it over to the new hand. Their conjectures regarding the cause of Hunter's good humour were all wrong. As the reader knows, Owen had not been discharged at all, and there was nobody dead. The real reason was that, having decided to take on another man, Hunter had experienced no difficulty in getting one at the same reduced rate as that which Newman was working for, there being such numbers of men out of employment. Hitherto the usual rate of pay in Mugsborough had been sevenpence an hour for skilled painters. The reader will remember that Newman consented to accept a job at sixpence halfpenny. So far none of the other workmen knew that Newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure whether he was the only one or not. The man whom Hunter had taken on that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep his own counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out what the others were getting. Just before half past eight Owen arrived and was immediately assailed with questions as to what had transpired at the office. Crass listened with ill-concealed chagrin to Owen's account, but most of the others were genuinely pleased. `But what a way to speak to anybody!' observed Harlow, referring to Hunter's manner on the previous Monday night. `You know, I reckon if ole Misery 'ad four legs, 'e'd make a very good pig,' said Philpot, solemnly, `and you can't expect nothin' from a pig but a grunt.' During the morning, as Easton and Owen were working together in the drawing-room, the former remarked: `Did I tell you I had a room I wanted to let, Frank?' `Yes, I think you did.' `Well, I've let it to Slyme. I think he seems a very decent sort of chap, don't you?' `Yes, I suppose he is,' replied Owen, hesitatingly. `I know nothing against him.' `Of course, we'd rather 'ave the 'ouse to ourselves if we could afford it, but work is so scarce lately. I've been figuring out exactly what my money has averaged for the last twelve months and how much a week do you think it comes to?' `God only knows,' said Owen. `How much?' `About eighteen bob.' `So you see we had to do something,' continued Easton; `and I reckon we're lucky to get a respectable sort of chap like Slyme, religious and teetotal and all that, you know. Don't you think so?' `Yes, I suppose you are,' said Owen, who, although he intensely disliked Slyme, knew nothing definite against him. They worked in silence for some time, and then Owen said: `At the present time there are thousands of people so badly off that, compared with them, WE are RICH. Their sufferings are so great that compared with them, we may be said to be living in luxury. You know that, don't you?' `Yes, that's true enough, mate. We really ought to be very thankful: we ought to consider ourselves lucky to 'ave a inside job like this when there's such a lot of chaps walkin' about doin' nothing.' `Yes,' said Owen: `we're lucky! Although we're in a condition of abject, miserable poverty we must consider ourselves lucky that we're not actually starving.' Owen was painting the door; Easton was doing the skirting. This work caused no noise, so they were able to converse without difficulty. `Do you think it's right for us to tamely make up our minds to live for the rest of our lives under such conditions as that?' `No; certainly not,' replied Easton; `but things are sure to get better presently. Trade hasn't always been as bad as it is now. Why, you can remember as well as I can a few years ago there was so much work that we was putting in fourteen and sixteen hours a day. I used to be so done up by the end of the week that I used to stay in bed nearly all day on Sunday.' `But don't you think it's worth while trying to find out whether it's possible to so arrange things that we may be able to live like civilized human beings without being alternately worked to death or starved?' `I don't see how we're goin' to alter things,' answered Easton. `At the present time, from what I hear, work is scarce everywhere. WE can't MAKE work, can we?' `Do you think, then, that the affairs of the world are something like the wind or the weather - altogether beyond our control? And that if they're bad we can do nothing but just sit down and wait for them to get better?' `Well, I don't see 'ow we can odds it. If the people wot's got the money won't spend it, the likes of me and you can't make 'em, can we?' Owen looked curiously at Easton. `I suppose you're about twenty-six now,' he said. `That means that you have about another thirty years to live. Of course, if you had proper food and clothes and hadn't to work more than a reasonable number of hours every day, there is no natural reason why you should not live for another fifty or sixty years: but we'll say thirty. Do you mean to say that you are able to contemplate with indifference the prospect of living for another thirty years under such conditions as those we endure at present?' Easton made no reply. `If you were to commit some serious breach of the law, and were sentenced next week to ten years' penal servitude, you'd probably think your fate a very pitiable one: yet you appear to submit quite cheerfully to this other sentence, which is - that you shall die a premature death after you have done another thirty years' hard labour.' Easton continued painting the skirting. `When there's no work,' Owen went on, taking another dip of paint as he spoke and starting on one of the lower panels of the door, `when there's no work, you will either starve or get into debt. When - as at present - there is a little work, you will live in a state of semi-starvation. When times are what you call "good", you will work for twelve or fourteen hours a day and - if you're VERY lucky - occasionally all night. The extra money you then earn will go to pay your debts so that you may be able to get credit again when there's no work.' Easton put some putty in a crack in the skirting. `In consequence of living in this manner, you will die at least twenty years sooner than is natural, or, should you have an unusually strong constitution and live after you cease to be able to work, you will be put into a kind of jail and treated like a criminal for the remainder of your life.' Having faced up the cracks, Easton resumed the painting of the skirting. `If it were proposed to make a law that all working men and women were to be put to death - smothered, or hung, or poisoned, or put into a lethal chamber - as soon as they reached the age of fifty years, there is not the slightest doubt that you would join in the uproar of protest that would ensue. Yet you submit tamely to have your life shortened by slow starvation, overwork, lack of proper boots and clothing, and though having often to turn out and go to work when you are so ill that you ought to be in bed receiving medical care.' Easton made no reply: he knew that all this was true, but he was not without a large share of the false pride which prompts us to hide our poverty and to pretend that we are much better off than we really are. He was at that moment wearing the pair of second-hand boots that Ruth had bought for him, but he had told Harlow - who had passed some remark about them - that he had had them for years, wearing them only for best. He felt very resentful as he listened to the other's talk, and Owen perceived it, but nevertheless he continued: `Unless the present system is altered, that is all we have to look forward to; and yet you're one of the upholders of the present system - you help to perpetuate it!' `'Ow do I help to perpetuate it?' demanded Easton. `By not trying to find out how to end it - by not helping those who are trying to bring a better state of things into existence. Even if you are indifferent to your own fate - as you seem to be - you have no right to be indifferent to that of the child for whose existence in this world you are responsible. Every man who is not helping to bring about a better state of affairs for the future is helping to perpetuate the present misery, and is therefore the enemy of his own children. There is no such thing as being natural: we must either help or hinder.' As Owen opened the door to paint its edge, Bert came along the passage. `Look out!' he cried, `Misery's comin' up the road. 'E'll be 'ere in a minit.' It was not often that Easton was glad to hear of the approach of Nimrod, but on this occasion he heard Bert's message with a sigh of relief. `I say,' added the boy in a whisper to Owen, `if it comes orf - I mean if you gets the job to do this room - will you ask to 'ave me along of you?' `Yes, all right, sonny,' replied Owen, and Bert went off to warn the others. `Unaware that he had been observed, Nimrod sneaked stealthily into the house and began softly crawling about from room to room, peeping around corners and squinting through the cracks of doors, and looking through keyholes. He was almost pleased to see that everybody was very hard at work, but on going into Newman's room Misery was not satisfied with the progress made since his last visit. The fact was that Newman had been forgetting himself again this morning. He had been taking a little pains with the work, doing it something like properly, instead of scamping and rushing it in the usual way. The result was that he had not done enough. `You know, Newman, this kind of thing won't do!' Nimrod howled. `You must get over a bit more than this or you won't suit me! If you can't move yourself a bit quicker I shall 'ave to get someone else. You've been in this room since seven o'clock this morning and it's dam near time you was out of it!' Newman muttered something about being nearly finished now, and Hunter ascended to the next landing - the attics, where the cheap man - Sawkins, the labourer - was at work. Harlow had been taken away from the attics to go on with some of the better work, so Sawkins was now working alone. He had been slogging into it like a Trojan and had done quite a lot. He had painted not only the sashes of the window, but also a large part of the glass, and when doing the skirting he had included part of the floor, sometimes an inch, sometimes half an inch. The paint was of a dark drab colour and the surface of the newly painted doors bore a strong resemblance to corduroy cloth, and from the bottom corners of nearly every panel there was trickling down a large tear, as if the doors were weeping for the degenerate condition of the decorative arts. But these tears caused to throb of pity in the bosom of Misery: neither did the corduroy-like surface of the work grate upon his feelings. He perceived them not. He saw only that there was a Lot of Work done and his soul was filled with rapture as he reflected that the man who had accomplished all this was paid only fivepence an hour. At the same time it would never do to let Sawkins know that he was satisfied with the progress made, so he said: `I don't want you to stand too much over this up 'ere, you know, Sawkins. Just mop it over anyhow, and get away from it as quick as you can.' `All right, sir,' replied Sawkins, wiping the sweat from his brow as Misery began crawling downstairs again. `Where's Harlow go to, then?' he demanded of Philpot. `'E wasn't 'ere just now, when I came up.' `'E's gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,' replied Joe, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and winking at Hunter. `'E'll be back in 'arf a mo.' And indeed at that moment Harlow was just coming upstairs again. `'Ere, we can't allow this kind of thing in workin' hours, you know.' Hunter bellowed. `There's plenty of time for that in the dinner hour!' Nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which Easton and Owen had been painting. He stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with that done by Sawkins in the attics. Misery was not a painter himself: he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain painting. `I believe it would pay us a great deal better,' he thought to himself, `if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like Sawkins.' And with his mind filled with this reflection he shortly afterwards sneaked stealthily from the house. Chapter 14 Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence Owen spent the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the drawing-room making pencil sketches in his pocket-book and taking measurements. In the evening after leaving off, instead of going straight home as usual he went round to the Free Library to see if he could find anything concerning Moorish decorative work in any of the books there. Although it was only a small and ill-equipped institution he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations of several examples of which he made sketches. After about an hour spent this way, as he was proceeding homewards he observed two children - a boy and a girl - whose appearance seemed familiar. They were standing at the window of a sweetstuff shop examining the wares exposed therein. As Owen came up the children turned round and the recognized each other simultaneously. They were Charley and Elsie Linden. Owen spoke to them as he drew near and the boy appealed to him for his opinion concerning a dispute they had been having. `I say, mister. Which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of everlasting stickjaw torfee, or a prize packet?' `I'd rather have a prize packet,' replied Owen, unhesitatingly. `There! I told you so!' cried Elsie, triumphantly. `Well, I don't care. I'd sooner 'ave the torfee,' said Charley, doggedly. `Why, can't you agree which of the two to buy?' `Oh no, it's not that,' replied Elsie. `We was only just SUPPOSING what we'd buy if we 'ad a fardin; but we're not really goin' to buy nothing, because we ain't got no money.' `Oh, I see,' said Owen. `But I think *I* have some money,' and putting his hand into his pocket he produced two halfpennies and gave one to each of the children, who immediately went in to buy the toffee and the prize packet, and when they came out he walked along with them, as they were going in the same direction as he was: indeed, they would have to pass by his house. `Has your grandfather got anything to do yet?' he inquired as they went along. `No. 'E's still walkin' about, mister,' replied Charley. When they reached Owen's door he invited them to come up to see the kitten, which they had been inquiring about on the way. Frankie was delighted with these two visitors, and whilst they were eating some home-made cakes that Nora gave them, he entertained them by displaying the contents of his toy box, and the antics of the kitten, which was the best toy of all, for it invented new games all the time: acrobatic performances on the rails of chairs; curtain climbing; running slides up and down the oilcloth; hiding and peeping round corners and under the sofa. The kitten cut so many comical capers, and in a little while the children began to create such an uproar, that Nora had to interfere lest the people in the flat underneath should be annoyed. However, Elsie and Charley were not able to stay very long, because their mother would be anxious about them, but they promised to come again some other day to play with Frankie. `I'm going to 'ave a prize next Sunday at our Sunday School,' said Elsie as they were leaving. `What are you going to get it for?' asked Nora. `'Cause I learned my text properly. I had to learn the whole of the first chapter of Matthew by heart and I never made one single mistake! So teacher said she'd give me a nice book next Sunday.' `I 'ad one too, the other week, about six months ago, didn't I, Elsie?' said Charley. `Yes,' replied Elsie and added: `Do they give prizes at your Sunday School, Frankie?' `I don't go to Sunday School.' `Ain't you never been?' said Charley in a tone of surprise. `No,' replied Frankie. `Dad says I have quite enough of school all the week.' `You ought to come to ours, man!' urged Charley. `It's not like being in school at all! And we 'as a treat in the summer, and prizes and sometimes a magic lantern 'tainment. It ain't 'arf all right, I can tell you.' Frankie looked inquiringly at his mother. `Might I go, Mum?' `Yes, if you like, dear.' `But I don't know the way.' `Oh, it's not far from 'ere,' cried Charley. `We 'as to pass by your 'ouse when we're goin', so I'll call for you on Sunday if you like.' `It's only just round in Duke Street; you know, the "Shining Light Chapel",' said Elsie. `It commences at three o'clock.' `All right,' said Nora. `I'll have Frankie ready at a quarter to three. But now you must run home as fast as you can. Did you like those cakes?' `Yes, thank you very much,' answered Elsie. `Not 'arf!' said Charley. `Does your mother make cakes for you sometimes?' `She used to, but she's too busy now, making blouses and one thing and another,' Elsie answered. `I suppose she hasn't much time for cooking,' said Nora, `so I've wrapped up some more of those cakes in this parcel for you to take home for tomorrow. I think you can manage to carry it all right, can't you, Charley?' `I think I'd better carry it myself,' said Elsie. `Charley's SO careless, he's sure to lose some of them.' `I ain't no more careless than you are,' cried Charley, indignantly. `What about the time you dropped the quarter of butter you was sent for in the mud?' `That wasn't carelessness: that was an accident, and it wasn't butter at all: it was margarine, so there!' Eventually it was arranged that they were to carry the parcel in turns, Elsie to have first innings. Frankie went downstairs to the front door with them to see them off, and as they went down the street he shouted after them: `Mind you remember, next Sunday!' `All right,' Charley shouted back. `We shan't forget.' On Thursday Owen stayed at home until after breakfast to finish the designs which he had promised to have ready that morning. When he took them to the office at nine o'clock, the hour at which he had arranged to meet Rushton, the latter had not yet arrived, and he did not put in an appearance until half an hour later. Like the majority of people who do brain work, he needed a great deal more rest than those who do only mere physical labour. `Oh, you've brought them sketches, I suppose,' he remarked in a surly tone as he came in. `You know, there was no need for you to wait: you could 'ave left 'em 'ere and gone on to your job.' He sat down at his desk and looked carelessly at the drawing that Owen handed to him. It was on a sheet of paper about twenty-four by eighteen inches. The design was drawn with pencil and one half of it was coloured. `That's for the ceiling,' said Owen. `I hadn't time to colour all of it.' With an affectation of indifference, Rushton laid the drawing down and took the other which Owen handed to him. `This is for the large wall. The same design would be adapted for the other walls; and this one shows the door and the panels under the window.' Rushton expressed no opinion about the merits of the drawings. He examined them carelessly one after the other, and then, laying them down, he inquired: `How long would it take you to do this work - if we get the job?' `About three weeks: say 150 hours. That is - the decorative work only. Of course, the walls and ceiling would have to be painted first: they will need three coats of white.' Rushton scribbled a note on a piece of paper. `Well,' he said, after a pause, `you can leave these 'ere and I'll see Mr Sweater about it and tell 'im what it will cost, and if he decides to have it done I'll let you know.' He put the drawings aside with the air of a man who has other matters to attend to, and began to open one of the several letters that were on his desk. He meant this as an intimation that the audience was at an end and that he desired the `hand' to retire from the presence. Owen understood this, but he did not retire, because it was necessary to mention one or two things which Rushton would have to allow for when preparing the estimate. `Of course I should want some help,' he said. `I should need a man occasionally, and the boy most of the time. Then there's the gold leaf - say, fifteen books.' `Don't you think it would be possible to use gold paint?' `I'm afraid not.' `Is there anything else?' inquired Rushton as he finished writing down these items. `I think that's all, except a few sheets of cartridge paper for stencils and working drawings. The quantity of paint necessary for the decorative work will be very small.' As soon as Owen was gone, Rushton took up the designs and examined them attentively. `These are all right,' he muttered. `Good enough for anywhere. If he can paint anything like as well as this on the walls and ceiling of the room, it will stand all the looking at that anyone in this town is likely to give it.' `Let's see,' he continued. `He said three weeks, but he's so anxious to do the job that he's most likely under-estimated the time; I'd better allow four weeks: that means about 200 hours: 200 hours at eight-pence: how much is that? And say he has a painter to help him half the time. 100 hours at sixpence-ha'penny.' He consulted a ready reckoner that was on the desk. `Time, ?.7.6. Materials: fifteen books of gold, say a pound. Then there's the cartridge paper and the colours - say another pound, at the outside. Boy's time? Well, he gets no wages as yet, so we needn't mention that at all. Then there's the preparing of the room. Three coats of white paint. I wish Hunter was here to give me an idea what it will cost.' As if in answer to his wish, Nimrod entered the office at that moment, and in reply to Rushton's query said that to give the walls and ceiling three coats of paint would cost about three pounds five for time and material. Between them the two brain workers figured that fifteen pounds would cover the entire cost of the work - painting and decorating. `Well, I reckon we can charge Sweater forty-five pounds for it,' said Rushton. `It isn't like an ordinary job, you know. If he gets a London firm to do it, it'll cost him double that, if not more.' Having arrived at this decision, Rushton rung up Sweater's Emporium on the telephone, and, finding that Mr Sweater was there, he rolled up the designs and set out for that gentleman's office. The men work with their hands, and the masters work with their brains. What a dreadful calamity it would be for the world and for mankind if all these brain workers were to go on strike. Chapter 15 The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones Hunter had take on three more painters that morning. Bundy and two labourers had commenced the work of putting in the new drains; the carpenters were back again doing some extra work, and there was also a plumber working on the house; so there was quite a little crowd in the kitchen at dinner-time. Crass had been waiting for a suitable opportunity to produce the newspaper cutting which it will be remembered he showed to Easton on Monday morning, but he had waited in vain, for there had been scarcely any `political' talk at meal-times all the week, and it was now Thursday. As far as Owen was concerned, his thoughts were so occupied with the designs for the drawing-room that he had no time for anything else, and most of the others were only too willing to avoid a subject which frequently led to unpleasantness. As a rule Crass himself had no liking for such discussion, but he was so confident of being able to `flatten out' Owen with the cutting from the Obscurer that he had several times tried to lead the conversation into the desired channel, but so far without success. During dinner - as they called it - various subjects were discussed. Harlow mentioned that he had found traces of bugs in one of the bedrooms upstairs and this called forth a number of anecdotes of those vermin and of houses infested by them. Philpot remembered working in a house over at Windley; the people who lived in it were very dirty and had very little furniture; no bedsteads, the beds consisting of dilapidated mattresses and rags on the floor. He declared that these ragged mattresses used to wander about the rooms by themselves. The house was so full of fleas that if one placed a sheet of newspaper on the floor one could hear and see them jumping on it. In fact, directly one went into that house one was covered from head to foot with fleas! During the few days he worked at that place, he lost several pounds in weight, and of evenings as he walked homewards the children and people in the streets, observing his ravaged countenance, thought he was suffering from some disease and used to get out of his way when they saw him coming. There were several other of these narratives, four or five men talking at the top of their voices at the same time, each one telling a different story. At first each story-teller addressed himself to the company generally, but after a while, finding it impossible to make himself heard, he would select some particular individual who seemed disposed to listen and tell him the story. It sometimes happened that in the middle of the tale the man to whom it was being told would remember a somewhat similar adventure of his own, which he would immediately proceed to relate without waiting for the other to finish, and each of them was generally so interested in the gruesome details of his own story that he was unconscious of the fact that the other was telling one at all. In a contest of this kind the victory usually went to the man with the loudest voice, but sometimes a man who had a weak voice, scored by repeating the same tale several times until someone heard it. Barrington, who seldom spoke and was an ideal listener, was appropriated by several men in succession, who each told him a different yarn. There was one man sitting on an up-ended pail in the far corner of the room and it was evident from the movements of his lips that he also was relating a story, although nobody knew what it was about or heard a single word of it, for no one took the slightest notice of him... When the uproar had subsided Harlow remembered the case of a family whose house got into such a condition that the landlord had given them notice and the father had committed suicide because the painters had come to turn 'em out of house and home. There were a man, his wife and daughter - a girl about seventeen - living in the house, and all three of 'em used to drink like hell. As for the woman, she COULD shift it and no mistake! Several times a day she used to send the girl with a jug to the pub at the corner. When the old man was out, one could have anything one liked to ask for from either of 'em for half a pint of beer, but for his part, said Harlow, he could never fancy it. They were both too ugly. The finale of this tale was received with a burst of incredulous laughter by those who heard it. `Do you 'ear what Harlow says, Bob?' Easton shouted to Crass. `No. What was it?' `'E ses 'e once 'ad a chance to 'ave something but 'e wouldn't take it on because it was too ugly!' `If it 'ad bin me, I should 'ave shut me bl--y eyes,' cried Sawkins. `I wouldn't pass it for a trifle like that.' `No,' said Crass amid laughter, `and you can bet your life 'e didn't lose it neither, although 'e tries to make 'imself out to be so innocent.' `I always though old Harlow was a bl--y liar,' remarked Bundy, `but now we knows 'e is.' Although everyone pretended to disbelieve him, Harlow stuck to his version of the story. `It's not their face you want, you know,' added Bundy as he helped himself to some more tea. `I know it wasn't my old woman's face that I was after last night,' observed Crass; and then he proceeded amid roars of laughter to give a minutely detailed account of what had taken place between himself and his wife after they had retired for the night. This story reminded the man on the pail of a very strange dream he had had a few weeks previously: `I dreamt I was walkin' along the top of a 'igh cliff or some sich place, and all of a sudden the ground give way under me feet and I began to slip down and down and to save meself from going over I made a grab at a tuft of grass as was growin' just within reach of me 'and. And then I thought that some feller was 'ittin me on the 'ead with a bl--y great stick, and tryin' to make me let go of the tuft of grass. And then I woke up to find my old woman shouting out and punchin' me with 'er fists. She said I was pullin' 'er 'air!' While the room was in an uproar with the merriment induced by these stories, Crass rose from his seat and crossed over to where his overcoat was hanging on a nail in the wall, and took from the pocket a piece of card about eight inches by about four inches. One side of it was covered with printing, and as he returned to his seat Crass called upon the others to listen while he read it aloud. He said it was one of the best things he had ever seen: it had been given to him by a bloke in the Cricketers the other night. Crass was not a very good reader, but he was able to read this all right because he had read it so often that he almost knew it by heart. It was entitled `The Art of Flatulence', and it consisted of a number of rules and definitions. Shouts of laughter greeted the reading of each paragraph, and when he had ended, the piece of dirty card was handed round for the benefit of those who wished to read it for themselves. Several of the men, however, when it was offered to them, refused to take it, and with evident disgust suggested that it should be put into the fire. This view did not commend itself to Crass, who, after the others had finished with it, put it back in the pocket of his coat. Meanwhile, Bundy stood up to help himself to some more tea. The cup he was drinking from had a large piece broken out of one side and did not hold much, so he usually had to have three or four helpings. `Anyone else want any' he asked. Several cups and jars were passed to him. These vessels had been standing on the floor, and the floor was very dirty and covered with dust, so before dipping them into the pail, Bundy - who had been working at the drains all morning - wiped the bottoms of the jars upon his trousers, on the same place where he was in the habit of wiping his hands when he happened to get some dirt on them. He filled the jars so full that as he held them by the rims and passed them to their owners part of the contents slopped over and trickled through his fingers. By the time he had finished the floor was covered with little pools of tea. `They say that Gord made everything for some useful purpose,' remarked Harlow, reverting to the original subject, `but I should like to know what the hell's the use of sich things as bugs and fleas and the like.' `To teach people to keep theirselves clean, of course,' said Slyme. `That's a funny subject, ain't it?' continued Harlow, ignoring Slyme's answer. `They say as all diseases is caused by little insects. If Gord 'adn't made no cancer germs or consumption microbes there wouldn't be no cancer or consumption.' `That's one of the proofs that there ISN'T an individual God,' said Owen. `If we were to believe that the universe and everything that lives was deliberately designed and created by God, then we must also believe that He made his disease germs you are speaking of for the purpose of torturing His other creatures.' `You can't tell me a bloody yarn like that,' interposed Crass, roughly. `There's a Ruler over us, mate, and so you're likely to find out.' `If Gord didn't create the world, 'ow did it come 'ere?' demanded Slyme. `I know no more about that than you do,' replied Owen. `That is - I know nothing. The only difference between us is that you THINK you know. You think you know that God made the universe; how long it took Him to do it; why He made it; how long it's been in existence and how it will finally pass away. You also imagine you know that we shall live after we're dead; where we shall go, and the kind of existence we shall have. In fact, in the excess of your "humility", you think you know all about it. But really you know no more of these things than any other human being does; that is, you know NOTHING.' `That's only YOUR opinion,' said Slyme. `If we care to take the trouble to learn,' Owen went on, `we can know a little of how the universe has grown and changed; but of the beginning we know nothing,' `That's just my opinion, matey,' observed Philpot. `It's just a bloody mystery, and that's all about it.' `I don't pretend to 'ave no 'ead knowledge,' said Slyme, `but 'ead knowledge won't save a man's soul: it's 'EART knowledge as does that. I knows in my 'eart as my sins is all hunder the Blood, and it's knowin' that, wot's given 'appiness and the peace which passes all understanding to me ever since I've been a Christian.' `Glory, glory, hallelujah!' shouted Bundy, and nearly everyone laughed. `"Christian" is right,' sneered Owen. `You've got some title to call yourself a Christian, haven't you? As for the happiness that passes all understanding, it certainly passes MY understanding how you can be happy when you believe that millions of people are being tortured in Hell; and it also passes my understanding why you are not ashamed of yourself for being happy under such circumstances.' `Ah, well, you'll find it all out when you come to die, mate,' replied Slyme in a threatening tone. `You'll think and talk different then!' `That's just wot gets over ME,' observed Harlow. `It don't seem right that after living in misery and poverty all our bloody lives, workin' and slavin' all the hours that Gord A'mighty sends, that we're to be bloody well set fire and burned in 'ell for all eternity! It don't seem feasible to me, you know.' `It's my belief,' said Philpot, profoundly, `that when you're dead, you're done for. That's the end of you.' `That's what *I* say,' remarked Easton. `As for all this religious business, it's just a money-making dodge. It's the parson's trade, just the same as painting is ours, only there's no work attached to it and the pay's a bloody sight better than ours is.' `It's their livin', and a bloody good livin' too, if you ask me,' said Bundy. `Yes,' said Harlow; `they lives on the fat o' the land, and wears the best of everything, and they does nothing for it but talk a lot of twaddle two or three times a week. The rest of the time they spend cadgin' money orf silly old women who thinks it's a sorter fire insurance.' `It's an old sayin' and a true one,' chimed in the man on the upturned pail. `Parsons and publicans is the worst enemies the workin' man ever 'ad. There may be SOME good 'uns, but they're few and far between.' `If I could only get a job like the Harchbishop of Canterbury,' said Philpot, solemnly, `I'd leave this firm.' `So would I,' said Harlow, `if I was the Harchbishop of Canterbury, I'd take my pot and brushes down the office and shy 'em through the bloody winder and tell ole Misery to go to 'ell.' `Religion is a thing that don't trouble ME much,' remarked Newman; `and as for what happens to you after death, it's a thing I believe in leavin' till you comes to it - there's no sense in meetin' trouble 'arfway. All the things they tells us may be true or they may not, but it takes me all my time to look after THIS world. I don't believe I've been to church more than arf a dozen times since I've been married - that's over fifteen years ago now - and then it's been when the kids 'ave been christened. The old woman goes sometimes and of course the young 'uns goes; you've got to tell 'em something or other, and they might as well learn what they teaches at the Sunday School as anything else.' A general murmur of approval greeted this. It seemed to be the almost unanimous opinion, that, whether it were true or not, `religion' was a nice thing to teach children. `I've not been even once since I was married,' said Harlow, `and I sometimes wish to Christ I 'adn't gorn then.' `I don't see as it matters a dam wot a man believes,' said Philpot, `as long as you don't do no 'arm to nobody. If you see a poor b--r wot's down on 'is luck, give 'im a 'elpin' 'and. Even if you ain't got no money you can say a kind word. If a man does 'is work and looks arter 'is 'ome and 'is young 'uns, and does a good turn to a fellow creature when 'e can, I reckon 'e stands as much chance of getting into 'eaven - if there IS sich a place - as some of there 'ere Bible-busters, whether 'e ever goes to church or chapel or not.' These sentiments were echoed by everyone with the solitary exception of Slyme, who said that Philpot would find out his mistake after he was dead, when he would have to stand before the Great White Throne for judgement! `And at the Last Day, when yer sees the moon turned inter Blood, you'll be cryin' hout for the mountings and the rocks to fall on yer and 'ide yer from the wrath of the Lamb!' The others laughed derisively. `I'm a Bush Baptist meself,' remarked the man on the upturned pail. This individual, Dick Wantley by name, was of what is usually termed a `rugged' cast of countenance. He reminded one strongly of an ancient gargoyle, or a dragon. Most of the hands had by now lit their pipes, but there were a few who preferred chewing their tobacco. As they smoked or chewed they expectorated upon the floor or into the fire. Wantley was one of those who preferred chewing and he had been spitting upon the floor to such an extent that he was by this time partly surrounded by a kind of semicircular moat of dark brown spittle. `I'm a Bush Baptist!' he shouted across the moat, `and you all knows wot that is.' This confession of faith caused a fresh outburst of hilarity, because of course everyone knew what a Bush Baptist was. `If 'evven's goin' to be full of sich b--r's as Hunter,' observed Eaton, `I think I'd rather go to the other place.' `If ever ole Misery DOES get into 'eaven,' said Philpot, `'e won't stop there very long. I reckon 'e'll be chucked out of it before 'e's been there a week, because 'e's sure to start pinchin' the jewels out of the other saints' crowns.' `Well, if they won't 'ave 'im in 'eaven, I'm sure I don't know wot's to become of 'im,' said Harlow with pretended concern, `because I don't believe 'e'd be allowed into 'ell, now.' `Why not?' demanded Bundy. `I should think it's just the bloody place for sich b--r's as 'im.' `So it used to be at one time o' day, but they've changed all that now. They've 'ad a revolution down there: deposed the Devil, elected a parson as President, and started puttin' the fire out.' `From what I hears of it,' continued Harlow when the laughter had ceased, `'ell is a bloody fine place to live in just now. There's underground railways and 'lectric trams, and at the corner of nearly every street there's a sort of pub where you can buy ice-cream, lemon squash, four ale, and American cold drinks; and you're allowed to sit in a refrigerator for two hours for a tanner.' Although they laughed and made fun of these things the reader must not think that they really doubted the truth of the Christian religion, because - although they had all been brought up by `Christian' parents and had been `educated' in `Christian' schools - none of them knew enough about Christianity to either really believe it or disbelieve it. The imposters who obtain a comfortable living by pretending to be the ministers and disciples of the Workman of Nazareth are too cunning to encourage their dupes to acquire anything approaching an intelligent understanding of the subject. They do not want people to know or understand anything: they want them to have Faith - to believe without knowledge, understanding, or evidence. For years Harlow and his mates - when children - had been `taught' `Christianity' in day school, Sunday School and in church or chapel, and now they knew practically nothing about it! But they were `Christians' all the same. They believed that the Bible was the word of God, but they didn't know where it came from, how long it had been in existence, who wrote it, who translated it or how many different versions there were. Most of them were almost totally unacquainted with the contents of the book itself. But all the same, they believed it - after a fashion. `But puttin' all jokes aside,' said Philpot, `I can't believe there's sich a place as 'ell. There may be some kind of punishment, but I don't believe it's a real fire.' `Nor nobody else, what's got any sense,' replied Harlow, contemptuously. `I believe as THIS world is 'ell,' said Crass, looking around with a philosophic expression. This opinion was echoed by most of the others, although Slyme remained silent and Owen laughed. `Wot the bloody 'ell are YOU laughin' at?' Crass demanded in an indignant tone. `I was laughing because you said you think this world is hell.' `Well, I don't see nothing to laugh at in that,' said Crass. `So it IS a 'ell,' said Easton. `There can't be anywheres much worse than this.' `'Ear, 'ear,' said the man behind the moat. `What I was laughing at is this,' said Owen. `The present system of managing the affairs of the world is so bad and has produced such dreadful results that you are of the opinion that the earth is a hell: and yet you are a Conservative! You wish to preserve the present system - the system which has made the world into a hell!' `I thought we shouldn't get through the dinner hour without politics if Owen was 'ere,' growled Bundy. `Bloody sickenin' I call it.' `Don't be 'ard on 'im,' said Philpot. `'E's been very quiet for the last few days.' `We'll 'ave to go through it today, though,' remarked Harlow despairingly. `I can see it comin'.' `I'M not goin' through it,' said Bundy, `I'm orf!' And he accordingly drank the remainder of his tea, closed his empty dinner basket and, having placed it on the mantelshelf, made for the door. `I'll leave you to it,' he said as he went out. The others laughed. Crass, remembering the cutting from the Obscurer that he had in his pocket, was secretly very pleased at the turn the conversation was taking. He turned roughly on Owen: `The other day, when we was talkin' about the cause of poverty, you contradicted everybody. Everyone else was wrong! But you yourself couldn't tell us what's the cause of poverty, could you?' `I think I could.' `Oh, of course, you think you know,' sneered Crass, `and of course you think your opinion's right and everybody else's is wrong.' `Yes,' replied Owen. Several men expressed their abhorrence of this intolerant attitude of Owen's, but the latter rejoined: `Of course I think that my opinions are right and that everyone who differs from me is wrong. If I didn't think their opinions were wrong I wouldn't differ from them. If I didn't think my own opinions right I wouldn't hold them.' `But there's no need to keep on arguin' about it day after day,' said Crass. `You've got your opinion and I've got mine. Let everyone enjoy his own opinion, I say.' A murmur of approbation from the crowd greeted these sentiments; but Owen rejoined: `But we can't both be right; if your opinions are right and mine are not, how am I to find out the truth if we never talk about them?' `Well, wot do you reckon is the cause of poverty, then?' demanded Easton. `The present system - competition - capitalism.' `It's all very well to talk like that,' snarled Crass, to whom this statement conveyed no meaning whatever. `But 'ow do you make it out?' `Well, I put it like that for the sake of shortness,' replied Owen. `Suppose some people were living in a house -' `More supposin'!' sneered Crass. `And suppose they were always ill, and suppose that the house was badly built, the walls so constructed that they drew and retained moisture, the roof broken and leaky, the drains defective, the doors and windows ill-fitting and the rooms badly shaped and draughty. If you were asked to name, in a word, the cause of the ill-health of the people who lived there you would say - the house. All the tinkering in the world would not make that house fit to live in; the only thing to do with it would be to pull it down and build another. Well, we're all living in a house called the Money System; and as a result most of us are suffering from a disease called poverty. There's so much the matter with the present system that it's no good tinkering at it. Everything about it is wrong and there's nothing about it that's right. There's only one thing to be done with it and that is to smash it up and have a different system altogether. We must get out of it.' `It seems to me that that's just what you're trying to do,' remanded Harlow, sarcastically. `You seem to be tryin' to get out of answering the question what Easton asked you.' `Yes!' cried Crass, fiercely. `Why don't you answer the bloody question? Wot's the cause of poverty?' `What the 'ell's the matter with the present system?' demanded Sawkins. `Ow's it goin' to be altered?' said Newman. `Wot the bloody 'ell sort of a system do YOU think we ought to 'ave?' shouted the man behind the moat. `It can't never be altered,' said Philpot. `Human nature's human nature and you can't get away from it.' `Never mind about human nature,' shouted Crass. `Stick to the point. Wot's the cause of poverty?' `Oh, b--r the cause of poverty!' said one of the new hands. `I've 'ad enough of this bloody row.' And he stood up and prepared to go out of the room. This individual had two patches on the seat of his trousers and the bottoms of the legs of that garment were frayed and ragged. He had been out of work for about six weeks previous to having been taken on by Rushton & Co. During most of that time he and his family had been existing in a condition of semi-starvation on the earnings of his wife as a charwoman and on the scraps of food she brought home from the houses where she worked. But all the same, the question of what is the cause of poverty had no interest for him. `There are many causes,' answered Owen, `but they are all part of and inseparable from the system. In order to do away with poverty we must destroy the causes: to do away with the causes we must destroy the whole system.' `What are the causes, then?' `Well, money, for one thing.' This extraordinary assertion was greeted with a roar of merriment, in the midst of which Philpot was heard to say that to listen to Owen was as good as going to a circus. Money was the cause of poverty! `I always thought it was the want of it!' said the man with the patches on the seat of his trousers as he passed out of the door. `Other things,' continued Owen, `are private ownership of land, private ownership of railways, tramways, gasworks, waterworks, private ownership of factories, and the other means of producing the necessaries and comforts of life. Competition in business -' `But 'ow do you make it out?' demanded Crass, impatiently. Owen hesitated. To his mind the thing appeared very clear and simple. The causes of poverty were so glaringly evident that he marvelled that any rational being should fail to perceive them; but at the same time he found it very difficult to define them himself. He could not think of words that would convey his thoughts clearly to these others who seemed so hostile and unwilling to understand, and who appeared to have made up their minds to oppose and reject whatever he said. They did not know what were the causes of poverty and apparently they did not WANT to know. `Well, I'll try to show you one of the causes,' he said nervously at last. He picked up a piece of charred wood that had fallen from the fire and knelt down and began to draw upon the floor. Most of the others regarded him, with looks in which an indulgent, contemptuous kind of interest mingled with an air of superiority and patronage. There was no doubt, they thought, that Owen was a clever sort of chap: his work proved that: but he was certainly a little bit mad. By this time Owen had drawn a circle about two feet in diameter. Inside he had drawn two squares, one much larger than the other. These two squares he filled in solid black with the charcoal. `Wot's it all about?' asked Crass with a sneer. `Why, can't you see?' said Philpot with a wink. `'E's goin' to do some conjurin'! In a minit 'e'll make something pass out o' one o' them squares into the other and no one won't see 'ow it's done.' When he had finished drawing, Owen remained for a few minutes awkwardly silent, oppressed by the anticipation of ridicule and a sense of his inability to put his thoughts into plain language. He began to wish that he had not undertaken this task. At last, with an effort, he began to speak in a halting, nervous way: ....... ... ... .. .. . ### . . ### . . . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . . .. .. ... ... ......... `This circle - or rather the space inside the circle - is supposed to represent England.' `Well, I never knowed it was round before,' jeered Crass. `I've heard as the WORLD is round -' `I never said it was the shape - I said it was supposed to REPRESENT England.' `Oh, I see. I thought we'd very soon begin supposin'.' `The two black squares,' continued Owen, `represent the people who live in the country. The small square represents a few thousand people. The large square stands for the remainder - about forty millions - that is, the majority.' `We ain't sich bloody fools as to think that the largest number is the minority,' interrupted Crass. `The greater number of the people represented by the large black square work for their living: and in return for their labour they receive money: some more, some less than others.' `You don't think they'd be sich bloody fools as to work for nothing, do you?' said Newman. `I suppose you think they ought all to get the same wages!' cried Harlow. `Do you think it's right that a scavenger should get as much as a painter?' `I'm not speaking about that at all,' replied Owen. `I'm trying to show you what I think is one of the causes of poverty.' `Shut up, can't you, Harlow,' remonstrated Philpot, who began to feel interested. `We can't all talk at once.' `I know we can't,' replied Harlow in an aggrieved tone: `but 'e takes sich a 'ell of a time to say wot 'e's got to say. Nobody else can't get a word in edgeways.' `In order that these people may live,' continued Owen, pointing to the large black square, `it is first necessary that they shall have a PLACE to live in -' `Well! I should never a thought it!' exclaimed the man on the pail, pretending to be much impressed. The others laughed, and two or three of them went out of the room, contemptuously remarking to each other in an audible undertone as they went: `Bloody rot!' `Wonder wot the bloody 'ell 'e thinks 'e is? A sort of schoolmaster?' Owen's nervousness increased as he continued: `Now, they can't live in the air or in the sea. These people are land animals, therefore they must live on the land.' `Wot do yer mean by animals?' demanded Slyme. `A human bean ain't a animal!' said Crass indignantly. `Yes, we are!' cried Harlow. `Go into any chemist's shop you like and ask the bloke, and 'e'll tell you -' `Oh, blow that!' interrupted Philpot. `Let's 'ear wot Owen's sayin'.' `They must live on the land: and that's the beginning of the trouble; because - under the present system - the majority of the people have really no right to be in the country at all! Under the present system the country belongs to a few - those who are here represented by this small black square. If it would pay them to do so, and if they felt so disposed, these few people have a perfect right - under the present system - to order everyone else to clear out! `But they don't do that, they allow the majority to remain in the land on one condition - that is, they must pay rent to the few for the privilege of being permitted to live in the land of their birth. The amount of rent demanded by those who own this country is so large that, in order to pay it, the greater number of the majority have often to deprive themselves and their children, not only of the comforts, but even the necessaries of life. In the case of the working classes the rent absorbs at the lowest possible estimate, about one-third of their total earnings, for it must be remembered that the rent is an expense that goes on all the time, whether they are employed or not. If they get into arrears when out of work, they have to pay double when they get employment again. `The majority work hard and live in poverty in order that the minority may live in luxury without working at all, and as the majority are mostly fools, they not only agree to pass their lives in incessant slavery and want, in order to pay this rent to those who own the country, but they say it is quite right that they should have to do so, and are very grateful to the little minority for allowing them to remain in the country at all.' Owen paused, and immediately there arose a great clamour from his listeners. `So it IS right, ain't it?' shouted Crass. `If you 'ad a 'ouse and let it to someone, you'd want your rent, wouldn't yer?' `I suppose,' said Slyme with resentment, for he had some shares in a local building society, `after a man's been careful, and scraping and saving and going without things he ought to 'ave 'ad all 'is life, and managed to buy a few 'ouses to support 'im in 'is old age - they ought all to be took away from 'im? Some people,' he added, `ain't got common honesty.' Nearly everyone had something to say in reprobation of the views suggested by Owen. Harlow, in a brief but powerful speech, bristling with numerous sanguinary references to the bottomless pit, protested against any interference with the sacred rights of property. Easton listened with a puzzled expression, and Philpot's goggle eyes rolled horribly as he glared silently at the circle and the two squares. `By far the greatest part of the land,' said Owen when the row had ceased, `is held by people who have absolutely no moral right to it. Possession of much of it was obtained by means of murder and theft perpetrated by the ancestors of the present holders. In other cases, when some king or prince wanted to get rid of a mistress of whom he had grown weary, he presented a tract of our country to some `nobleman' on condition that he would marry the female. Vast estates were also bestowed upon the remote ancestors of the present holders in return for real or alleged services. Listen to this,' he continued as he took a small newspaper cutting from his pocket-book. Crass looked at the piece of paper dolefully. It reminded him of the one he had in his own pocket, which he was beginning to fear that he would not have an opportunity of producing today after all. `Ballcartridge Rent Dat. `The hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Ballcartridge occurred yesterday and in accordance with custom the Duke of Ballcartridge handed to the authorities the little flag which he annually presents to the State in virtue of his tenure of the vast tract of this country which was presented to one of his ancestors - the first Duke - in addition to his salary, for his services at the battle of Ballcartridge. `The flag - which is the only rent the Duke has to pay for the great estate which brings him in several hundreds of thousands of pounds per annum - is a small tricoloured one with a staff surmounted by an eagle. `The Duke of Blankmind also presents the State with a little coloured silk flag every year in return for being allowed to retain possession of that part of England which was presented - in addition to his salary - to one of His Grace's very remote ancestors, for his services at the battle of Commissariat - in the Netherlands. `The Duke of Southward is another instance,' continued Owen. `He "owns" miles of the country we speak of as "ours". Much of his part consists of confiscated monastery lands which were stolen from the owners by King Henry VIII and presented to the ancestors of the present Duke. `Whether it was right or wrong that these parts of our country should ever have been given to those people - the question whether those ancestor persons were really deserving cases or not - is a thing we need not trouble ourselves about now. But the present holders are certainly not deserving people. They do not even take the trouble to pretend they are. They have done nothing and they do nothing to justify their possession of these "estates" as they call them. And in my opinion no man who is in his right mind can really think it's just that these people should be allowed to prey upon their fellow men as they are doing now. Or that it is right that their children should be allowed to continue to prey upon our children for ever! The thousands of people on those estates work and live in poverty in order that these three men and their families may enjoy leisure and luxury. Just think of the absurdity of it!' continued Owen, pointing to the drawings. `All those people allowing themselves to be overworked and bullied and starved and robbed by this little crowd here!' Observing signs of a renewal of the storm of protests, Owen hurriedly concluded: `Whether it's right or wrong, you can't deny that the fact that this small minority possesses nearly all the land of the country is one of the principal causes of the poverty of the majority.' `Well, that seems true enough,' said Easton, slowly. `The rent's the biggest item a workin' man's got to pay. When you're out of work and you can't afford other things, you goes without 'em, but the rent 'as to be paid whether you're workin' or not.' `Yes, that's enough,' said Harlow impatiently; `but you gets value for yer money: you can't expect to get a 'ouse for nothing.' `Suppose we admits as it's wrong, just for the sake of argyment,' said Crass in a jeering tone. `Wot then? Wot about it? 'Ow's it agoin' to be altered.' `Yes!' cried Harlow triumphantly. `That's the bloody question! 'Ow's it goin' to be altered? It can't be done!' There was a general murmur of satisfaction. Nearly everyone seemed very pleased to think that the existing state of things could not possibly be altered. `Whether it can be altered or not, whether it's right or wrong, landlordism is one of the causes of poverty,' Owen repeated. `Poverty is not caused by men and women getting married; it's not caused by machinery; it's not caused by "over-production"; it's not caused by drink or laziness; and it's not caused by "over-population". It's caused by Private Monopoly. That is the present system. They have monopolized everything that it is possible to monopolize; they have got the whole earth, the minerals in the earth and the streams that water the earth. The only reason they have not monopolized the daylight and the air is that it is not possible to do it. If it were possible to construct huge gasometers and to draw together and compress within them the whole of the atmosphere, it would have been done long ago, and we should have been compelled to work for them in order to get money to buy air to breathe. And if that seemingly impossible thing were accomplished tomorrow, you would see thousands of people dying for want of air - or of the money to buy it - even as now thousands are dying for want of the other necessities of life. You would see people going about gasping for breath, and telling each other that the likes of them could not expect to have air to breathe unless the had the money to pay for it. Most of you here, for instance, would think and say so. Even as you think at present that it's right for so few people to own the Earth, the Minerals and the Water, which are all just as necessary as is the air. In exactly the same spirit as you now say: "It's Their Land," "It's Their Water," "It's Their Coal," "It's Their Iron," so you would say "It's Their Air," "These are their gasometers, and what right have the likes of us to expect them to allow us to breathe for nothing?" And even while he is doing this the air monopolist will be preaching sermons on the Brotherhood of Man; he will be dispensing advice on "Christian Duty" in the Sunday magazines; he will give utterance to numerous more or less moral maxims for the guidance of the young. And meantime, all around, people will be dying for want of some of the air that he will have bottled up in his gasometers. And when you are all dragging out a miserable existence, gasping for breath or dying for want of air, if one of your number suggests smashing a hole in the side of one of th gasometers, you will all fall upon him in the name of law and order, and after doing your best to tear him limb from limb, you'll drag him, covered with blood, in triumph to the nearest Police Station and deliver him up to "justice" in the hope of being given a few half-pounds of air for your trouble.' `I suppose you think the landlords ought to let people live in their 'ouses for nothing?' said Crass, breaking the silence that followed. `Certainly,' remarked Harlow, pretending to be suddenly converted to Owen's views, `I reckon the landlord ought to pay the rent to the tenant!' `Of course, Landlordism is not the only cause,' said Owen, ignoring these remarks. ` The wonderful system fosters a great many others. Employers of labour, for instance, are as great a cause of poverty as landlords are.' This extraordinary statement was received with astonished silence. `Do you mean to say that if I'm out of work and a master gives me a job, that 'e's doin' me a injury?' said Crass at length. `No, of course not,' replied Owen. `Well, what the bloody 'ell DO yer mean, then?' `I mean this: supposing that the owner of a house wishes to have it repainted. What does he usually do?' `As a rule, 'e goes to three or four master painters and asks 'em to give 'im a price for the job.' `Yes; and those master painters are so eager to get the work that they cut the price down to what they think is the lowest possible point,' answered Owen, `and the lowest usually gets the job. The successful tenderer has usually cut the price so fine that to make it pay he has to scamp the work, pay low wages, and drive and sweat the men whom he employs. He wants them to do two days' work for one day's pay. The result is that a job which - if it were done properly - would employ say twenty men for two months, is rushed and scamped in half that time with half that number of men. `This means that - in one such case as this - ten men are deprived of one month's employment; and ten other men are deprived of two months' employment; and all because the employers have been cutting each other's throats to get the work.' `And we can't 'elp ourselves, you nor me either,' said Harlow. `Supposing one of us on this job was to make up 'is mind not to tear into it like we do, but just keep on steady and do a fair day's work: wot would 'appen?' No one answered; but the same thought was in everyone's mind. Such a one would be quickly marked by Hunter; and even if the latter failed to notice it would not be long before Crass reported his conduct. `We can't 'elp ourselves,' said Easton, gloomily. `If one man won't do it there's twenty others ready to take 'is place.' `We could help ourselves to a certain extent if we would stand by each other. If, for instance, we all belonged to the Society,' said Owen. `I don't believe in the Society,' observed Crass. `I can't see as it's right that a inferior man should 'ave the same wages as me.' `They're a drunken lot of beer-swillers,' remarked Slyme. `That's why they always 'as their meetings in public 'ouses.' Harlow made no comment on this question. He had at one time belonged to the Union and he was rather ashamed of having fallen away from it. `Wot good 'as the Society ever done 'ere?' said Easton. `None that I ever 'eard of.' `It might be able to do some good if most of us belonged to it; but after all, that's another matter. Whether we could help ourselves or not, the fact remains that we don't. But you must admit that this competition of the employers is one of the causes of unemployment and poverty, because it's not only in our line - exactly the same thing happens in every other trade and industry. Competing employers are the upper and nether millstones which grind the workers between them.' `I suppose you think there oughtn't to be no employers at all?' sneered Crass. `Or p'raps you think the masters ought to do all the bloody work theirselves, and give us the money?' `I don't see 'ow its goin' to be altered,' remarked Harlow. `There MUST be masters, and SOMEONE 'as to take charge of the work and do the thinkin'.' `Whether it can be altered or not,' said Owen, `Landlordism and Competing Employers are two of the causes of poverty. But of course they're only a small part of the system which produces luxury, refinement and culture for a few, and condemns the majority to a lifelong struggle with adversity, and many thousands to degradation, hunger and rags. This is the system you all uphold and defend, although you don't mind admitting that it has made the world into a hell.' Crass slowly drew the Obscurer cutting from his waistcoat pocket, but after a moment's thought he replaced it, deciding to defer its production till a more suitable occasion. `But you 'aven't told us yet 'ow you makes out that money causes poverty,' cried Harlow, winking at the others. `That's what I'M anxious to 'ear about!' `So am I,' remarked the man behind the moat. `I was just wondering whether I 'adn't better tell ole Misery that I don't want no wages this week.' `I think I'll tell 'im on Saterday to keep MY money and get 'imself a few drinks with it,' said Philpot. `It might cheer 'im up a bit and make 'im a little more sociable and friendly like.' `Money IS the principal cause of poverty,' said Owen. `'Ow do yer make it out?' cried Sawkins. But their curiosity had to remain unsatisfied for the time being because Crass announced that it was `just on it'. Chapter 16 True Freedom About three o'clock that afternoon, Rushton suddenly appeared and began walking silently about the house, and listening outside the doors of rooms where the hands were working. He did not succeed in catching anyone idling or smoking or talking. The nearest approach to what the men called `a capture' that he made was, as he stood outside the door of one of the upper rooms in which Philpot and Harlow were working, he heard them singing one of Sankey's hymns - `Work! for the night is coming'. He listened to two verses and several repetitions of the chorus. Being a `Christian', he could scarcely object to this, especially as by peeping through the partly open door he could see that they were suiting the action to the word. When he went into the room they glanced around to see who it was, and stopped singing. Rushton did not speak, but stood in the middle of the floor, silently watching them as they worked, for about a quarter of an hour. Then, without having uttered a syllable, he turned and went out. They heard him softly descend the stairs, and Harlow, turning to Philpot said in a hoarse whisper: `What do you think of the b--r, standing there watchin' us like that, as if we was a couple of bloody convicts? If it wasn't that I've got someone else beside myself to think of, I would 'ave sloshed the bloody sod in the mouth with this pound brush!' `Yes; it does make yer feel like that, mate,' replied Philpot, `but of course we mustn't give way to it.' `Several times,' continued Harlow, who was livid with anger, `I was on the point of turnin' round and sayin' to 'im, "What the bloody 'ell do you mean by standin' there and watchin' me, you bloody, psalm-singin' swine?" It took me all my time to keep it in, I can tell you.' Meanwhile, Rushton was still going about the house, occasionally standing and watching the other men in the same manner as he had watched Philpot and Harlow. None of the men looked round from their work or spoke either to Rushton or to each other. The only sounds heard were the noises made by the saws and hammers of the carpenters who were fixing the frieze rails and dado rails or repairing parts of the woodwork in some of the rooms. Crass placed himself in Rushton's way several times with the hope of being spoken to, but beyond curtly acknowledging the `foreman's' servile `Good hafternoon, sir,' the master took no notice of him. After about an hour spent in this manner Rushton went away, but as no one say him go, it was not until some considerable time after his departure that they knew that he was gone. Owen was secretly very disappointed. `I thought he had come to tell me about the drawing-room,' he said to himself, `but I suppose it's not decided yet.' Just as the `hands' were beginning to breathe freely again, Misery arrived, carrying some rolled-up papers in his hand. He also flitted silently from one room to another, peering round corners and listening at doors in the hope of seeing or hearing something which would give him an excuse for making an example of someone. Disappointed in this, he presently crawled upstairs to the room where Owen was working and, handing to him the roll of papers he had been carrying, said: `Mr Sweater had decided to 'ave this work done, so you can start on it as soon as you like.' It is impossible to describe, without appearing to exaggerate, the emotions experienced by Owen as he heard this announcement. For one thing it meant that the work at this house would last longer than it would otherwise have done; and it also meant that he would be paid for the extra time he had spent on the drawings, besides having his wages increased - for he was always paid an extra penny an hour when engaged on special work, such as graining or sign-writing or work of the present kind. But these considerations did not occur to him at the moment at all, for to him it meant much more. Since his first conversation on the subject with Rushton he had though of little else than this work. In a sense he had been DOING it ever since. He had thought and planned and altered the details of the work repeatedly. The colours for the different parts had been selected and rejected and re-selected over and over again. A keen desire to do the work had grown within him, but he had scarcely allowed himself to hope that it would be done at all. His face flushed slightly as he took the drawings from Hunter. `You can make a start on it tomorrow morning,' continued that gentleman. `I'll tell Crass to send someone else up 'ere to finish this room.' `I shan't be able to commence tomorrow, because the ceiling and walls will have to be painted first.' `Yes: I know. You and Easton can do that. One coat tomorrow, another on Friday and the third on Saturday - that is, unless you can make it do with two coats. Even if it has to be the three, you will be able to go on with your decoratin' on Monday.' `I won't be able to start on Monday, because I shall have to make some working drawings first.' `Workin' drorins!' ejaculated Misery with a puzzled expression. `Wot workin' drorins? You've got them, ain't yer?' pointing to the roll of papers. `Yes: but as the same ornaments are repeated several times, I shall have to make a number of full-sized drawings, with perforated outlines, to transfer the design to the walls,' said Owen, and he proceeded to laboriously explain the processes. Nimrod looked at him suspiciously. `Is all that really necessary?' he asked. `Couldn't you just copy it on the wall, free-hand?' `No; that wouldn't do. It would take much longer that way.' This consideration appealed to Misery. `Ah, well,' he sighed. `I s'pose you'll 'ave to do it the way you said; but for goodness sake don't spend too much time over it, because we've took it very cheap. We only took it on so as you could 'ave a job, not that we expect to make any profit out of it.' `And I shall have to cut some stencils, so I shall need several sheets of cartridge paper.' Upon hearing of this addition expense, Misery's long visage appeared to become several inches longer; but after a moment's thought he brightened up. `I'll tell you what!' he exclaimed with a cunning leer, `there's lots of odd rolls of wallpaper down at the shop. Couldn't you manage with some of that?' `I'm afraid it wouldn't do,' replied Owen doubtfully, `but I'll have a look at it and if possible I'll use it.' `Yes, do!' said Misery, pleased at the thought of saving something. `Call at the shop on your way home tonight, and we'll see what we can find. 'Ow long do you think it'll take you to make the drorins and the stencils?' `Well, today's Thursday. If you let someone else help Easton to get the room ready, I think I can get them done in time to bring them with me on Monday morning.' `Wot do yer mean, "bring them with you"?' demanded Nimrod. `I shall have to do them at home, you know.' `Do 'em at 'ome! Why can't you do 'em 'ere?' `Well, there's no table, for one thing.' `Oh, but we can soon fit you out with a table. You can 'ave a pair of paperhanger's tressels and boards for that matter.' `I have a lot of sketches and things at home that I couldn't very well bring here,' said Owen. Misery argued about it for a long time, insisting that the drawings should be made either on the `job' or at the paint-shop down at the yard. How, he asked, was be to know at what hour Owen commenced or left off working, if the latter did them at home? `I shan't charge any more time than I really work,' replied Owen. `I can't possibly do them here or at the paint-shop. I know I should only make a mess of them under such conditions.' `Well, I s'pose you'll 'ave to 'ave your own way,' said Misery, dolefully. `I'll let Harlow help Easton paint the room out, so as you can get your stencils and things ready. But for Gord's sake get 'em done as quick as you can. If you could manage to get done by Friday and come down and help Easton on Saturday, it would be so much the better. And when you do get a start on the decoratin', I shouldn't take too much care over it, you know, if I was you, because we 'ad to take the job for next to nothing or Mr Sweater would never 'ave 'ad it done at all!' Nimrod now began to crawl about the house, snarling and grumbling at everyone. `Now then, you chaps. Rouse yourselves!' he bellowed, 'you seem to think this is a 'orspital. If some of you don't make a better show than this, I'll 'ave to 'ave a Alteration! There's plenty of chaps walkin' about doin' nothin' who'll be only too glad of a job!' He went into the scullery, where Crass was mixing some colour. `Look 'ere, Crass!' he said. `I'm not at all satisfied with the way you're gettin' on with the work. You must push the chaps a bit more than you're doin'. There's not enough being done, by a long way. We shall lose money over this job before we're finished!' Crass - whose fat face had turned a ghastly green with fright - mumbled something about getting on with it as fast as he could. `Well, you'll 'ave to make 'em move a bit quicker than this!' Misery howled, 'or there'll 'ave to be a ALTERATION!' By an `alteration' Crass understood that he might get the sack, or that someone else might be put in charge of the job, and that would of course reduce him to the ranks and do away with his chance of being kept on longer than the others. He determined to try to ingratiate himself with Hunter and appease his wrath by sacrificing someone else. He glanced cautiously into the kitchen and up the passage and then, lowering his voice, he said: `They all shapes pretty well, except Newman. I would 'ave told you about 'im before, but I thought I'd give 'im a fair chance. I've spoke to 'im several times myself about not doin' enough, but it don't seem to make no difference.' `I've 'ad me eye on 'im meself for some time,' replied Nimrod in the same tone. `Anybody would think the work was goin' to be sent to a Exhibition, the way 'e messes about with it, rubbing it with glasspaper and stopping up every little crack! I can't understand where 'e gets all the glasspaper FROM' `'E brings it 'isself!' said Crass hoarsely. `I know for a fact that 'e bought two 'a'penny sheets of it, last week out of 'is own money!' `Oh, 'e did, did 'e?' snarled Misery. `I'll give 'im glasspaper! I'll 'ave a Alteration!' He went into the hall, where he remained alone for a considerable time, brooding. At last, with the manner of one who has resolved on a certain course of action, he turned and entered the room where Philpot and Harlow were working. `You both get sevenpence an hour, don't you?' he said. They both replied to the affirmative. `I've never worked under price yet,' added Harlow. `Nor me neither,' observed Philpot. `Well, of course you can please yourselves,' Hunter continued, `but after this week we've decided not to pay more than six and a half. Things is cut so fine nowadays that we can't afford to go on payin' sevenpence any longer. You can work up till tomorrow night on the old terms, but if you're not willin' to accept six and a half you needn't come on Saturday morning. Please yourselves. Take it or leave it.' Harlow and Philpot were both too much astonished to say anything in reply to this cheerful announcement, and Hunter, with the final remark, `You can think it over,' left them and went to deliver the same ultimatum to all the other full-price men, who took it in the same way as Philpot and Harlow had done. Crass and Owen were the only two whose wages were not reduced. It will be remembered that Newman was one of those who were already working for the reduced rate. Misery found him alone in one of the upper rooms, to which he was giving the final coat. He was at his old tricks. The woodwork of the cupboard be was doing was in a rather damaged condition, and he was facing up the dents with white-lead putty before painting it. He knew quite well that Hunter objected to any but very large holes or cracks being stopped, and yet somehow or other he could not scamp the work to the extent that he was ordered to; and so, almost by stealth, he was in the habit of doing it - not properly but as well as he dared. He even went to the length of occasionally buying a few sheets of glasspaper with his own money, as Crass had told Hunter. When the latter came into the room he stood with a sneer on his face, watching Newman for about five minutes before he spoke. The workman became very nervous and awkward under this scrutiny. `You can make out yer time-sheet and come to the office for yer money at five o'clock,' said Nimrod at last. `We shan't require your valuable services no more after tonight.' Newman went white. `Why, what's wrong?' said he. `What have I done?' `Oh, it's not wot you've DONE,' replied Misery. `It's wot you've not done. That's wot's wrong! You've not done enough, that's all!' And without further parley he turned and went out. Newman stood in the darkening room feeling as if his heart had turned to lead. There rose before his mind the picture of his home and family. He could see them as they were at this very moment, the wife probably just beginning to prepare the evening meal, and the children setting the cups and saucers and other things on the kitchen table - a noisy work, enlivened with many a frolic and childish dispute. Even the two-year-old baby insisted on helping, although she always put everything in the wrong place and made all sorts of funny mistakes. They had all been so happy lately because they knew that he had work that would last till nearly Christmas - if not longer. And now this had happened - to plunge them back into the abyss of wretchedness from which they had so recently escaped. They still owed several weeks' rent, and were already so much in debt to the baker and the grocer that it was hopeless to expect any further credit. `My God!' said Newman, realizing the almost utter hopelessness of the chance of obtaining another `job' and unconsciously speaking aloud. `My God! How can I tell them? What WILL become of us?' Having accomplished the objects of his visit, Hunter shortly afterwards departed, possibly congratulating himself that he had not been hiding his light under a bushel, but that he had set it upon a candlestick and given light unto all that were within that house. As soon as they knew that he was gone, the men began to gather into little groups, but in a little while they nearly all found themselves in the kitchen, discussing the reduction. Sawkins and the other `lightweights' remained at their work. Some of them got only fourpence halfpenny - Sawkins was paid fivepence - so none of these were affected by the change. The other two fresh hands - the journeymen - joined the crowd in the kitchen, being anxious to conceal the fact that they had agreed to accept the reduced rate before being `taken on'. Owen also was there, having heard the news hem Philpot. There was a lot of furious talk. At first several of them spoke of `chucking up', at once; but others were more prudent, for they knew that if they did leave there were dozens of others who would be eager to take their places. `After all, you know,' said Slyme, who had - stowed away somewhere at the back of his head - an idea of presently starting business on his own account: he was only waiting until he had saved enough money, `after all, there's something in what 'Unter says. It's very 'ard to get a fair price for work nowadays. Things IS cut very fine.' `Yes! We know all about that!' shouted Harlow. `And who the bloody 'ell is it cuts 'em? Why, sich b--rs as 'Unter and Rushton! If this firm 'adn't cut this job so fine, some other firm would 'ave 'ad it for more money. Rushton's cuttin' it fine didn't MAKE this job, did it? It would 'ave been done just the same if they 'adn't tendered for it at all! The only difference is that we should 'ave been workin' for some other master.' `I don't believe the bloody job's cut fine at all!' said Philpot. `Rushton is a pal of Sweater's and they're both members of the Town Council.' `That may be,' replied Slyme; 'but all the same I believe Sweater got several other prices besides Rushton's - friend or no friend; and you can't blame 'im: it's only business. But pr'aps Rushton got the preference - Sweater may 'ave told 'im the others' prices.' `Yes, and a bloody fine lot of prices they was, too, if the truth was known!' said Bundy. "There was six other firms after this job to my knowledge - Pushem and Sloggem, Bluffum and Doemdown, Dodger and Scampit, Snatcham and Graball, Smeeriton and Leavit, Makehaste and Sloggitt, and Gord only knows 'ow many more.' At this moment Newman came into the room. He looked so white and upset that the others involuntarily paused in their conversation. `Well, what do YOU think of it?' asked Harlow. `Think of what?' said Newman. `Why, didn't 'Unter tell you?' cried several voices, whose owners looked suspiciously at him. They thought - if Hunter had not spoken to Newman, it must be because he was already working under price. There had been a rumour going about the last few days to that effect. `Didn't Misery tell you? They're not goin' to pay more than six and a half after this week.' `That's not what 'e said to me. 'E just told me to knock off. Said I didn't do enough for 'em.' `Jesus Christ!' exclaimed Crass, pretending to be overcome with surprise. Newman's account of what had transpired was listened to in gloomy silence. `Those who - a few minutes previously - had been talking loudly of chucking up the job became filled with apprehension that they might be served in the same manner as he had been. Crass was one of the loudest in his expression of astonishment and indignation, but he rather overdid it and only succeeded in confirming the secret suspicion of the others that he had had something to do with Hunter's action. The result of the discussion was that they decided to submit to Misery's terms for the time being, until they could see a chance of getting work elsewhere. As Owen had to go to the office to see the wallpaper spoken of by Hunter, he accompanied Newman when the latter went to get his wages. Nimrod was waiting for them, and had the money ready in an envelope, which he handed to Newman, who took it without speaking and went away. Misery had been rummaging amongst the old wallpapers, and had got out a great heap of odd rolls, which he now submitted to Owen, but after examining them the latter said that they were unsuitable for the purpose, so after some argument Misery was compelled to sign an order for some proper cartridge paper, which Owen obtained at a stationer's on his way home. The next morning, when Misery went to the `Cave', he was in a fearful rage, and he kicked up a terrible row with Crass. He said that Mr Rushton had been complaining of the lack of discipline on the job, and he told Crass to tell all the hands that for the future singing in working hours was strictly forbidden, and anyone caught breaking this rule would be instantly dismissed. Several times during the following days Nimrod called at Owen's flat to see how the work was progressing and to impress upon him the necessity of not taking too much trouble over it. Chapter 17 The Rev. John Starr `What time is it now, Mum?' asked Frankie as soon as he had finished dinner on the following Sunday. `Two o'clock.' `Hooray! Only one more hour and Charley will be here! Oh, I wish it was three o'clock now, don't you, Mother?' `No, dear, I don't. You're not dressed yet, you know.' Frankie made a grimace. `You're surely not going to make me wear my velvets, are you, Mum? Can't I go just as I am, in my old clothes?' The `velvets' was a brown suit of that material that Nora had made out of the least worn parts of an old costume of her own. `Of course not: if you went as you are now, you'd have everyone staring at you.' `Well, I suppose I'll have to put up with it,' said Frankie, resignedly. `And I think you'd better begin to dress me now, don't you?' `Oh, there's plenty of time yet; you'd only make yourself untidy and then I should have the trouble all over again. Play with your toys a little while, and when I've done the washing up I'll get you ready.' Frankie obeyed, and for about ten minutes his mother heard him in the next room rummaging in the box where he stored his collection of `things'. At the end of that time, however, he returned to the kitchen. `Is it time to dress me yet, Mum?' `No, dear, not yet. You needn't be afraid; you'll be ready in plenty of time.' `But I can't help being afraid; you might forget.' `Oh, I shan't forget. There's lots of time.' `Well, you know, I should be much easier in my mind if you would dress me now, because perhaps our clock's wrong, or p'r'aps when you begin dressing me you'll find some buttons off or something, and then there'll be a lot of time wasted sewing them on; or p'r'aps you won't be able to find my clean stockings or something and then while you're looking for it Charley might come, and if he sees I'm not ready he mightn't wait for me.' `Oh, dear!' said Nora, pretending to be alarmed at this appalling list of possibilities. `I suppose it will be safer to dress you at once. It's very evident you won't let me have much peace until it is done, but mind when you're dressed you'll have to sit down quietly and wait till he comes, because I don't want the trouble of dressing you twice.' `Oh, I don't mind sitting still,' returned Frankie, loftily. `That's very easy. `I don't mind having to take care of my clothes,' said Frankie as his mother - having washed and dressed him, was putting the finishing touches to his hair, brushing and combing and curling the long yellow locks into ringlets round her fingers, `the only thing I don't like is having my hair done. You know all these curls are quite unnecessary. I'm sure it would save you a lot of trouble if you wouldn't mind cutting them off.' Nora did not answer: somehow or other she was unwilling to comply with this often-repeated entreaty. It seemed to her that when this hair was cut off the child would have become a different individual - more separate and independent. `If you don't want to cut it off for your own sake, you might do it for my sake, because I think it's the reason some of the big boys don't want to play with me, and some of them shout after me and say I'm a girl, and sometimes they sneak up behind me and pull it. Only yesterday I had to have a fight with a boy for doing it: and even Charley Linden laughs at me, and he's my best friend - except you and Dad of course. `Why don't you cut it off, Mum?' `I am going to cut it as I promised you, after your next birthday.' `Then I shall be jolly glad when it comes. Won't you? Why, what's the matter, Mum? What are you crying for?' Frankie was so concerned that he began to cry also, wondering if he had done or said something wrong. He kissed her repeatedly, stroking her face with his hand. What's the matter, Mother?' `I was thinking that when you're over seven and you've had your hair cut short you won't be a baby any more.' `Why, I'm not a baby now, am I? Here, look at this!' He strode over to the wall and, dragging out two chairs, he placed them in the middle of the room, back to back, about fifteen inches apart, and before his mother realized what he was doing he had climbed up and stood with one leg on the back of each chair. `I should like to see a baby who could do this,' he cried, with his face wet with tears. `You needn't lift me down. I can get down by myself. Babies can't do tricks like these or even wipe up the spoons and forks or sweep the passage. But you needn't cut it off if you don't want to. I'll bear it as long as you like. Only don't cry any more, because it makes me miserable. If I cry when I fall down or when you pull my hair when you're combing it you always tell me to bear it like a man and not be a baby, and now you're crying yourself just because I'm not a baby. You ought to be jolly glad that I'm nearly grown up into a man, because you know I've promised to build you a house with the money I earn, and then you needn't do no more work. We'll have a servant the same as the people downstairs, and Dad can stop at home and sit by the fire and read the paper or play with me and Maud and have pillow fights and tell stories and -' `It's all right, dearie,' said Nora, kissing him. `I'm not crying now, and you mustn't either, or your eyes will be all red and you won't be able to go with Charley at all.' When she had finished dressing him, Frankie sat for some time in silence, apparently lost in thought. At last he said: `Why don't you get a baby, Mother? You could nurse it, and I could have it to play with instead of going out in the street.' `We can't afford to keep a baby, dear. You know, even as it is, sometimes we have to go without things we want because we haven't the money to buy them. Babies need many things that cost lots of money.' `When I build our house when I'm a man, I'll take jolly good care not to have a gas-stove in it. That's what runs away with all the money; we're always putting pennies in the slot. And that reminds me: Charley said I'll have to take a ha'penny to put in the mishnery box. Oh, dear, I'm tired of sitting still. I wish he'd come. What time is it now, Mother?' Before she could answer both Frankie's anxiety and the painful ordeal of sitting still were terminated by the loud peal at the bell announcing Charley's arrival, and Frankie, without troubling to observe the usual formality of looking out of the window to see if it was a runaway ring, had clattered half-way downstairs before he heard his mother calling him to come back for the halfpenny; then he clattered up again and then down again at such a rate and with so much noise as to rouse the indignation of all the respectable people in the house. When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs he remembered that he had omitted to say goodbye, and as it was too far to go up again he rang the bell and then went into the middle of the road and looked up at the window that Nora opened. `Goodbye, Mother,' he shouted. `Tell Dad I forgot to say it before I came down.' The School was not conducted in the chapel itself, but in a large lecture hall under it. At one end was a small platform raised about six inches from the floor; on this was a chair and a small table. A number of groups of chairs and benches were arranged at intervals round the sides and in the centre of the room, each group of seats accommodating a separate class. On the walls - which were painted a pale green - were a number of coloured pictures: Moses striking the Rock, the Israelites dancing round the Golden Calf, and so on. As the reader is aware, Frankie had never been to a Sunday School of any kind before, and he stood for a moment looking in at the door and half afraid to enter. The lessons had already commenced, but the scholars had not yet settled down to work. The scene was one of some disorder: some of the children talking, laughing or playing, and the teachers alternately threatening and coaxing them. The girls' and the very young children's classes were presided over by ladies: the boys' teachers were men. The reader already has some slight knowledge of a few of these people. There was Mr Didlum, Mr Sweater, Mr Rushton and Mr Hunter and Mrs Starvem (Ruth Easton's former mistress). On this occasion, in addition to the teachers and other officials of the Sunday School, there were also present a considerable number of prettily dressed ladies and a few gentlemen, who had come in the hope of meeting the Rev. John Starr, the young clergyman who was going to be their minister for the next few weeks during the absence of their regular shepherd, Mr Belcher, who was going away for a holiday for the benefit of his health. Mr Belcher was not suffering from any particular malady, but was merely `run down', and rumour had it that this condition had been brought about by the rigorous asceticism of his life and his intense devotion to the arduous labours of his holy calling. Mr Starr had conducted the service in the Shining Light Chapel that morning, and a great sensation had been produced by the young minister's earnest and eloquent address, which was of a very different style from that of their regular minister. Although perhaps they had not quite grasped the real significance of all that he had said, most of them had been favourably impressed by the young clergyman's appearance and manner in the morning: but that might have arisen from prepossession and force of habit, for they were accustomed, as a matter of course, to think well of any minister. There were, however, one or two members of the congregation who were not without some misgivings and doubts as to the soundness of his doctrines. Mr Starr had promised that he would look in some time during the afternoon to say a few words to the Sunday School children, and consequently on this particular afternoon all the grown-ups were looking forward so eagerly to hearing him again that not much was done in the way of lessons. Every time a late arrival entered all eyes were directed towards the door in the hope and expectation that it was he. When Frankie, standing at the door, saw all the people looking at him he drew back timidly. `Come on, man,' said Charley. `You needn't be afraid; it's not like a weekday school; they can't do nothing to us, not even if we don't behave ourselves. There's our class over in that corner and that's our teacher, Mr Hunter. You can sit next to me. Come on!' Thus encouraged, Frankie followed Charley over to the class, and both sat down. The teacher was so kind and spoke so gently to the children that in a few minutes Frankie felt quite at home. When Hunter noticed how well cared for and well dressed he was he thought the child must belong to well-to-do, respectable parents. Frankie did not pay much attention to the lesson, for he was too much interested in the pictures on the walls and in looking at the other children. He also noticed a very fat man who was not teaching at all, but drifted aimlessly about he room from one class to another. After a time he came and stood by the class where Frankie was, and, after nodding to Hunter, remained near, listening and smiling patronizingly at the children. He was arrayed in a long garment of costly black cloth, a sort of frock coat, and by the rotundity of his figure he seemed to be one of those accustomed to sit in the chief places at feasts. This was the Rev. Mr Belcher, minister of the Shining Light Chapel. His short, thick neck was surrounded by a studless collar, and apparently buttonless, being fastened n some mysterious way known only to himself, and he showed no shirt front. The long garment beforementioned was unbuttoned and through the opening there protruded a vast expanse of waistcoat and trousers, distended almost to bursting by the huge globe of flesh they contained. A gold watch-chain with a locket extended partly across the visible portion of the envelope of the globe. He had very large feet which were carefully encased in soft calfskin boots. If he had removed the long garment, this individual would have resembled a balloon: the feet representing the car and the small head that surmounted the globe, the safety valve; as it was it did actually serve the purpose of a safety valve, the owner being, in consequence of gross overfeeding and lack of natural exercise, afflicted with chronic flatulence, which manifested itself in frequent belchings forth through the mouth of the foul gases generated in the stomach by the decomposition of the foods with which it was generally loaded. But as the Rev. Mr Belcher had never been seen with his coat off, no one ever noticed the resemblance. It was not necessary for him to take his coat off: his part in life was not to help to produce, but to help to devour the produce of the labour of others. After exchanging a few words and grins with Hunter, he moved on to another class, and presently Frankie with a feeling of awe noticed that the confused murmuring sound that had hitherto pervaded the place was hushed. The time allotted for lessons had expired, and the teachers were quietly distributing hymn-books to the children. Meanwhile the balloon had drifted up to the end of the hall and had ascended the platform, where it remained stationary by the side of the table, occasionally emitting puffs of gas through the safety valve. On the table were several books, and also a pile of folded cards. These latter were about six inches by three inches; there was some printing on the outside: one of them was lying open on the table, showing the inside, which was ruled and had money columns. Presently Mr Belcher reached out a flabby white hand and, taking up one of the folded cards, he looked around upon the under-fed, ill-clad children with a large, sweet, benevolent, fatherly smile, and then in a drawling voice occasionally broken by explosions of flatulence, he said: `My dear children. This afternoon as I was standing near Brother Hunter's class I heard him telling them of the wanderings of the Children of Israel in the wilderness, and of all the wonderful things that were done for them; and I thought how sad it was that they were so ungrateful. `Now those ungrateful Israelites had received many things, but we have even more cause to be grateful than they had, for we have received even more abundantly than they did.' (Here the good man's voice was stilled by a succession of explosions.) `And I am sure,' he resumed, `that none of you would like to be even as those Israelites, ungrateful for all the good things you have received. Oh, how thankful you should be for having been made happy English children. Now, I am sure that you are grateful and that you will all be very glad of an opportunity of showing your gratitude by doing something in return. `Doubtless some of you have noticed the unseemly condition of the interior of our Chapel. The flooring is broken in countless places. the walls are sadly in need of cleansing and distempering. and they also need cementing externally to keep out the draught. The seats and benches and the chairs are also in a most unseemly condition and need varnishing. `Now, therefore, after much earnest meditation and prayer, it has been decided to open a Subscription List, and although times are very hard just now, we believe we shall succeed in getting enough to have the work done; so I want each one of you to take one of these cards and go round to all your friends to see how much you can collect. It doesn't matter how trifling the amounts are, because the smallest donations will be thankfully received. `Now, I hope you will all do your very best. Ask everyone you know; do not refrain from asking people because you think that they are too poor to give a donation, but remind them that if they cannot give their thousands they can give the widow's mite. Ask Everyone! First of all ask those whom you feel certain will give: then ask all those whom you think may possibly give: and, finally, ask all those whom you feel certain will not give: and you will be surprised to find that many of these last will donate abundantly. `If your friends are very poor and unable to give a large donation at one time, a good plan would be to arrange to call upon them every Saturday afternoon with your card to collect their donations. And while you are asking others, do not forget to give what you can yourselves. Just a little self-denial, and those pennies and half-pennies which you so often spend on sweets and other unnecessary things might be given - as a donation - to the good cause.' Here the holy man paused again, and there was a rumbling, gurgling noise in the interior of the balloon, followed by several escapes of gas through the safety valve. The paroxysm over, the apostle of self-denial continued: `All those who wish to collect donations will stay behind for a few minutes after school, when Brother Hunter - who has kindly consented to act as secretary to the fund - will issue the cards. `I would like here to say a few words of thanks to Brother Hunter for the great interest he has displayed in this matter, and for all the trouble he is taking to help us to gather in the donations.' This tribute was well deserved; Hunter in fact had originated the whole scheme in the hope of securing the job for Rushton & Co., and two-and-a-half per cent of the profits for himself. Mr Belcher now replaced the collecting card on the table and, taking up one of the hymn-books, gave out the words and afterwards conducted the singing, nourishing one fat, flabby white hand in the air and holding the book in the other. As the last strains of the music died away, he closed his eyes and a sweet smile widened his mouth as he stretched forth his right hand, open, palm down, with the fingers close together, and said: `Let us pray.' With much shuffling of feet everyone knelt down. Hunter's lanky form was distributed over a very large area; his body lay along one of the benches, his legs and feet sprawled over the floor, and his huge hands clasped the sides of the seat. His eyes were tightly closed and an expression of the most intense misery pervaded his long face. Mrs Starvem, being so fat that she knew if she once knelt down she would never be able to get up again, compromised by sitting on the extreme edge of her chair, resting her elbows on the back of the seat in front of her, and burying her face in her hands. It was a very large face, but her hands were capacious enough to receive it. In a seat at the back of the hall knelt a pale-faced, weary-looking little woman about thirty-six years of age, very shabbily dressed, who had come in during the singing. This was Mrs White, the caretaker, Bert White's mother. When her husband died, the committee of the Chapel, out of charity, gave her this work, for which they paid her six shillings a week. Of course, they could not offer her full employment; the idea was that she could get other work as well, charing and things of that kind, and do the Chapel work in between. There wasn't much to do: just the heating furnace to light when necessary; the Chapel, committee rooms, classrooms and Sunday School to sweep and scrub out occasionally; the hymn-books to collect, etc. Whenever they had a tea meeting - which was on an average about twice a week - there were the trestle tables to fix up, the chairs to arrange, the table to set out, and then, supervised by Miss Didlum or some other lady, the tea to make. There was rather a lot to do on the days following these functions: the washing up, the tables and chairs to put away, the floor to sweep, and so on; but the extra work was supposed to be compensated by the cakes and broken victuals generally left over from the feast, which were much appreciated as a welcome change from the bread and dripping or margarine that constituted Mrs White's and Bert's usual fare. There were several advantages attached to the position: the caretaker became acquainted with the leading members and their wives, some of who, out of charity, occasionally gave her a day's work as charwoman, the wages being on about the same generous scale as those she earned at the Chapel, sometimes supplemented by a parcel of broken victuals or some castoff clothing. An evil-minded, worldly or unconverted person might possibly sum up the matter thus: these people required this work done: they employed this woman to do it, taking advantage of her poverty to impose upon her conditions of price and labour that they would not have liked to endure themselves. Although she worked very hard, early and late, the money they paid her as wages was insufficient to enable her to provide herself with the bare necessaries of life. Then her employers, being good, kind, generous, Christian people, came to the rescue and bestowed charity, in the form of cast-off clothing and broken victuals. Should any such evil-minded, worldly or unconverted persons happen to read these lines, it is a sufficient answer to their impious and malicious criticisms to say that no such thoughts ever entered the simple mind of Mrs White herself: on the contrary, this very afternoon as she knelt in the Chapel, wearing an old mantle that some years previously had adorned the obese person of the saintly Mrs Starvem, her heart was filled with gratitude towards her generous benefactors. During the prayer the door was softly opened: a gentleman in clerical dress entered on tiptoe and knelt down next to Mr Didlum. He came in very softly, but all the same most of those present heard him and lifted their heads or peeped through their fingers to see who it was, and when they recognized him a sound like a sigh swept through the hall. At the end of the prayer, amid groans and cries of 'Amen', the balloon slowly descended from the platform, and collapsed into one of the seats, and everyone rose up from the floor. When all were seated and the shuffling, coughing and blowing of noses had ceased Mr Didlum stood up and said: `Before we sing the closin' 'ymn, the gentleman hon my left, the Rev. Mr John Starr, will say a few words.' An expectant murmur rippled through the hall. The ladies lifted their eyebrows and nodded, smiled and whispered to each other; the gentlemen assumed various attitudes and expressions; the children were very quiet. Everyone was in a state of suppressed excitement as John Starr rose from his seat and, stepping up on to the platform, stood by the side of the table, facing them. He was about twenty-six years of age, tall and slenderly built. His clean-cut, intellectual face, with its lofty forehead, and his air of refinement and culture were in striking contrast to the coarse appearance of the other adults in the room: the vulgar, ignorant, uncultivated crowd of profit-mongers and hucksters in front of him. But it was not merely his air of good breeding and the general comeliness of his exterior that attracted and held one. There was an indefinable something about him - an atmosphere of gentleness and love that seemed to radiate from his whole being, almost compelling confidence and affection from all those with whom he came in contact. As he stood there facing the others with an inexpressibly winning smile upon his comely face, it seemed impossible that there could be any fellowship between him and them. There was nothing in his appearance to give anyone even an inkling of the truth, which was: that he was there for the purpose of bolstering up the characters of the despicable crew of sweaters and slave-drivers who paid his wages. He did not give a very long address this afternoon - only just a Few Words but they were very precious, original and illuminating. He told them of certain Thoughts that had occurred to his mind on his way there that afternoon; and as they listened, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum, Hunter, and the other disciples exchanged significant looks and gestures. Was it not magnificent! Such power! Such reasoning! In fact, as they afterwards modestly admitted to each other, it was so profound that even they experienced great difficulty in fathoming the speaker's meaning. As for the ladies, they were motionless and dumb with admiration. They sat with flushed faces, shining eyes and palpitating hearts, looking hungrily at the dear man as he proceeded: `Unfortunately, our time this afternoon does not permit us to dwell at length upon these Thoughts. Perhaps at some future date we may have the blessed privilege of so doing; but this afternoon I have been asked to say a Few Words on another subject. The failing health of your dear minister has for some time past engaged the anxious attention of the congregation.' Sympathetic glances were directed towards the interesting invalid; the ladies murmured, `Poor dear!' and other expressions of anxious concern. `Although naturally robust,' continued Starr, `long, continued Overwork, the loving solicitude for Others that often prevented him taking even necessary repose, and a too rigorous devotion to the practice of Self-denial have at last brought about the inevitable Breakdown, and rendered a period of Rest absolutely imperative.' The orator paused to take breath, and the silence that ensued was disturbed only by faint rumblings in the interior of the ascetic victim of overwork. `With this laudable object,' proceeded Start, `a Subscription List was quietly opened about a month ago, and those dear children who had cards and assisted in the good work of collecting donations will be pleased to hear that altogether a goodly sum was gathered, but as it was not quite enough, the committee voted a further amount out of the General Fund, and at a special meeting held last Friday evening, your dear Shepherd was presented with an illuminated address, and a purse of gold sufficient to defray the expenses of a month's holiday in the South of France. `Although, of course, he regrets being separated from you even for such a brief period he feels that in going he is choosing the lesser of two evils. It is better to go to the South of France for a month than to continue Working in spite of the warnings of exhausted nature and perhaps be taken away from you altogether - by Heaven.' `God forbid!' fervently ejaculated several disciples, and a ghastly pallor overspread the features of the object of their prayers. `Even as it is there is a certain amount of danger. Let us hope and pray for the best, but if the worst should happen and he is called upon to Ascend, there will be some satisfaction in knowing that you have done what you could to avert the dreadful calamity.' Here, probably as a precaution against the possibility of an involuntary ascent, a large quantity of gas was permitted to escape through the safety valve of the balloon. `He sets out on his pilgrimage tomorrow,' concluded Starr, `and I am sure he will be followed by the good wishes and prayers of all the members of his flock.' The reverend gentleman resumed his seat, and almost immediately it became evident from the oscillations of the balloon that Mr Belcher was desirous of rising to say a Few Words in acknowledgement, but he was restrained by the entreaties of those near him, who besought him not to exhaust himself. He afterwards said that he would not have been able to say much even if they had permitted him to speak, because he felt too full. `During the absence of our beloved pastor,' said Brother Didlum, who now rose to give out the closing hymn, `his flock will not be left hentirely without a shepherd, for we 'ave arranged with Mr Starr to come and say a Few Words to us hevery Sunday.' From the manner in which they constantly referred to themselves, it might have been thought that they were a flock of sheep instead of being what they really were - a pack of wolves. When they heard Brother Didlum's announcement a murmur of intense rapture rose from the ladies, and Mr Starr rolled his eyes and smiled sweetly. Brother Didlum did not mention the details of the `arrangement', to have done so at that time would have been most unseemly, but the following extract from the accounts of the chapel will not be out of place here: `Paid to Rev. John Starr for Sunday, Nov. 14 - ?.4.0 per the treasurer.' It was not a large sum considering the great services rendered by Mr Starr, but, small as it was, it is to be feared that many worldly, unconverted persons will think it was far too much to pay for a Few Words, even such wise words as Mr John Starr's admittedly always were. But the Labourer is worthy of his hire. After the `service' was over, most of the children, including Charley and Frankie, remained to get collecting cards. Mr Starr was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and a little later, when he rode away with Mr Belcher and Mr Sweater in the latter's motor car, the ladies looked hungrily after that conveyance, listening to the melancholy `pip, pip' of its hooter and trying to console themselves with the reflection that they would see him again in a few hours' time at the evening service. Chapter 18 The Lodger In accordance with his arrangement with Hunter, Owen commenced the work in the drawing-room on the Monday morning. Harlow and Easton were distempering some of the ceilings, and about ten o'clock they went down to the scullery to get some more whitewash. Crass was there as usual, pretending to be very busy mixing colours. `Well, wot do you think of it?' he said as he served them with what they required. `Think of what?' asked Easton. `Why, hour speshul hartist,' replied Crass with a sneer. 'Do you think 'e's goin' to get through with it?' `Shouldn't like to say,' replied Easton guardedly. `You know it's one thing to draw on a bit of paper and colour it with a penny box of paints, and quite another thing to do it on a wall or ceiling,' continued Crass. 'Ain't it?' `Yes; that's true enough,' said Harlow. `Do you believe they're 'is own designs?' Crass went on. `Be rather 'ard to tell,' remarked Easton, embarrassed. Neither Harlow nor Easton shared Crass's sentiments in this matter, but at the same time they could not afford to offend him by sticking up for Owen. `If you was to ast me, quietly,' Crass added, `I should be more inclined to say as 'e copied it all out of some book.' `That's just about the size of it, mate,' agreed Harlow. `It would be a bit of all right if 'e was to make a bloody mess of it, wouldn't it?' Crass continued with a malignant leer. `Not arf!' said Harlow. When the two men regained the upper landing on which they were working they exchanged significant glances and laughed quietly. Hearing these half-suppressed sounds of merriment, Philpot, who was working alone in a room close by, put his head out of the doorway. `Wot's the game?' he inquired in a low voice. `Ole Crass ain't arf wild about Owen doin' that room,' replied Harlow, and repeated the substance of Crass's remarks. `It is a bit of a take-down for the bleeder, ain't it, 'avin' to play second fiddle,' said Philpot with a delighted grin. `'E's opin' Owen'll make a mess of it,' Easton whispered. `Well, 'e'll be disappointed, mate,' answered Philpot. `I was workin' along of Owen for Pushem and Sloggem about two year ago, and I seen 'im do a job down at the Royal 'Otel - the smokin'-room ceilin' it was - and I can tell you it looked a bloody treat!' `I've heard tell of it,' said Harlow. `There's no doubt Owen knows 'is work,' remarked Easton, 'although 'e is a bit orf is onion about Socialism.' `I don't know so much about that, mate,' returned Philpot. `I agree with a lot that 'e ses. I've often thought the same things meself, but I can't talk like 'im, 'cause I ain't got no 'ead for it.' `I agree with some of it too,' said Harlow with a laugh, `but all the same 'e does say some bloody silly things, you must admit. For instance, that stuff about money bein' the cause of poverty.' `Yes. I can't exactly see that meself,' agreed Philpot. `We must tackle 'im about that at dinner-time,' said Harlow. `I should rather like to 'ear 'ow 'e makes it out.' `For Gord's sake don't go startin' no arguments at dinner-time,' said Easton. `Leave 'im alone when 'e is quiet.' `Yes; let's 'ave our dinner in peace, if possible,' said Philpot. `Sh!!' he added, hoarsely, suddenly holding up his hand warningly. They listened intently. It was evident from the creaking of the stairs that someone was crawling up them. Philpot instantly disappeared. Harlow lifted up the pail of whitewash and set it down again noisily. `I think we'd better 'ave the steps and the plank over this side, Easton,' he said in a loud voice. `Yes. I think that'll be the best way,' replied Easton. While they were arranging their scaffold to do the ceiling Crass arrived on the landing. He made no remark at first, but walked into the room to see how many ceilings they had done. `You'd better look alive, you chaps, he said as he went downstairs again. `If we don't get these ceilings finished by dinner-time, Nimrod's sure to ramp.' `All right,' said Harlow, gruffly. `We'll bloody soon slosh 'em over.' `Slosh' was a very suitable word; very descriptive of the manner in which the work was done. The cornices of the staircase ceilings were enriched with plaster ornaments. These ceilings were supposed to have been washed off, but as the men who were put to do that work had not been allowed sufficient time to do it properly, the crevices of the ornaments were still filled up with old whitewash, and by the time Harlow and Easton had `sloshed' a lot more whitewash on to them they were mere formless unsightly lumps of plaster. The `hands' who did the `washing off' were not to blame. They had been hunted away from the work before it was half done. While Harlow and Easton were distempering these ceiling, Philpot and the other hands were proceeding with the painting in different parts of the inside of the house, and Owen, assisted by Bert, was getting on with the work in the drawing-room, striking chalk lines and measuring and setting out the different panels. There were no `political' arguments that day at dinner-time, to the disappointment of Crass, who was still waiting for an opportunity to produce the Obscurer cutting. After dinner, when the others had all gone back to their work, Philpot unobtrusively returned to the kitchen and gathered up the discarded paper wrappers in which some of the men had brought their food. Spreading one of these open, he shook the crumbs from the others upon it. In this way and by picking up particles of bread from the floor, he collected a little pile of crumbs and crusts. To these he added some fragments that he had left from his own dinner. He then took the parcel upstairs and opening one of the windows threw the crumbs on to the roof of the portico. He had scarcely closed the window when two starlings fluttered down and began to eat. Philpot watching them furtively from behind the shutter. The afternoon passed uneventfully. From one till five seemed a very long time to most of the hands, but to Owen and his mate, who was doing something in which they were able to feel some interest and pleasure, the time passed so rapidly that they both regretted the approach of evening. `Other days,' remarked Bert, `I always keeps on wishin' it was time to go 'ome, but today seems to 'ave gorn like lightnin'!' After leaving off that night, all the men kept together till they arrived down town, and then separated. Owen went by himself: Easton, Philpot, Crass and Bundy adjourned to the `Cricketers Arms' to have a drink together before going home, and Slyme, who was a teetotaler, went by himself, although he was now lodging with Easton. `Don't wait for me,' said the latter as he went off with Crass and the others. `I shall most likely catch you up before you get there.' `All right,' replied Slyme. This evening Slyme did not take the direct road home. He turned into the main street, and, pausing before the window of a toy shop, examined the articles displayed therein attentively. After some minutes he appeared to have come to a decision, and entering the shop he purchased a baby's rattle for fourpence halfpenny. It was a pretty toy made of white bone and coloured wool, with a number of little bells hanging upon it, and a ring of white bone at the end of the handle. When he came out of the shop Slyme set out for home, this time walking rapidly. When he entered the house Ruth was sitting by the fire with the baby on her lap. She looked up with an expression of disappointment as she perceived that he was alone. `Where's Will got to again?' she asked. `He's gone to 'ave a drink with some of the chaps. He said he wouldn't be long,' replied Slyme as he put his food basket on the dresser and went upstairs to his room to wash and to change his clothes. When he came down again, Easton had not yet arrived. `Everything's ready, except just to make the tea,' said Ruth, who was evidently annoyed at the continued absence of Easton, `so you may as well have yours now.' `I'm in no hurry. I'll wait a little and see if he comes. He's sure to be here soon.' `If you're sure you don't mind, I shall be glad if you will wait,' said Ruth, `because it will save me making two lots of tea.' They waited for about half an hour, talking at intervals in a constrained, awkward way about trivial subjects. Then as Easton did not come, Ruth decided to serve Slyme without waiting any longer. With this intention she laid the baby in its cot, but the child resented this arrangement and began to cry, so she had to hold him under her left arm while she made the tea. Seeing her in this predicament, Slyme exclaimed, holding out his hands: `Here, let me hold him while you do that.' `Will you?' said Ruth, who, in spite of her instinctive dislike of the man, could not help feeling gratified with this attention. `Well, mind you don't let him fall.' But the instant Slyme took hold of the child it began to cry even louder than it did when it was put into the cradle. `He's always like that with strangers,' apologized Ruth as she took him back again. `Wait a minute,' said Slyme, `I've got something upstairs in my pocket that will keep him quiet. I'd forgotten all about it.' He went up to his room and presently returned with the rattle. When the baby saw the bright colours and heard the tinkling of the bells he crowed with delight, and reached out his hands eagerly towards it and allowed Slyme to take him without a murmur of protest. Before Ruth had finished making and serving the tea the man and child were on the very best of terms with each other, so much so indeed that when Ruth had finished and went to take him again, the baby seemed reluctant to part from Slyme, who had been dancing him in the air and tickling him in the most delightful way. Ruth, too, began to have a better opinion of Slyme, and felt inclined to reproach herself for having taken such an unreasonable dislike of him at first. He was evidently a very good sort of fellow after all. The baby had by this time discovered the use of the bone ring at the end of the handle of the toy and was biting it energetically. `It's a very beautiful rattle,' said Ruth. 'Thank you very much for it. It's just the very thing he wanted.' `I heard you say the other day that he wanted something of the kind to bite on to help his teeth through,' answered Slyme, `and when I happened to notice that in the shop I remembered what you said and thought I'd bring it home.' The baby took the ring out of its mouth and shaking the rattle frantically in the air laughed and crowed merrily, looking at Slyme. `Dad! Dad! Dad!' he cried, holding out his arms. Slyme and Ruth burst out laughing. `That's not your Dad, you silly boy,' she said, kissing the child as she spoke. `Your dad ought to be ashamed of himself for staying out like this. We'll give him dad, dad, dad, when he does come home, won't we?' But the baby only shook the rattle and rang the bells and laughed and crowed and laughed again, louder than ever. Chapter 19 The Filling of the Tank Viewed from outside, the `Cricketers Arms' was a pretentious-looking building with plate-glass windows and a profusion of gilding. The pilasters were painted in imitation of different marbles and the doors grained to represent costly woods. There were panels containing painted advertisements of wines and spirits and beer, written in gold, and ornamented with gaudy colours. On the lintel over the principal entrance was inscribed in small white letters: `A. Harpy. Licensed to sell wines, spirits and malt liquor by retail to be consumed either on or off the premises.' The bar was arranged in the usual way, being divided into several compartments. First there was the `Saloon Bar': on the glass of the door leading into this was fixed a printed bill: `No four ale served in this bar.' Next to the saloon bar was the jug and bottle department, much appreciated by ladies who wished to indulge in a drop of gin on the quiet. There were also two small `private' bars, only capable of holding two or three persons, where nothing less than fourpennyworth of spirits or glasses of ale at threepence were served. Finally, the public bar, the largest compartment of all. At each end, separating it from the other departments, was a wooden partition, painted and varnished. Wooden forms fixed across the partitions and against the walls under the windows provided seating accommodation for the customers. A large automatic musical instrument - a `penny in the slot' polyphone - resembling a grandfather's clock in shape - stood against one of the partitions and close up to the counter, so that those behind the bar could reach to wind it up. Hanging on the partition near the polyphone was a board about fifteen inches square, over the surface of which were distributed a number of small hooks, numbered. At the bottom of the board was a net made of fine twine, extended by means of a semi-circular piece of wire. In this net several india-rubber rings about three inches in diameter were lying. There was no table in the place but jutting out from the other partition was a hinged flap about three feet long by twenty inches wide, which could be folded down when not in use. This was the shove-ha'penny board. The coins - old French pennies - used in playing this game were kept behind the bar and might be borrowed on application. On the partition, just above the shove-ha'penny board was a neatly printed notice, framed and glazed: NOTICE Gentlemen using this house are requested to refrain from using obscene language. Alongside this notice were a number of gaudily-coloured bills advertising the local theatre and the music-hall, and another of a travelling circus and menagerie, then visiting the town and encamped on a piece of waste ground about half-way on the road to Windley. The fittings behind the bar, and the counter, were of polished mahogany, with silvered plate glass at the back of the shelves. On the shelves were rows of bottles and cut-glass decanters, gin, whisky, brandy and wines and liqueurs of different kinds. When Crass, Philpot, Easton and Bundy entered, the landlord, a well-fed, prosperous-looking individual in white shirt-sleeves, and a bright maroon fancy waistcoat with a massive gold watch-chain and a diamond ring, was conversing in an affable, friendly way with one of his regular customers, who was sitting on the end of the seat close to the counter, a shabbily dressed, bleary-eyed, degraded, beer-sodden, trembling wretch, who spent the greater part of every day, and all his money, in this bar. He was a miserable-looking wreck of a man about thirty years of age, supposed to be a carpenter, although he never worked at that trade now. It was commonly said that some years previously he had married a woman considerably his senior, the landlady of a third-rate lodging-house. This business was evidently sufficiently prosperous to enable him to exist without working and to maintain himself in a condition of perpetual semi-intoxication. This besotted wretch practically lived at the 'Cricketers'. He came regularly very morning and sometimes earned a pint of beer by assisting the barman to sweep up the sawdust or clean the windows. He usually remained in the bar until closing time every night. He was a very good customer; not only did he spend whatever money he could get hold of himself, but he was the cause of others spending money, for he was acquainted with most of the other regular customers, who, knowing his impecunious condition, often stood him a drink `for the good of the house'. The only other occupant of the public bar - previous to the entrance of Crass and his mates - was a semi-drunken man, who appeared to be a house-painter, sitting on the form near the shove-ha'penny board. He was wearing a battered bowler hat and the usual shabby clothes. This individual had a very thin, pale face, with a large, high-bridged nose, and bore a striking resemblance to the portraits of the first Duke of Wellington. He was not a regular customer here, having dropped in casually about two o'clock and had remained ever since. He was beginning to show the effects of the drink he had taken during that time. As Crass and the others came in they were hailed with enthusiasm by the landlord and the Besotted Wretch, while the semi-drunk workman regarded them with fishy eyes and stupid curiosity. `Wot cheer, Bob?' said the landlord, affably, addressing Crass, and nodding familiarly to the others. `'Ow goes it?' `All reet me ole dear!' replied Crass, jovially. `'Ow's yerself?' `A.1,' replied the `Old Dear', getting up from his chair in readiness to execute their orders. `Well, wot's it to be?' inquired Philpot of the others generally. `Mine's a pint o' beer,' said Crass. `Half for me,' said Bundy. `Half o' beer for me too,' replied Easton. `That's one pint, two 'arves, and a pint o' porter for meself,' said Philpot, turning and addressing the Old Dear. While the landlord was serving these drinks the Besotted Wretch finished his beer and set the empty glass down on the counter, and Philpot observing this, said to him: `'Ave one along o' me?' `I don't mind if I do,' replied the other. When the drinks were served, Philpot, instead of paying for them, winked significantly at the landlord, who nodded silently and unobtrusively made an entry in an account book that was lying on one of the shelves. Although it was only Monday and he had been at work all the previous week, Philpot was already stony broke. This was accounted for by the fact that on Saturday he had paid his landlady something on account of the arrears of board and lodging money that had accumulated while he was out of work; and he had also paid the Old Dear four shillings for drinks obtained on tick during the last week. `Well, 'ere's the skin orf yer nose,' said Crass, nodding to Philpot, and taking a long pull at the pint glass which the latter had handed to him. Similar appropriate and friendly sentiments were expressed by the others and suitably acknowledged by Philpot, the founder of the feast. The Old Dear now put a penny in the slot of the polyphone, and winding it up started it playing. It was some unfamiliar tune, but when the Semi-drunk Painter heard it he rose unsteadily to his feet and began shuffling and dancing about, singing: 'Oh, we'll inwite you to the wedding, An' we'll 'ave a glorious time! Where the boys an' girls is a-dancing, An' we'll all get drunk on wine.' `'Ere! that's quite enough o' that!' cried the landlord, roughly. `We don't want that row 'ere.' The Semi-drunk stopped, and looking stupidly at the Old Dear, sank abashed on to the seat again. `Well, we may as well sit as stand - for a few minutes,' remarked Crass, suiting the action to the word. The others followed his example. At frequent intervals the bar was entered by fresh customers, most of them working men on their way home, who ordered and drank their pint or half-pint of ale or porter and left at once. Bundy began reading the advertisement of the circus and menageries and a conversation ensued concerning the wonderful performances of the trained animals. The Old Dear said that some of them had as much sense as human beings, and the manner with which he made this statement implied that he thought it was a testimonial to the sagacity of the brutes. He further said that he had heard - a little earlier in the evening - a rumour that one of the wild animals, a bear or something, had broken loose and was at present at large. This was what he had heard - he didn't know if it were true or not. For his own part he didn't believe it, and his hearers agreed that it was highly improbable. Nobody ever knew how these silly yarns got about. Presently the Besotted Wretch got up and, taking the india-rubber rings out of the net with a trembling hand, began throwing them one at a time at the hooks on the. board. The rest of the company watched him with much interest, laughing when he made a very bad shot and applauding when he scored. `'E's a bit orf tonight,' remarked Philpot aside to Easton, 'but as a rule 'e's a fair knockout at it. Throws a splendid ring.' The Semidrunk regarded the proceedings of the Besotted Wretch with an expression of profound contempt. `You can't play for nuts,' he said scornfully. `Can't I? I can play you, anyway.' `Right you are! I'll play you for drinks round!' cried the Semi-drunk. For a moment the Besotted Wretch hesitated. He had not money enough to pay for drinks round. However, feeling confident of winning, he replied: `Come on then. What's it to be? Fifty up?' `Anything you like! Fifty or a 'undred or a bloody million!' `Better make it fifty for a start.' `All right!' `You play first if you like.' `All right,' agreed the Semi-drunk, anxious to distinguish himself. Holding the six rings in his left hand, the man stood in the middle of the floor at a distance of about three yards from the board, with his right foot advanced. Taking one of the rings between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, and closing his left eye, he carefully `sighted' the centre hook, No. 13; then he slowly extended his arm to its full length in the direction of the board: then bending his elbow, he brought his hand back again until it nearly touched his chin, and slowly extended his arm again. He repeated these movements several times, whilst the others watched with bated breath. Getting it right at last he suddenly shot the ring at the board, but it did not go on No. 13; it went over the partition into the private bar. This feat was greeted with a roar of laughter. The player stared at the board in a dazed way, wondering what had become of the ring. When someone in the next bar threw it over the partition again, he realized what had happened and, turning to the company with a sickly smile, remarked: `I ain't got properly used to this board yet: that's the reason of it.' He now began throwing the other rings at the board rather wildly, without troubling to take aim. One struck the partition to the right of the board: one to the left: one underneath: one went over the counter, one on the floor, the other - the last - hit the board, and amid a shout of applause, caught on the centre hook No. 13, the highest number it was possible to scare with a single throw. `I shall be all right now that I've got the range,' observed the Semi- drunk as he made way for his opponent. `You'll see something now,' whispered Philpot to Easton. 'This bloke is a dandy!' The Besotted Wretch took up his position and with an affectation of carelessness began throwing the rings. It was really a remarkable exhibition, for notwithstanding the fact that his hand trembled like the proverbial aspen leaf, he succeeded in striking the board almost in the centre every time; but somehow or other most of them failed to catch on the hooks and fell into the net. When he finished his innings, he had only scored 4, two of the rings having caught on the No. 2 hook. `'Ard lines,' remarked Bundy as he finished his beer and put the glass down on the counter. `Drink up and 'ave another,' said Easton as he drained his own glass. `I don't mind if I do,' replied Crass, pouring what remained of the pint down his throat. Philpot's glass had been empty for some time. `Same again,' said Easton, addressing the Old Dear and putting six pennies on the counter. By this time the Semi-drunk had again opened fire on the board, but he seemed to have lost the range, for none of the rings scored. They flew all over the place, and he finished his innings without increasing his total. The Besotted Wretch now sailed in and speedily piled up 37. Then the Semi-drunk had another go, and succeeded in getting 8. His case appeared hopeless, but his opponent in his next innings seemed to go all to pieces. Twice he missed the board altogether, and when he did hit it he failed to score, until the very last throw, when he made 1. Then the Semi-drunk went in again and got 10. The scores were now: Besotted Wretch ........................ 42 Semi-drunk ............................. 31 So far it was impossible to foresee the end. It was anybody's game. Crass became so excited that he absentmindedly opened his mouth and shot his second pint down into his stomach with a single gulp, and Bundy also drained his glass and called upon Philpot and Easton to drink up and have another, which they accordingly did. While the Semi-drunk was having his next innings, the Besotted Wretch placed a penny on the counter and called for a half a pint, which he drank in the hope of steadying his nerves for a great effort. His opponent meanwhile threw the rings at the board and missed it every time, but all the same he scored, for one ring, after striking the partition about a foot above the board, fell down and caught on the hook. The other man now began his innings, playing very carefully, and nearly every ring scored. As he played, the others uttered exclamations of admiration and called out the result of every throw. `One!' `One again!' `Miss! No! Got 'im! Two!' `Miss!' `Miss!' `Four!' The Semi-drunk accepted his defeat with a good grace, and after explaining that he was a bit out of practice, placed a shilling on the counter and invited the company to give their orders. Everyone asked for `the same again,' but the landlord served Easton, Bundy and the Besotted Wretch with pints instead of half-pints as before, so there was no change out of the shilling. `You know, there's a great deal in not bein' used to the board,' said the Semi-drunk. `There's no disgrace in bein' beat by a man like 'im, mate,' said Philpot. `'E's a champion!' `Yes, there's no mistake about it. 'E throws a splendid ring!' said Bundy. This was the general verdict. The Semi-drunk, though beaten, was not disgraced: and he was so affected by the good feeling manifested by the company that he presently produced a sixpence and insisted on paying for another half-pint all round. Crass had gone outside during this conversation, but he returned in a few minutes. `I feel a bit easier now,' he remarked with a laugh as he took the half-pint glass that the Semi-drunk passed to him with a shaking hand. One after the other, within a few minutes, the rest followed Crass's example, going outside and returning almost immediately: and as Bundy, who was the last to return, came back he exclaimed: `Let's 'ave a game of shove-'a'penny.' `All right,' said Easton, who was beginning to feel reckless. `But drink up first, and let's 'ave another.' He had only sevenpence left, just enough to pay for another pint for Crass and half a pint for everyone else. The shove-ha'penny table was a planed mahogany board with a number of parallel lines scored across it. The game is played by placing the coin at the end of the board - the rim slightly overhanging the edge - and striking it with the back part of the palm of the hand, regulating the force of the blow according to the distance it is desired to drive the coin. `What's become of Alf tonight?' inquired Philpot of the landlord whilst Easton and Bundy were playing. Alf was the barman. `'E's doing a bit of a job down in the cellar; some of the valves gone a bit wrong. But the missus is comin' down to lend me a hand presently. 'Ere she is now.' The landlady - who at this moment entered through the door at the back of the bar - was a large woman with a highly-coloured countenance and a tremendous bust, incased in a black dress with a shot silk blouse. She had several jewelled gold rings on the fingers of each fat white hand, and a long gold watch guard hung round her fat neck. She greeted Crass and Philpot with condescension, smiling affably upon them. Meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded merrily, the Semi-drunk taking a great interest in it and tendering advice to both players impartially. Bundy was badly beaten, and then Easton suggested that it was time to think of going home. This proposal - slightly modified - met with general approval, the modification being suggested by Philpot, who insisted on standing one final round of drinks before they went. While they were pouring this down their throats, Crass took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the slot of the polyphone. The landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up and it began to play `The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.' The Semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song, and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet and with many fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice: `They may build their ships, my lads, And try to play the game, But they can't build the boys of the Bulldog breed, Wot made ole Hingland's -' `'Ere! Stop that, will yer?' cried the Old Dear, fiercely. `I told you once before that I don't allow that sort of thing in my 'ouse!' The Semi-drunk stopped in confusion. `I don't mean no 'arm,' he said unsteadily, appealing to the company. `I don't want no chin from you!' said the Old Dear with a ferocious scowl. `If you want to make that row you can go somewheres else, and the sooner you goes the better. You've been 'ere long enough.' This was true. The man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been possessed of when he first came: he had no money left now, a fact that the observant and experienced landlord had divined some time ago. He therefore wished to get rid of the fellow before the drink affected him further and made him helplessly drunk. The Semi-drunk listened with indignation and wrath to the landlord's insulting words. `I shall go when the bloody 'ell I like!' he shouted. `I shan't ask you nor nobody else! Who the bloody 'ell are you? You're nobody! See? Nobody! It's orf the likes of me that you gets your bloody livin'! I shall stop 'ere as long as I bloody well like, and if you don't like it you can go to 'ell!' `Oh! Yer will, will yer?' said the Old Dear. `We'll soon see about that.' And, opening the door at the back of the bar, he roared out: `Alf!' `Yes, sir,' replied a voice, evidently from the basement. `Just come up 'ere.' `All right,' replied the voice, and footsteps were heard ascending some stairs. `You'll see some fun in a minute,' gleefully remarked Crass to Easton. The polyphone continued to play 1The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.' Philpot crossed over to the Semi-drunk. `Look 'ere, old man,' he whispered, `take my tip and go 'ome quietly. You'll only git the worse of it, you know.' `Not me, mate,' replied the other, shaking his head doggedly. `'Ere I am, and 'ere I'm goin' to bloody well stop.' `No, you ain't,' replied Philpot coaxingly. `'Look 'ere. I'll tell you wot we'll do. You 'ave just one more 'arf-pint along of me, and then we'll both go 'ome together. I'll see you safe 'ome.' `See me safe 'ome! Wotcher mean?' indignantly demanded the other. 'Do you think I'm drunk or wot?' `No. Certainly not,' replied Philpot, hastily. `You're all right, as right as I am myself. But you know wot I mean. Let's go 'ome. You don't want to stop 'ere all night, do you?' By this time Alf had arrived at the door of the back of the bar. He was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. `Put it outside,' growled the landlord, indicating the culprit. The barman instantly vaulted over the counter, and, having opened wide the door leading into the street, he turned to the half-drunken man and, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door, said: `Are yer goin'?' `I'm goin' to 'ave 'arf a pint along of this genelman first -' `Yes. It's all right,' said Philpot to the landlord. `Let's 'ave two 'arf-pints, and say no more about it.' `You mind your own business,' shouted the landlord, turning savagely on him. `'E'll get no more 'ere! I don't want no drunken men in my 'ouse. Who asked you to interfere?' `Now then!' exclaimed the barman to the cause of the trouble, `Outside!' `Not me!' said the Semi-drunk firmly. `Not before I've 'ad my 'arf -' But before he could conclude, the barman had clutched him by the collar, dragged him violently to the door and shot him into the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a brewer's dray that happened to be passing. This accomplished, Alf shut the door and retired behind the counter again. `Serve 'im bloody well right,' said Crass. `I couldn't 'elp laughin' when I seen 'im go flyin' through the bloody door,' said Bundy. `You oughter 'ave more sense than to go interferin' like that,' said Crass to Philpot. `It was nothing to do with you.' Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others, peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then he opened the door and went out into the street. Crass and the others - through the window - watched him assist the Semi-drunk to his feet and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm. Crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished drinks. `Why, old Joe ain't drunk 'ardly 'arf of 'is!' cried Easton, seeing Philpot's porter on the counter. 'Fancy going away like that!' `More fool 'im,' growled Crass. `There was no need for it: the man's all right.' The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot's glass. He had just finished his own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared. `Hullo! What 'ave you done with 'im?' inquired Crass. `I think 'e'll be all right,' replied Philpot. `He wouldn't let me go no further with 'im: said if I didn't go away, 'e'd go for me! But I believe 'e'll be all right. I think the fall sobered 'im a bit.' `Oh, 'e's all right,' said Crass offhandedly. `There's nothing the matter with 'im.' Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding `good night' to the Old Dear, the landlady and the Besotted Wretch, they all set out for home. As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field. Just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in front of them. It seemed to be a large animal of some kind and was coming slowly and stealthily towards them. They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness. The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground, groping about in search of a stone, and - with the exception of Crass, who was too frightened to move - the others followed his example. They found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature - whatever it was - to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at it. They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its side and moaned as if in pain. Observing this, the four men advanced cautiously towards it. Bundy struck a match and held it over the prostrate figure. It was the Semi-drunk. After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all right for some distance. As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to some extent sobered him; but he had not gone very far before the drink he had taken began to affect him again and he had fallen down. Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong direction. Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They raised him up, and Philpot, exhorting him to `pull himself together' inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be able to tell them his address, which was fortunately at Windley, where they all resided. Bundy and Philpot took him home, separating from Crass and Easton at the corner of the street where both the latter lived. Crass felt very full and satisfied with himself. He had had six and a half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections on the polyphone at a total cost of one penny. Easton had but a few yards to go before reaching his own house after parting from Crass, but he paused directly he heard the latter's door close, and leaning against a street lamp yielded to the feeling of giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way home. All the inanimate objects around him seemed to be in motion. The lights of the distant street lamps appeared to be floating about the pavement and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a troubled sea. He searched his pockets for his handkerchief and having found it wiped his mouth, inwardly congratulating himself that Crass was not there to see him. Resuming his walk, after a few minutes he reached his own home. As he passed through, the gate closed of itself after him, clanging loudly. He went rather unsteadily up the narrow path that led to his front door and entered. The baby was asleep in the cradle. Slyme had gone up to his own room, and Ruth was sitting sewing by the fireside. The table was still set for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea. Easton lurched in noisily. `'Ello, old girl!' he cried, throwing his dinner basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality and resting his hands on the table to support himself. `I've come at last, you see.' Ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands fall into her lap, sat looking at him. She had never seen him like this before. His face was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips tremulous and moist, and the ends of the hair of his fair moustache, stuck together with saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily round his mouth in damp clusters. Perceiving that she did not speak or smile, Easton concluded that she was angry and became grave himself. `I've come at last, you see, my dear; better late than never.' He found it very difficult to speak plainly, for his lips trembled and refused to form the words. `I don't know so much about that,' said Ruth, inclined to cry and trying not to let him see the pity she could not help feeling for him. `A nice state you're in. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.' Easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. `Don't be angry, Ruth. It's no good, you know.' He walked clumsily towards her, still leaning on the table to steady himself. `Don't be angry,' he mumbled as he stooped over her, putting his arm round her neck and his face close to hers. `It's no good being angry, you know, dear.' She shrank away, shuddering with involuntary disgust as he pressed his wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. His fetid breath, foul with the smell of tobacco and beer, and the odour of the stale tobacco smoke that exuded from his clothes filled her with loathing. He kissed her repeatedly and when at last he released her she hastily wiped her face with her handkerchief and shivered. Easton said he did not want any tea, and went upstairs to bed almost immediately. Ruth did not want any tea either now, although she had been very hungry before he came home. She sat up very late, sewing, and when at length she did go upstairs she found him lying on his back, partly undressed on the outside of the bedclothes, with his mouth wide open, breathing stertorously. Chapter 20 The Forty Thieves. The Battle: Brigands versus Bandits This is an even more unusually dull and uninteresting chapter, and introduces several matters that may appear to have nothing to do with the case. The reader is nevertheless entreated to peruse it, because it contains certain information necessary to an understanding of this history. The town of Mugsborough was governed by a set of individuals called the Municipal Council. Most of these `representatives of the people' were well-to-do or retired tradesmen. In the opinion of the inhabitants of Mugsborough, the fact that a man had succeeded in accumulating money in business was a clear demonstration of his fitness to be entrusted with the business of the town. Consequently, when that very able and successful man of business Mr George Rushton was put up for election to the Council he was returned by a large majority of the votes of the working men who thought him an ideal personage ... These Brigands did just as they pleased. No one ever interfered with them. They never consulted the ratepayers in any way. Even at election time they did not trouble to hold meetings: each one of them just issued a kind of manifesto setting forth his many noble qualities and calling upon the people for their votes: and the latter never failed to respond. They elected the same old crew time after time ... The Brigands committed their depredations almost unhindered, for the voters were engaged in the Battle of Life. Take the public park for instance. Like so many swine around a trough - they were so busily engaged in this battle that most of them had no time to go to the park, or they might have noticed that there were not so many costly plants there as there should have been. And if they had inquired further they would have discovered that nearly all the members of the Town Council had very fine gardens. There was reason for these gardens being so grand, for the public park was systematically robbed of its best to make them so. There was a lake in the park where large numbers of ducks and geese were kept at the ratepayers' expense. In addition to the food provided for these fowl with public money, visitors to the park used to bring them bags of biscuits and bread crusts. When the ducks and geese were nicely fattened the Brigands used to carry them off and devour them at home. When they became tired of eating duck or goose, some of the Councillors made arrangements with certain butchers and traded away the birds for meat. One of the most energetic members of the Band was Mr Jeremiah Didlum, the house-furnisher, who did a large hire system trade. He had an extensive stock of second-hand furniture that he had resumed possession of when the unfortunate would-be purchasers failed to pay the instalments regularly. Other of the second-hand things had been purchased for a fraction of their real value at Sheriff's sales or from people whom misfortune or want of employment had reduced to the necessity of selling their household possessions. Another notable member of the Band was Mr Amos Grinder, who had practically monopolized the greengrocery trade and now owned nearly all the fruiterers' shops in the town. As for the other shops, if they did not buy their stocks from him - or, rather, the company of which he was managing director and principal shareholder - if these other fruiterers and greengrocers did not buy their stuff from his company, he tried to smash them by opening branches in their immediate neighbourhood and selling below cost. He was a self-made man: an example of what may be accomplished by cunning and selfishness. Then there was the Chief of the Band - Mr Adam Sweater, the Mayor. He was always the Chief, although he was not always Mayor, it being the rule that the latter `honour' should be enjoyed by all the members of the Band in turn. A bright `honour', forsooth! to be the first citizen in a community composed for the most part of ignorant semi-imbeciles, slaves, slave-drivers and psalm-singing hypocrites. Mr Sweater was the managing director and principal shareholder of a large drapery business in which he had amassed a considerable fortune. This was not very surprising, considering that he paid none of his workpeople fair wages and many of them no wages at all. He employed a great number of girls and young women who were supposed to be learning dressmaking, mantle-making or millinery. These were all indentured apprentices, some of whom had paid premiums of from five to ten pounds. They were `bound' for three years. For the first two years they received no wages: the third year they got a shilling or eightpence a week. At the end of the third year they usually got the sack, unless they were willing to stay on as improvers at from three shillings to four and sixpence per week. They worked from half past eight in the morning till eight at night, with an interval of an hour for dinner, and at half past four they ceased work for fifteen minutes for tea. This was provided by the firm - half a pint for each girl, but they had to bring their own milk and sugar and bread and butter. Few of the girls ever learned their trades thoroughly. Some were taught to make sleeves; others cuffs or button-holes, and so on. The result was that in a short time each one became very expert and quick at one thing; and although their proficiency in this one thing would never enable them to earn a decent living, it enabled Mr Sweater to make money during the period of their apprenticeship, and that was all he cared about. Occasionally a girl of intelligence and spirit would insist on the fulfilment of the terms of her indentures, and sometimes the parents would protest. If this were persisted in those girls got on better: but even these were turned to good account by the wily Sweater, who induced the best of them to remain after their time was up by paying them what appeared - by contrast with the others girls' money - good wages, sometimes even seven or eight shillings a week! and liberal promises of future advancement. These girls then became a sort of reserve who could be called up to crush any manifestation of discontent on the part of the leading hands. The greater number of the girls, however, submitted tamely to the conditions imposed upon them. They were too young to realize the wrong that was being done them. As for their parents, it never occurred to them to doubt the sincerity of so good a man as Mr Sweater, who was always prominent in every good and charitable work. At the expiration of the girl's apprenticeship, if the parents complained of her want of proficiency, the pious Sweater would attribute it to idleness or incapacity, and as the people were generally poor he seldom or never had any trouble with them. This was how he fulfilled the unctuous promise made to the confiding parents at the time the girl was handed over to his tender mercy - that he would `make a woman of her'. This method of obtaining labour by false pretences and without payment, which enabled him to produce costly articles for a mere fraction of the price for which they were eventually sold, was adopted in other departments of his business. He procured shop assistants of both sexes on the same terms. A youth was indentured, usually for five years, to be `Made a Man of and `Turned out fit to take a Position in any House'. If possible, a premium, five, ten, or twenty pounds - according to their circumstances - would be extracted from the parents. For the first three years, no wages: after that, perhaps two or three shillings a week. At the end of the five years the work of `Making a Man of him' would be completed. Mr Sweater would then congratulate him and assure him that he was qualified to assume a `position' in any House but regret that there was no longer any room for him in his. Business was so bad. Still, if the Man wished he might stay on until he secured a better `position' and, as a matter of generosity, although he did not really need the Man's services, he would pay him ten shillings per week! Provided he was not addicted to drinking, smoking, gambling or the Stock Exchange, or going to theatres, the young man's future was thus assured. Even if he were unsuccessful in his efforts to obtain another position he could save a portion of his salary and eventually commence business on his own account. However, the branch of Mr Sweater's business to which it is desired to especially direct the reader's attention was the Homeworkers Department. He employed a large number of women making ladies' blouses, fancy aprons and children's pinafores. Most of these articles were disposed of wholesale in London and elsewhere, but some were retailed at `Sweaters' Emporium' in Mugsborough and at the firm's other retail establishments throughout the county. Many of the women workers were widows with children, who were glad to obtain any employment that did not take hem away from their homes and families. The blouses were paid for at tie rate of from two shillings to five shillings a dozen, the women having to provide their own machine and cotton, besides calling for and delivering the work. These poor women were able to clear from six to eight shillings a week: and to earn even that they had to work almost incessantly for fourteen or sixteen hours a day. There was no time for cooling and very little to cook, for they lived principally on bread and margarine and tea. Their homes were squalid, their children half-starved and raggedly clothed in grotesque garments hastily fashioned out of the cast-off clothes of charitable neighbours. But it was not in vain that these women toiled every weary day until exhaustion compelled them to case. It was not in vain that they passed their cheerless lives bending with aching shoulders over the thankless work that barely brought them bread. It was not in vain that they and their children went famished and in rags, for after all, the principal object of their labour was accomplished: the Good Cause was advanced. Mr Sweater waxed rich and increased in goods and respectability. Of course, none of those women were COMPELLED to engage in that glorious cause. No one is compelled to accept any particular set of conditions in a free country like this. Mr Trafaim - the manager of Sweater's Homework Department - always put the matter before them in the plainest, fairest possible way. There was the work: that was the figure! And those who didn't like it could leave it. There was no compulsion. Sometimes some perverse creature belonging to that numerous class who are too lazy to work DID leave it! But as the manager said, there were plenty of others who were only too glad to take it. In fact, such was the enthusiasm amongst these women - especially such of them as had little children to provide for - and such was their zeal for the Cause, that some of them have been known to positively beg to be allowed to work! By these and similar means Adam Sweater had contrived to lay up for himself a large amount of treasure upon earth, besides attaining undoubted respectability; for that he was respectable no one questioned. He went to chapel twice every Sunday, his obese figure arrayed in costly apparel, consisting - with other things - of grey trousers, a long garment called a frock-coat, a tall silk hat, a quantity of jewellery and a morocco-bound gilt-edged Bible. He was an official of some sort of the Shining Light Chapel. His name appeared in nearly every published list of charitable subscriptions. No starving wretch had ever appealed to him in vain for a penny soup ticket. Small wonder that when this good and public-spirited man offered his services to the town - free of charge - the intelligent working men of Mugsborough accepted his offer with enthusiastic applause. The fact that he had made money in business was a proof of his intellectual capacity. His much-advertised benevolence was a guarantee that his abilities would be used to further not his own private interests, but the interests of every section of the community, especially those of the working classes, of whom the majority of his constituents was composed. As for the shopkeepers, they were all so absorbed in their own business - so busily engaged chasing their employees, adding up their accounts, and dressing themselves up in feeble imitation of the `Haristocracy' - that they were incapable of taking a really intelligent interest in anything else. They thought of the Town Council as a kind of Paradise reserved exclusively for jerry-builders and successful tradesmen. Possibly, some day, if they succeeded in making money, they might become town councillors themselves! but in the meantime public affairs were no particular concern of theirs. So some of them voted for Adam Sweater because he was a Liberal and some of them voted against him for the same `reason'. Now and then, when details of some unusually scandalous proceeding of the Council's leaked out, the townspeople - roused for a brief space from their customary indifference - would discuss the matter in a casual, half-indignant, half-amused, helpless sort of way; but always as if it were something that did not directly concern them. It was during some such nine days' wonder that the title of `The Forty Thieves' was bestowed on the members of the Council by their semi-imbecile constituents, who, not possessing sufficient intelligence to devise means of punishing the culprits, affected to regard the manoeuvres of the Brigands as a huge joke. There was only one member of the Council who did not belong to the Band - Councillor Weakling, a retired physician; but unfortunately he also was a respectable man. When he saw something going forwards that he did not think was right, he protested and voted against it and then - he collapsed! There was nothing of the low agitator about HIM. As for the Brigands, they laughed at his protests and his vote did not matter. With this one exception, the other members of the band were very similar in character to Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder. They had all joined the Band with the same objects, self-glorification and the advancement of their private interests. These were the real reasons why they besought the ratepayers to elect them to the Council, but of course none of them ever admitted that such was the case. No! When these noble-minded altruists offered their services to the town they asked the people to believe that they were actuated by a desire to give their time and abilities for the purpose of furthering the interests of Others, which was much the same as asking them to believe that it is possible for the leopard to change his spots. Owing to the extraordinary apathy of the other inhabitants, the Brigands were able to carry out their depredations undisturbed. Daylight robberies were of frequent occurrence. For many years these Brigands had looked with greedy eyes upon the huge profits of the Gas Company. They thought it was a beastly shame that those other bandits should be always raiding the town and getting clear away with such rich spoils. At length - about two years ago - after much study and many private consultations, a plan of campaign was evolved; a secret council of war was held, presided over by Mr Sweater, and the Brigands formed themselves into an association called `The Mugsborough Electric Light Supply and Installation Coy. Ltd.', and bound themselves by a solemn oath to do their best to drive the Gas Works Bandits out of the town and to capture the spoils at present enjoyed by the latter for themselves. There was a large piece of ground, the property of the town, that was a suitable site for the works; so in their character of directors of the Electric Light Coy. they offered to buy this land from the Municipality - or, in other words, from themselves - for about half its value. At the meeting of the Town Council when this offer was considered, all the members present, with the solitary exception of Dr Weakling, being shareholders in the newly formed company, Councillor Rushton moved a resolution in favour of accepting it. He said that every encouragement should be given to the promoters of the Electric Light Coy., those public-spirited citizens who had come forward and were willing to risk their capital in an undertaking that would be a benefit to every class of residents in the town that they all loved so well. (Applause.) There could be no doubt that the introduction of the electric light would be a great addition to the attractions of Mugsborough, but there was another and more urgent reason that disposed him to do whatever he could to encourage the Company to proceed with this work. Unfortunately, as was usual at that time of the year (Mr Rushton's voice trembled with emotion) the town was full of unemployed. (The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, and all the other Councillors shook their heads sadly; they were visibly affected.) There was no doubt that the starting of that work at that time would be an inestimable boon to the working-classes. As the representative of a working-class ward he was in favour of accepting the offer of the Company. (Hear. Hear.) Councillor Didlum seconded. In his opinion, it would be nothing short of a crime to oppose anything that would provide work for the unemployed. Councillor Weakling moved that the offer be refused. (Shame.) He admitted that the electric light would be an improvement to the town, and in view of the existing distress he would be glad to see the work started, but the price mentioned was altogether too low. It was not more than half the value of the land. (Derisive laughter.) Councillor Grinder said he was astonished at the attitude taken up by Councillor Weakling. In his (Grinder's) opinion it was disgraceful that a member of the council should deliberately try to wreck a project which would do so much towards relieving the unemployed. The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, said that he could not allow the amendment to be discussed until it was seconded: if there were no seconder he would put the original motion. There was no seconder, because everyone except Weakling was in favour of the resolution, which was carried amid loud cheers, and the representatives of the ratepayers proceeded to the consideration of the next business. Councillor Didlum proposed that the duty on all coal brought into the borough be raised from two shillings to three shillings per ton. Councillor Rushton seconded. The largest consumer of coal was the Gas Coy., and, considering the great profits made by that company, they were quite justified in increasing the duty to the highest figure the Act permitted. After a feeble protest from Weakling, who said it would only increase the price of gas and coal without interfering with the profits of the Gas Coy., this was also carried, and after some other business had been transacted, the Band dispersed. That meeting was held two years ago, and since that time the Electric Light Works had been built and the war against the gasworks carried on vigorously. After several encounters, in which they lost a few customers and a portion of the public lighting, the Gasworks Bandits retreated out of the town and entrenched themselves in a strong position beyond the borough boundary, where they erected a number of gasometers. They were thus enabled to pour gas into the town at long range without having to pay the coal dues. This masterly stratagem created something like a panic in the ranks of the Forty Thieves. At the end of two years they found themselves exhausted with the protracted campaign, their movements hampered by a lot of worn-out plant and antiquated machinery, and harassed on every side by the lower charges of the Gas Coy. They were reluctantly constrained to admit that the attempt to undermine the Gasworks was a melancholy failure, and that the Mugsborough Electric Light and Installation Coy. was a veritable white elephant. They began to ask themselves what they should do with it; and some of them even urged unconditional surrender, or an appeal to the arbitration of the Bankruptcy Court. In the midst of all the confusion and demoralization there was, however, one man who did not lose his presence of mind, who in this dark hour of disaster remained calm and immovable, and like a vast mountain of flesh reared his head above the storm, whose mighty intellect perceived a way to turn this apparently hopeless defeat into a glorious victory. That man was Adam Sweater, the Chief of the Band. Chapter 21 The Reign of Terror. The Great Money Trick During the next four weeks the usual reign of terror continued at `The Cave'. The men slaved like so many convicts under the vigilant surveillance of Crass, Misery and Rushton. No one felt free from observation for a single moment. It happened frequently that a man who was working alone - as he thought - on turning round would find Hunter or Rushton standing behind him: or one would look up from his work to catch sight of a face watching him through a door or a window or over the banisters. If they happened to be working in a room on the ground floor, or at a window on any floor, they knew that both Rushton and Hunter were in the habit of hiding among the trees that surrounded the house, and spying upon them thus. There was a plumber working outside repairing the guttering that ran round the bottom edge of the roof. This poor wretch's life was a perfect misery: he fancied he saw Hunter or Rushton in every bush. He had two ladders to work from, and since these ladders had been in use Misery had thought of a new way of spying on the men. Finding that he never succeeded in catching anyone doing anything wrong when he entered the house by one of the doors, Misery adopted the plan of crawling up one of the ladders, getting in through one of the upper windows and creeping softly downstairs and in and out of the rooms. Even then he never caught anyone, but that did not matter, for he accomplished his principal purpose - every man seemed afraid to cease working for even an instant. The result of all this was, of course, that the work progressed rapidly towards completion. The hands grumbled and cursed, but all the same every man tore into it for all he was worth. Although he did next to nothing himself, Crass watched and urged on the others. He was `in charge of the job': he knew that unless he succeeded in making this work pay he would not be put in charge of another job. On the other hand, if he did make it pay he would be given the preference over others and be kept on as long as the firm had any work. The firm would give him the preference only as long as it paid them to do so. As for the hands, each man knew that there was no chance of obtaining work anywhere else at present; there were dozens of men out of employment already. Besides, even if there had been a chance of getting another job somewhere else, they knew that the conditions were more or less the same on every firm. Some were even worse than this one. Each man knew that unless he did as much as ever he could, Crass would report him for being slow. They knew also that when the job began to draw to a close the number of men employed upon it would be reduced, and when that time came the hands who did the most work would be kept on and the slower ones discharged. It was therefore in the hope of being one of the favoured few that while inwardly cursing the rest for `tearing into it', everyone as a matter of self-preservation went and `tore into it' themselves. They all cursed Crass, but most of them would have been very to change places with him: and if any one of them had been in his place they would have been compelled to act in the same way - or lose the job. They all reviled Hunter, but most of them would have been glad to change places with him also: and if any one of them had been in his place they would have been compelled to do the same things, or lose the job. They all hated and blamed Rushton. Yet if they had been in Rushton's place they would have been compelled to adopt the same methods, or become bankrupt: for it is obvious that the only way to compete successfully against other employers who are sweaters is to be a sweater yourself. Therefore no one who is an upholder of the present system can consistently blame any of these men. Blame the system. If you, reader, had been one of the hands, would you have slogged? Or would you have preferred to starve and see your family starve? If you had been in Crass's place, would you have resigned rather than do such dirty work? If you had had Hunter's berth, would you have given it up and voluntarily reduced yourself to the level of the hands? If you had been Rushton, would you rather have become bankrupt than treat your `hands' and your customers in the same way as your competitors treated theirs? It may be that, so placed, you - being the noble-minded paragon that you are - would have behaved unselfishly. But no one has any right to expect you to sacrifice yourself for the benefit of other people who would only call you a fool for your pains. It may be true that if any one of the hands - Owen, for instance - had been an employer of labour, he would have done the same as other employers. Some people seem to think that proves that the present system is all right! But really it only proves that the present system compels selfishness. One must either trample upon others or be trampled upon oneself. Happiness might be possible if everyone were unselfish; if everyone thought of the welfare of his neighbour before thinking of his own. But as there is only a very small percentage of such unselfish people in the world, the present system has made the earth into a sort of hell. Under the present system there is not sufficient of anything for everyone to have enough. Consequently there is a fight - called by Christians the `Battle of Life'. In this fight some get more than they need, some barely enough, some very little, and some none at all. The more aggressive, cunning, unfeeling and selfish you are the better it will be for you. As long as this `Battle of Life' System endures, we have no right to blame other people for doing the same things that we are ourselves compelled to do. Blame the system. But that IS just what the hands did not do. They blamed each other; they blamed Crass, and Hunter, and Rushton, but with the Great System of which they were all more or less the victims they were quite content, being persuaded that it was the only one possible and the best that human wisdom could devise. The reason why they all believed this was because not one of them had ever troubled to inquire whether it would not be possible to order things differently. They were content with the present system. If they had not been content they would have been anxious to find some way to alter it. But they had never taken the trouble to seriously inquire whether it was possible to find some better way, and although they all knew in a hazy fashion that other methods of managing the affairs of the world had already been proposed, they neglected to inquire whether these other methods were possible or practicable, and they were ready and willing to oppose with ignorant ridicule or brutal force any man who was foolish or quixotic enough to try to explain to them the details of what he thought was a better way. They accepted the present system in the same way as they accepted the alternating seasons. They knew that there was spring and summer and autumn and winter. As to how these different seasons came to be, or what caused them, they hadn't the remotest notion, and it is extremely doubtful whether the question had ever occurred to any of them: but there is no doubt whatever about the fact that none of them knew. From their infancy they had been trained to distrust their own intelligence, and to leave the management of the affairs of the world - and for that matter of the next world too - to their betters; and now most of them were absolutely incapable of thinking of any abstract subject whatever. Nearly all their betters - that is, the people who do nothing - were unanimous in agreeing that he present system is a very good one and that it is impossible to alter or improve it. Therefore Crass and his mates, although they knew nothing whatever about it themselves, accepted it as an established, incontrovertible fact that the existing state of things is immutable. They believed it because someone else told them so. They would have believed anything: on one condition - namely, that they were told to believe it by their betters. They said it was surely not for the Like of Them to think that they knew better than those who were more educated and had plenty of time to study. As the work in the drawing-room proceeded, Crass abandoned the hope that Owen was going to make a mess of it. Some of the rooms upstairs being now ready for papering, Slyme was started on that work, Bert being taken away from Owen to assist Slyme as paste boy, and it was arranged that Crass should help Owen whenever he needed someone to lend him a hand. Sweater came frequently during these four weeks, being interested in the progress of the work. On these occasions Crass always managed to be present in the drawing-room and did most of the talking. Owen was very satisfied with this arrangement, for he was always ill at ease when conversing with a man like Sweater, who spoke in an offensively patronizing way and expected common people to kowtow to and `Sir' him at every second word. Crass however, seemed to enjoy doing that kind of thing. He did not exactly grovel on the floor, when Sweater spoke to him, but he contrived to convey the impression that he was willing to do so if desired. Outside the house Bundy and his mates had dug deep trenches in the damp ground in which they were laying new drains. This work, like that of the painting of the inside of the house, was nearly completed. It was a miserable job. Owing to the fact that there had been a spell of bad weather the ground was sodden with rain and there was mud everywhere, the men's clothing and boots being caked with it. But the worst thing about the job was the smell. For years the old drain-pipes had been defective and leaky. The ground a few feet below the surface was saturated with fetid moisture and a stench as of a thousand putrefying corpse emanated from the opened earth. The clothing of the men who were working in the hendeca became saturated with this fearful odour, and for that matter, so did the men themselves. They said they could smell and taste it all the time, even when they were away from the work at home, and when they were at meals. Although they smoked their pipes all the time they were at work, Misery having ungraciously given them permission, several times Bundy and one or other of his mates were attacked with fits of vomiting. But, as they began to realize that the finish of the job was in sight, a kind of panic seized upon the hands, especially those who had been taken on last and who would therefore be the first to be `stood still'. Easton, however, felt pretty confident that Crass would do his best to get him kept on till the end of the job, for they had become quite chummy lately, usually spending a few evenings together at the Cricketers every week. `There'll be a bloody slaughter 'ere soon,' remarked Harlow to Philpot one day as they were painting the banisters of the staircase. `I reckon next week will about finish the inside.' `And the outside ain't goin' to take very long, you know,' replied Philpot. `They ain't got no other work in, have they?' `Not that I knows of,' replied Philpot gloomily; 'and I don't think anyone else has either.' `You know that little place they call the "Kiosk" down the Grand Parade, near the bandstand,' asked Harlow after a pause. `Where they used to sell refreshments?' `Yes; it belongs to the Corporation, you know.' `It's been closed up lately, ain't it?' `Yes; the people who 'ad it couldn't make it pay; but I 'eard last night that Grinder the fruit-merchant is goin' to open it again. If it's true, there'll be a bit of a job there for someone, because it'll 'ave to be done up.' `Well, I hope it does come orf replied Philpot. `It'll be a job for some poor b--rs.' `I wonder if they've started anyone yet on the venetian blinds for this 'ouse?' remarked Easton after a pause. `I don't know,' replied Philpot. They relapsed into silence for a while. `I wonder what time it is?' said Philpot at length. `I don't know 'ow you feel, but I begin to want my dinner.' `That's just what I was thinking; it can't be very far off it now. It's nearly 'arf an hour since Bert went down to make the tea. It seems a 'ell of a long morning to me.' `So it does to me,' said Philpot; `slip upstairs and ask Slyme what time it is.' Harlow laid his brush across the top of his paint-pot and went upstairs. He was wearing a pair of cloth slippers, and walked softly, not wishing that Crass should hear him leaving his work, so it happened that without any intention of spying on Slyme, Harlow reached the door of the room in which the former was working without being heard and, entering suddenly, surprised Slyme - who was standing near the fireplace - in the act of breaking a whole roll of wallpaper across his knee as one might break a stick. On the floor beside him was what had been another roll, now broken into two pieces. When Harlow came in, Slyme started, and his face became crimson with confusion. He hastily gathered the broken rolls together and, stooping down, thrust the pieces up the flue of the grate and closed the register. `Wot's the bloody game?' inquired Harlow. Slyme laughed with an affectation of carelessness, but his hands trembled and his face was now very pale. `We must get our own back somehow, you know, Fred,' he said. Harlow did not reply. He did not understand. After puzzling over it for a few minutes, he gave it up. `What's the time?' he asked. `Fifteen minutes to twelve,' said Slyme and added, as Harlow was going away: `Don't mention anything about that paper to Crass or any of the others.' `I shan't say nothing,' replied Harlow. Gradually, as he pondered over it, Harlow began to comprehend the meaning of the destruction of the two rolls of paper. Slyme was doing the paperhanging piecework - so much for each roll hung. Four of the rooms upstairs had been done with the same pattern, and Hunter - who was not over-skilful in such matters - had evidently sent more paper than was necessary. By getting rid of these two rolls, Slyme would be able to make it appear that he had hung two rolls more than was really the case. He had broken the rolls so as to be able to take them away from the house without being detected, and he had hidden them up the chimney until he got an opportunity of so doing. Harlow had just arrived at this solution of the problem when, hearing the lower flight of stairs creaking, he peeped over and observed Misery crawling up. He had come to see if anyone had stopped work before the proper time. Passing the two workmen without speaking, he ascended to the next floor, and entered the room where Slyme was. `You'd better not do this room yet,' said Hunter. `There's to be a new grate and mantelpiece put in.' He crossed over to the fireplace and stood looking at it thoughtfully for a few minutes. `It's not a bad little grate, you know, is it?' he remarked. `We'll be able to use it somewhere or other.' `Yes; it's all right,' said Slyme, whose heart was beating like a steam-hammer. `Do for a front room in a cottage,' continued Misery, stooping down to examine it more closely. `There's nothing broke that I can see.' He put his hand against the register and vainly tried to push it open. `H'm, there's something wrong 'ere,' he remarked, pushing harder. `Most likely a brick or some plaster fallen down,' gasped Slyme, coming to Misery's assistance. `Shall I try to open it?' `Don't trouble,' replied Nimrod, rising to his feet. `It's most likely what you say. I'll see that the new grate is sent up after dinner. Bundy can fix it this afternoon and then you can go on papering as soon as you like.' With this, Misery went out of the room, downstairs and away from the house, and Slyme wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Then he knelt down and, opening the register, he took out the broken rolls of paper and hid them up the chimney of the next room. While he was doing this the sound of Crass's whistle shrilled through the house. `Thank Gord!' exclaimed Philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. The scene here is already familiar to the reader. For seats, the two pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight feet apart and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank placed across; and the upturned pails and the drawers of the dresser. The floor unswept and littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of plaster, pieces of lead pipe and dried mud; and in the midst, the steaming bucket of stewed tea and the collection of cracked cups, jam-jam and condensed milk tins. And on the seats the men in their shabby and in some cases ragged clothing sitting and eating their coarse food and cracking jokes. It was a pathetic and wonderful and at the same time a despicable spectacle. Pathetic that human beings should be condemned to spend the greater part of their lives amid such surroundings, because it must be remembered that most of their time was spent on some job or other. When `The Cave' was finished they would go to some similar `job', if they were lucky enough to find one. Wonderful, because although they knew that they did more than their fair share of the great work of producing the necessaries and comforts of life, they did not think they were entitled to a fair share of the good things they helped to create! And despicable, because although they saw their children condemned to the same life of degradation, hard labour and privation, yet they refused to help to bring about a better state of affairs. Most of them thought that what had been good enough for themselves was good enough for their children. It seemed as if they regarded their own children with a kind of contempt, as being only fit to grow up to be the servants of the children of such people as Rushton and Sweater. But it must be remembered that they had been taught self-contempt when they were children. In the so-called `Christian' schools. they attended then they were taught to `order themselves lowly and reverently towards their betters', and they were now actually sending their own children to learn the same degrading lessons in their turn! They had a vast amount of consideration for their betters, and for the children of their betters, but very little for their own children, for each other, or for themselves. That was why they sat there in their rags and ate their coarse food, and cracked their coarser jokes, and drank the dreadful tea, and were content! So long as they had Plenty of Work and plenty of - Something - to eat, and somebody else's cast-off clothes to wear, they were content! And they were proud of it. They gloried in it. They agreed and assured each other that the good things of life were not intended for the `Likes of them', or their children. `Wot's become of the Professor?' asked the gentleman who sat on the upturned pail in the corner, referring to Owen, who had not yet come down from his work. `P'raps 'e's preparing 'is sermon,' remarked Harlow with a laugh. `We ain't 'ad no lectures from 'im lately, since 'e's been on that room,' observed Easton. `'Ave we?' `Dam good job too!' exclaimed Sawkins. `It gives me the pip to 'ear 'im, the same old thing over and over again.' `Poor ole Frank,' remarked Harlow. `'E does upset 'isself about things, don't 'e?' `More fool 'im!' said Bundy. `I'll take bloody good care I don't go worryin' myself to death like 'e's doin', about such dam rot as that.' `I do believe that's wot makes 'im look so bad as 'e does,' observed Harlow. `Several times this morning I couldn't help noticing the way 'e kept on coughing.' `I thought 'e seemed to be a bit better lately,' Philpot observed; `more cheerful and happier like, and more inclined for a bit of fun.' `He's a funny sort of chap, ain't he?' said Bundy. `One day quite jolly, singing and cracking jokes and tellin' yarns, and the next you can't hardly get a word out of 'im.' `Bloody rot, I call it,' chimed in the man on the pail. `Wot the 'ell's the use of the likes of us troublin' our 'eads about politics?' `Oh, I don't see that.' replied Harlow. `We've got votes and we're really the people what control the affairs of the country, so I reckon we ought to take SOME interest in it, but at the same time I can't see no sense in this 'ere Socialist wangle that Owen's always talkin' about.' `Nor nobody else neither,' said Crass with a jeering laugh. `Even if all the bloody money in the world WAS divided out equal,' said the man on the pail, profoundly, `it wouldn't do no good! In six months' time it would be all back in the same 'ands again.' `Of course,' said everybody. `But 'e 'ad a cuff the other day about money bein' no good at all!' observed Easton. `Don't you remember 'e said as money was the principal cause of poverty?' `So it is the principal cause of poverty,' said Owen, who entered at that moment. `Hooray!' shouted Philpot, leading off a cheer which the others took up. `The Professor 'as arrived and will now proceed to say a few remarks.' A roar of merriment greeted this sally. `Let's 'ave our bloody dinner first, for Christ's sake,' appealed Harlow, with mock despair. As Owen, having filled his cup with tea, sat down in his usual place, Philpot rose solemnly to his feet, and, looking round the company, said: `Genelmen, with your kind permission, as soon as the Professor 'as finished 'is dinner 'e will deliver 'is well-known lecture, entitled, "Money the Principal Cause of being 'ard up", proving as money ain't no good to nobody. At the hend of the lecture a collection will be took up to provide the lecturer with a little encouragement.' Philpot resumed his seat amid cheers. As soon as they had finished eating, some of the men began to make remarks about the lecture, but Owen only laughed and went on reading the piece of newspaper that his dinner had been wrapped in. Usually most of the men went out for a walk after dinner, but as it happened to be raining that day they were determined, if possible, to make Owen fulfill the engagement made in his name by Philpot. `Let's 'oot 'im,' said Harlow, and the suggestion was at once acted upon; howls, groans and catcalls filled the air, mingled with cries of `Fraud!' `Imposter!' `Give us our money back!' `Let's wreck the 'all!' and so on. `Come on 'ere,' cried Philpot, putting his hand on Owen's shoulder. `Prove that money is the cause of poverty.' `It's one thing to say it and another to prove it,' sneered Crass, who was anxious for an opportunity to produce the long-deferred Obscurer cutting. `Money IS the real cause of poverty,' said Owen. `Prove it,' repeated Crass. `Money is the cause of poverty because it is the device by which those who are too lazy to work are enabled to rob the workers of the fruits of their labours.' `Prove it,' said Crass. Owen slowly folded up the piece of newspaper he had been reading and put it into his pocket. `All right,' he replied. `I'll show you how the Great Money Trick is worked.' Owen opened his dinner basket and took from it two slices of bread but as these were not sufficient, he requested that anyone who had some bread left would give it to him. They gave him several pieces, which he placed in a heap on a clean piece of paper, and, having borrowed the pocket knives they used to cut and eat their dinners with from Easton, Harlow and Philpot, he addressed them as follows: `These pieces of bread represent the raw materials which exist naturally in and on the earth for the use of mankind; they were not made by any human being, but were created by the Great Spirit for the benefit and sustenance of all, the same as were the air and the light of the sun.' `You're about as fair-speakin' a man as I've met for some time,' said Harlow, winking at the others. `Yes, mate,' said Philpot. `Anyone would agree to that much! It's as clear as mud.' `Now,' continued Owen, `I am a capitalist; or, rather, I represent the landlord and capitalist class. That is to say, all these raw materials belong to me. It does not matter for our present argument how I obtained possession of them, or whether I have any real right to them; the only thing that matters now is the admitted fact that all the raw materials which are necessary for the production of the necessaries of life are now the property of the Landlord and Capitalist class. I am that class: all these raw materials belong to me.' `Good enough!' agreed Philpot. `Now you three represent the Working class: you have nothing - and for my part, although I have all these raw materials, they are of no use to me - what need is - the things that can be made out of these raw materials by Work: but as I am too lazy to work myself, I have invented the Money Trick to make you work FOR me. But first I must explain that I possess something else beside the raw materials. These three knives represent - all the machinery of production; the factories, tools, railways, and so forth, without which the necessaries of life cannot be produced in abundance. And these three coins' - taking three halfpennies from his pocket - `represent my Money Capital.' `But before we go any further,' said Owen, interrupting himself, `it is most important that you remember that I am not supposed to be merely "a" capitalist. I represent the whole Capitalist Class. You are not supposed to be just three workers - you represent the whole Working Class.' `All right, all right,' said Crass, impatiently, `we all understand that. Git on with it.' Owen proceeded to cut up one of the slices of bread into a number of little square blocks. `These represent the things which are produced by labour, aided by machinery, from the raw materials. We will suppose that three of these blocks represent - a week's work. We will suppose that a week's work is worth - one pound: and we will suppose that each of these ha'pennies is a sovereign. We'd be able to do the trick better if we had real sovereigns, but I forgot to bring any with me.' `I'd lend you some,' said Philpot, regretfully, `but I left me purse on our grand pianner.' As by a strange coincidence nobody happened to have any gold with them, it was decided to make shift with the halfpence. `Now this is the way the trick works -' `Before you goes on with it,' interrupted Philpot, apprehensively, `don't you think we'd better 'ave someone to keep watch at the gate in case a Slop comes along? We don't want to get runned in, you know.' `I don' think there's any need for that,' replied Owen, `there's only one slop who'd interfere with us for playing this game, and that's Police Constable Socialism.' `Never mind about Socialism,' said Crass, irritably. `Get along with the bloody trick.' Owen now addressed himself to the working classes as represented by Philpot, Harlow and Easton. `You say that you are all in need of employment, and as I am the kind-hearted capitalist class I am going to invest all my money in various industries, so as to give you Plenty of Work. I shall pay each of you one pound per week, and a week's work is - you must each produce three of these square blocks. For doing this work you will each receive your wages; the money will be your own, to do as you like with, and the things you produce will of course be mine, to do as I like with. You will each take one of these machines and as soon as you have done a week's work, you shall have your money.' The Working Classes accordingly set to work, and the Capitalist class sat down and watched them. As soon as they had finished, they passed the nine little blocks to Owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by his side and paid the workers their wages. `These blocks represent the necessaries of life. You can't live without some of these things, but as they belong to me, you will have to buy them from me: my price for these blocks is - one pound each.' As the working classes were in need of the necessaries of life and as they could not eat, drink or wear the useless money, they were compelled to agree to the kind Capitalist's terms. They each bought back and at once consumed one-third of the produce of their labour. The capitalist class also devoured two of the square blocks, and so the net result of the week's work was that the kind capitalist had consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the labour of the others, and reckoning the squares at their market value of one pound each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the three pounds in money and in addition four pounds worth of goods. As for the working classes, Philpot, Harlow and Easton, having each consumed the pound's worth of necessaries they had bought with their wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as when they started work - they had nothing. This process was repeated several times: for each week's work the producers were paid their wages. They kept on working and spending all their earnings. The kind-hearted capitalist consumed twice as much as any one of them and his pile of wealth continually increased. In a little while - reckoning the little squares at their market value of one pound each - he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the working classes were still in the same condition as when they began, and were still tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon it. After a while the rest of the crowd began to laugh, and their merriment increased when the kind-hearted capitalist, just after having sold a pound's worth of necessaries to each of his workers, suddenly took their tools - the Machinery of Production - the knives away from them, and informed them that as owing to Over Production all his store-houses were glutted with the necessaries of life, he had decided to close down the works. `Well, and wot the bloody 'ell are we to do now?' demanded Philpot. `That's not my business,' replied the kind-hearted capitalist. `I've paid you your wages, and provided you with Plenty of Work for a long time past. I have no more work for you to do at present. Come round again in a few months' time and I'll see what I can do for you.' `But what about the necessaries of life?' demanded Harlow. `We must have something to eat.' `Of course you must,' replied the capitalist, affably; `and I shall be very pleased to sell you some.' `But we ain't got no bloody money!' `Well, you can't expect me to give you my goods for nothing! You didn't work for me for nothing, you know. I paid you for your work and you should have saved something: you should have been thrifty like me. Look how I have got on by being thrifty!' The unemployed looked blankly at each other, but the rest of the crowd only laughed; and then the three unemployed began to abuse the kind-hearted Capitalist, demanding that he should give them some of the necessaries of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to be allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs; and even threatened to take some of the things by force if he did not comply with their demands. But the kind-hearted Capitalist told them not to be insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said if they were not careful he would have their faces battered in for them by the police, or if necessary he would call out the military and have them shot down like dogs, the same as he had done before at Featherstone and Belfast. `Of course,' continued the kind-hearted capitalist, `if it were not for foreign competition I should be able to sell these things that you have made, and then I should be able to give you Plenty of Work again: but until I have sold them to somebody or other, or until I have used them myself, you will have to remain idle.' `Well, this takes the bloody biskit, don't it?' said Harlow. `The only thing as I can see for it,' said Philpot mournfully, `is to 'ave a unemployed procession.' `That's the idear,' said Harlow, and the three began to march about the room in Indian file, singing: `We've got no work to do-oo-oo' We've got no work to do-oo-oo! Just because we've been workin' a dam sight too hard, Now we've got no work to do.' As they marched round, the crowd jeered at them and made offensive remarks. Crass said that anyone could see that they were a lot of lazy, drunken loafers who had never done a fair day's work in their lives and never intended to. `We shan't never get nothing like this, you know,' said Philpot. `Let's try the religious dodge.' `All right,' agreed Harlow. `What shall we give 'em?' `I know!' cried Philpot after a moment's deliberation. `"Let my lower lights be burning." That always makes 'em part up.' The three unemployed accordingly resumed their march round the room, singing mournfully and imitating the usual whine of street-singers: `Trim your fee-bil lamp me brither-in, Some poor sail-er tempest torst, Strugglin' 'ard to save the 'arb-er, Hin the dark-niss may be lorst, So let try lower lights be burning, Send 'er gleam acrost the wave, Some poor shipwrecked, struggling seaman, You may rescue, you may save.' `Kind frens,' said Philpot, removing his cap and addressing the crowd, `we're hall honest British workin' men, but we've been hout of work for the last twenty years on account of foreign competition and over-production. We don't come hout 'ere because we're too lazy to work; it's because we can't get a job. If it wasn't for foreign competition, the kind'earted Hinglish capitalists would be able to sell their goods and give us Plenty of Work, and if they could, I assure you that we should hall be perfectly willing and contented to go on workin' our bloody guts out for the benefit of our masters for the rest of our lives. We're quite willin' to work: that's hall we arst for - Plenty of Work - but as we can't get it we're forced to come out 'ere and arst you to spare a few coppers towards a crust of bread and a night's lodgin'.' As Philpot held out his cap for subscriptions, some of them attempted to expectorate into it, but the more charitable put in pieces of cinder or dirt from the floor, and the kind-hearted capitalist was so affected by the sight of their misery that he gave them one of the sovereigns he had in us pocket: but as this was of no use to them they immediately returned it to him in exchange for one of the small squares of the necessaries of life, which they divided and greedily devoured. And when they had finished eating they gathered round the philanthropist and sang, `For he's a jolly good fellow,' and afterwards Harlow suggested that they should ask him if he would allow them to elect him to Parliament. Chapter 22 The Phrenologist The following morning - Saturday - the men went about their work in gloomy silence; there were but few attempts at conversation and no jests or singing. The tenor of the impending slaughter pervaded the house. Even those who were confident of being spared and kept on till the job was finished shared the general depression, not only out of sympathy for the doomed, but because they knew that a similar fate awaited themselves a little later on. They all waited anxiously for Nimrod to come, but hour after hour dragged slowly by and he did not arrive. At half past eleven some of those who had made up their minds that they were to be `stood still' began to hope that the slaughter was to be deferred for a few days: after all, there was plenty of work still to be done: even if all hands were kept on, the job could scarcely be finished in another week. Anyhow, it would not be very long now before they would know one way or the other. If he did not come before twelve, it was all right: all the hands were paid by the hour and were therefore entitled to an hour's notice. Easton and Harlow were working together on the staircase, finishing the doors and other woodwork with white enamel. The men had not been allowed to spend the time necessary to prepare this work in a proper manner, it had not been rubbed down smooth or properly filled up, and it had not had a sufficient number of coats of paint to make it solid white. Now that the glossy enamel was put on, the work looked rather rough and shady. `It ain't 'arf all right, ain't it?' remarked Harlow, sarcastically, indicating the door he had just finished. Easton laughed: 'I can't understand how people pass such work,' he said. `Old Sweater did make some remark about it the other day,' replied Harlow, `and I heard Misery tell 'im it was impossible to make a perfect job of such old doors.' `I believe that man's the biggest liar Gord ever made,' said Easton, an opinion in which Harlow entirely concurred. `I wonder what the time is?' said the latter after a pause. `I don't know exactly,' replied Easton, 'but it can't be far off twelve.' `'E don't seem to be comin', does 'e?' Harlow continued. `No: and I shouldn't be surprised if 'e didn't turn up at all, now. P'raps 'e don't mean to stop nobody today after all.' They spoke in hushed tones and glanced cautiously about them fearful of being heard or observed. `This is a bloody life, ain't it?' Harlow said, bitterly. `Workin' our guts out like a lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and then as soon as they've done with you, you're chucked aside like a dirty rag.' `Yes: and I begin to think that a great deal of what Owen says is true. But for my part I can't see 'Ow it's ever goin' to be altered, can you?' Blowed if I know, mate. But whether it can be altered or not, there's one thing very certain; it won't be done in our time.' Neither of them seemed to think that if the `alteration' they spoke of were to be accomplished at all they themselves would have to help to bring it about. `I wonder what they're doin' about the venetian blinds?' said Easton. `Is there anyone doin' em yet?' `I don't know; ain't 'eard nothing about 'em since the boy took 'em to the shop.' There was quite a mystery about these blinds. About a month ago they were taken to the paint-shop down at the yard to be repainted and re-harnessed, and since then nothing had been heard of them by the men working at the `Cave'. `P'hap's a couple of us will be sent there to do 'em next week,' remarked Harlow. `P'hap's so. Most likely they'll 'ave to be done in a bloody 'urry at the last minute.' Presently Harlow - who was very anxious to know what time it was - went downstairs to ask Slyme. It was twenty minutes to twelve. From the window of the room where Slyme was papering, one could see into the front garden. Harlow paused a moment to watch Bundy and the labourers, who were still working in the trenches at the drains, and as he looked out he saw Hunter approaching the house. Harlow drew back hastily and returned to his work, and as he went he passed the word to the other men, warning them of the approach of Misery. Hunter entered ii his usual manner and, after crawling quietly about the house for about ten minutes, he went into the drawing room. `I see you're putting the finishing touches on at last,' he said. `Yes,' replied Owen. `I've only got this bit of outlining to do now.' `Ah, well, it looks very nice, of course,' said Misery in a voice of mourning, `but we've lost money over it. It's taken you a week longer to do than we allowed for; you said three weeks and it's taken you a month; and we only allowed for fifteen books of gold, but you've been and used twenty-three.' `You can hardly blame me for that, you know,' answered Owen. `I could have got it done in the three weeks, but Mr Rushton told me not to hurry for the sake of a day or two, because he wanted a good job. He said he would rather lose a little over it than spoil it; and as for the extra gold, that was also his order.' `Well, I suppose it can't be helped,' whined Misery. `Anyhow, I'm very glad it's done, because this kind of work don't pay. We'll 'ave you back on the brush on Monday morning; we want to get outside done next week if it keeps fine.' The `brush' alluded to by Nimrod was the large `pound' brush used in ordinary painting. Misery now began wandering about the house, in and out of the rooms, sometimes standing for several minutes silently watching the hands as they worked. As he watched them the men became nervous and awkward, each one dreading that he might be one of those who were to be paid off at one o'clock. At about five minutes to twelve Hunter went down to the paint-shop - the scullery - where Crass was mixing some colour, and getting ready some `empties' to be taken to the yard. `I suppose the b--r's gone to ask Crass which of us is the least use,' whispered Harlow to Easton. `I wouldn't be surprised if it was you and me, for two,' replied the latter in the same tone. `You can't trust Crass you know, for all 'e seems so friendly to our faces. You never know what 'e ses behind our backs.' `You may be sure it won't be Sawkins or any of the other light-weights, because Nimrod won't want to pay us sixpence ha'penny for painting guttering and rainpipes when THEY can do it near enough for fourpence ha'penny and fivepence. They won't be able to do the sashes, though, will they?' `I don't know so much about that,' replied Easton. `Anything seems to be good enough for Hunter.' `Look out! Ere 'e comes!' said Harlow, and they both relapsed into silence and busied themselves with their work. Misery stood watching them for some time without speaking, and then went out of the house. They crept cautiously to the window of a room that overlooked the garden and, peeping furtively out, they saw him standing on the brink of one of the trenches, moodily watching Bundy and his mates as they toiled at the drains. Then, to their surprise and relief, he turned and went out of the gate! They just caught sight of one of the wheels of his bicycle as he rode away. The slaughter was evidently to be put off until next week! It seemed too good to be true. `P'hap's 'e's left a message for some of us with Crass?' suggested Easton. `I don't think it's likely, but it's just possible.' `Well, I'm goin' down to ask 'im,' said Harlow, desperately. `We may as well know the worst at once.' He returned in a few minutes with the information that Hunter had decided not to stop anyone that day because he wanted to get the outside finished during the next week, if possible. The hands received this intelligence with mixed feelings, because although it left them safe for the present, it meant that nearly everybody would certainly be stopped next Saturday, if not before; whereas if a few had been sacked today it would have made it all the better for the rest. Still, this aspect of the business did not greatly interfere with the relief that they all felt at knowing that the immediate danger was over; and the fact that it was Saturday - pay-day - also served to revive their drooping spirits. They all felt pretty certain that Misery would return no more that day, and presently Harlow began to sing the old favourite. `Work! for the night is coming!' the refrain of which was soon taken up by nearly everyone in the house: `Work! for the night is coming, Work in the morning hours. Work! for the night is coming, Work 'mid springing flowers. `Work while the dew is sparkling, Work in the noonday sun! Work! for the night is coming When man's work is done!' When this hymn was finished, someone else, imitating the whine of a street-singer, started, `Oh, where is my wandering boy tonight?' and then Harlow - who by some strange chance had a penny - took it out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor, the ringing of the coin being greeted with shouts of `Thank you, kind lady,' from several of the singers. This little action of Harlow's was the means of bringing a most extraordinary circumstance to light. Although it was Saturday morning, several of the others had pennies or half-pence! and at the conclusion of each verse they all followed Harlow's example and the house resounded with the ringing of falling coins, cries of `Thank you, kind lady,' `Thank you, sir,' and `Gord bless you,' mingled with shouts of laughter. `My wandering boy' was followed by a choice selection of choruses of well-known music-hall songs, including `Goodbye, my Bluebell', `The Honeysuckle and the Bee', `I've got 'em!' and `The Church Parade', the whole being tastefully varied and interspersed with howls, shrieks, curses, catcalls, and downward explosions of flatulence. In the midst of the uproar Crass came upstairs. `'Ere!' he shouted. `For Christ's sake make less row! Suppose Nimrod was to come back!' `Oh, he ain't comin' any more today,' said Harlow, recklessly. `Besides, what if 'e does come?' cried Easton. `Oo cares for 'im?' `Well, we never know; and for that matter Rushton or Sweater might come at any minit.' With this, Crass went muttering back to the scullery, and the men relapsed into their usual silence. At ten minutes to one they all ceased work, put away their colours and locked up the house. There were a number of `empties' to be taken away and left at the yard on their way to the office; these Crass divided amongst the others - carrying nothing himself - and then they all set out for the office to get their money, cracking jokes as they went along. Harlow and Easton enlivened the journey by coughing significantly whenever they met a young woman, and audibly making some complimentary remark about her personal appearance. If the girl smiled, each of them eagerly claimed to have `seen her first', but if she appeared offended or `stuck up', they suggested that she was cross-cut or that she had been eating vinegar with a fork. Now and then they kissed their hands affectionately to servant-girls whom they saw looking out of windows. Some of these girls laughed, others looked indignant, but whichever way they took it was equally amusing to Crass and the rest, who were like a crowd of boys just let out of school. It will be remembered that there was a back door to Rushton's office; in this door was a small sliding panel or trap-door with a little shelf at the bottom. The men stood in the road on the pavement outside the closed door, their money being passed out to them through the sliding panel. As there was no shelter, when it rained they occasionally got wet through while waiting to be paid. With some firms it is customary to call out the names of the men and pay them in order of seniority or ability, but there was no such system here; the man who got to the aperture first was paid first, and so on. The result was that there was always a sort of miniature `Battle of Life', the men pushing and struggling against each other as if their lives depended upon their being paid by a certain time. On the ledge of the little window through which their money was passed there was always a Hospital collection-box. Every man put either a penny or twopence into this box. Of course, it was not compulsory to do so, but they all did, because they felt that any man who omitted to contribute might be `marked'. They did not all agree with contributing to the Hospital, for several reasons. They knew that the doctors at the Hospital made a practice of using the free patients to make experiments upon, and they also knew that the so-called `free' patients who contribute so very largely directly to the maintenance of such institutions, get scant consideration when they apply for the `free' treatment, and are plainly given to understand that they are receiving `charity'. Some of the men thought that, considering the extent to which they contributed, they should be entitled to attention as a right. After receiving their wages, Crass, Easton, Bundy, Philpot, Harlow and a few others adjourned to the Cricketers for a drink. Owen went away alone, and Slyme also went on by himself. There was no use waiting for Easton to come out of the public house, because there was no knowing how long he would be; he might stay half an hour or two hours. On his way home, in accordance with his usual custom, Slyme called at the Post Office to put some of his wages in the bank. Like most other `Christians', he believed in taking thought for the morrow, what he should eat and drink and wherewithal he was to be clothed. He thought it wise to layup for himself as much treasure upon earth as possible. The fact that Jesus said that His disciples were not to do these things made no more difference to Slyme's conduct than it does to the conduct of any other `Christian'. They are all agreed that when Jesus said this He meant something else: and all the other inconvenient things that Jesus said are disposed of in the same way. For instance, these `disciples' assure us that when Jesus said, `Resist not evil', `If a man smite thee upon he right cheek turn unto him also the left', He really meant 'Turn on to him a Maxim gun; disembowel him with a bayonet or batter in his skull with the butt end of a rifle!' When He said, `If one take thy coat, give him thy cloak also,' the `Christians' say that what He really meant was: `If one take thy coat, give him six months' hard labour. A few of the followers of Jesus admit that He really did mean just what He said, but they say that the world would never be able to go on if they followed out His teachings! That is true. It is probably the effect that Jesus intended His teachings to produce. It is altogether improbable that He wished the world to continue along its present lines. But, if these pretended followers really think - as they say that they do - that the teachings of Jesus are ridiculous and impracticable, why continue the hypocritical farce of calling themselves `Christians' when they don't really believe in or follow Him at all? As Jesus himself pointed out, there's no sense in calling Him `Lord, Lord' when they do not the things that He said. This banking transaction finished, Slyme resumed his homeward way, stopping only to purchase some sweets at a confectioner's. He spent a whole sixpence at once in this shop on a glass jar of sweets for the baby. Ruth was not surprised when she saw him come in alone; it was the usual thing since Easton had become so friendly with Crass. She made no reference to his absence, but Slyme noticed with secret chagrin that she was annoyed and disappointed. She was just finishing scrubbing the kitchen floor and little Freddie was sitting up in a baby's high chair that had a little shelf or table fixed in front of it. To keep him amused while she did her work, Ruth had given him a piece of bread and raspberry jam, which the child had rubbed all over his face and into his scalp, evidently being under the impression that it was something for the improvement of the complexion, or a cure for baldness. He now looked as if he had been in a fight or a railway accident. The child hailed the arrival of Slyme with enthusiasm, being so overcome with emotion that he began to shed tears, and was only pacified when the man gave him the jar of sweets and took him out of the chair. Slyme's presence in the house had not proved so irksome as Easton and Ruth had dreaded it would be. Indeed, at first, he made a point of retiring to his own room after tea every evening, until they invited him to stay downstairs in the kitchen. Nearly every Wednesday and Saturday he went to a meeting, or an open-air preaching, when the weather permitted, for he was one of a little zealous band of people connected with the Shining Light Chapel who carried on the `open-air' work all the year round. After a while, the Eastons not only became reconciled to his presence in the house, but were even glad of it. Ruth especially would often have been very lonely if he had not been there, for it had lately become Easton's custom to spend a few evenings every week with Crass at the Cricketers. When at home Slyme passed his time playing a mandolin or making fretwork photo frames. Ruth had the baby's photograph taken a few weeks after Slyme came, and the frame he made for it was now one of the ornaments of the sitting-room. The instinctive, unreasoning aversion she had at first felt for him had passed away. In a quiet, unobtrusive manner he did her so many little services that she found it impossible to dislike him. At first, she used.to address him as `Mr' but after a time she fell naturally into Easton's practice of calling him by his first name. As for the baby, he made no secret of his affection for the lodger, who nursed and played with him for hours at a stretch. `I'll serve your dinner now, Alf,' said Ruth when she had finished scrubbing the floor, `but I'll wait for mine for a little while. Will may come' `I'm in no hurry,' replied Slyme. `I'll go and have a wash; he may be here then.' As he spoke, Slyme - who had been sitting by the fire nursing the baby - who was trying to swallow the jar of sweets - put the child back into the high chair, giving him one of the sticks of sweet out of the jar to keep him quiet; and went upstairs to his own room. He came down again in about a quarter of an hour, and Ruth proceeded to serve his dinner, for Easton was still absent. `If I was you, I wouldn't wait for Will,' said Slyme, `he may not come for another hour or two. It's after two o'clock now, and I'm sure you must be hungry.' `I suppose I may as well,' replied Ruth, hesitatingly. `He'll most likely get some bread and cheese at the "Cricketers", same as he did last Saturday.' `Almost sure to,' responded Slyme. The baby had had his face washed while Slyme was upstairs. Directly he saw his mother eating he threw away the sugar-stick and began to cry, holding out his arms to her. She had to take him on her lap whilst she ate her dinner, and feed him with pieces from her plate. Slyme talked all the time, principally about the child. He was very fond of children, he said, and always got on well with them, but he had really never known such an intelligent child - for his age - as Freddie. His fellow-workmen would have been astonished had they been present to hear him talking about the shape of the baby's head. They would have been astonished at the amount of knowledge he appeared to possess of the science of Phrenology. Ruth, at any rate, thought he was very clever. After a time the child began to grow fretful and refused to eat; when his mother gave him a fresh piece of sugar-stick out of the jar he threw it peevishly on the floor and began to whimper, rubbing his face against his mother's bosom and pulling at her dress with his hands. When Slyme first came Ruth had made a practice of withdrawing from the room if he happened to be present when she wanted to nurse the child, but lately she had been less sensitive. She was sitting with her back to the window and she partly covered the baby's face with a light shawl that she wore. By the time they finished dinner the child had dozed off to sleep. Slyme got up from his chair and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at them; presently he spoke, referring, of course, to the baby: `He's very like you, isn't he?' `Yes,' replied Ruth. `Everyone says he takes after me.' Slyme moved a little closer, bending down to look at the slumbering infant. `You know, at first I thought he was a girl,' he continued after a pause. `He seems almost too pretty for a boy, doesn't he?' Ruth smiled. `People always take him for a girl at first,' she said. `Yesterday I took him with me to the Monopole Stores to buy some things, and the manager would hardly believe it wasn't a girl.' The man reached out his hand and stroked the baby's face. Although Slyme's behaviour had hitherto always been very correct, yet there was occasionally an indefinable something in his manner when they were alone that made Ruth feel conscious and embarrassed. Now, as she glanced up at him and saw the expression on his face she crimsoned with confusion and hastily lowered her eyes without replying to his last remark. He did not speak again either, and they remained for several minutes in silence, as if spellbound, Ruth oppressed with instinctive dread, and Slyme scarcely less agitated, his face flushed and his heart beating wildly. He trembled as he stood over her, hesitating and afraid. And then the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking and clanging of the front gate, heralding the tardy coming of Easton. Slyme went out into the scullery and, taking down the blacking brushes from the shelf, began cleaning his boots. It was plain from Easton's appearance and manner that he had been drinking, but Ruth did not reproach him in any way; on the contrary, she seemed almost feverishly anxious to attend to his comfort. When Slyme finished cleaning his boots he went upstairs to his room, receiving a careless greeting from Easton as he passed through the kitchen. He felt nervous and apprehensive that Ruth might say something to Easton, and was not quite able to reassure himself with the reflection that, after all, there was nothing to tell. As for Ruth, she had to postpone the execution of her hastily formed resolution to tell her husband of Slyme's strange behaviour, for Easton fell asleep in his chair before he had finished his dinner, and she had some difficulty in waking him sufficiently to persuade him to go upstairs to bed, where he remained until tea-time. Probably he would not have come down even then if it had not been for the fact that he had made an appointment to meet Crass at the Cricketers. Whilst Easton was asleep, Slyme had been downstairs in the kitchen, making a fretwork frame. He played with Freddie while Ruth prepared the tea, and he appeared to her to be so unconscious of having done anything unusual that she began to think that she must have been mistaken in imagining that he had intended anything wrong. After tea, Slyme put on his best clothes to go to his usual `open-air' meeting. As a rule Easton and Ruth went out marketing together every Saturday night, but this evening he could not wait for her because he had promised to meet Crass at seven o'clock; so he arranged to see her down town at eight. Chapter 23 The `Open-air' During the last few weeks ever since he had been engaged on the decoration of the drawing-room, Owen had been so absorbed in his work that he had no time for other things. Of course, all he was paid for was the time he actually worked, but really every waking moment of his time was given to the task. Now that it was finished he felt something like one aroused from a dream to the stern realities and terrors of life. By the end of next week, the inside of the house and part of the outside would be finished, and as far as he knew the firm had nothing else to do at present. Most of the other employers in the town were in the same plight, and it would be of no use to apply even to such of them as had something to do, for they were not likely to take on a fresh man while some of their regular hands were idle. For the last month he had forgotten that he was ill; he had forgotten that when the work at `The Cave' was finished he would have to stand off with the rest of the hands. In brief, he had forgotten for the time being that, like the majority of his fellow workmen, he was on the brink of destitution, and that a few weeks of unemployment or idleness meant starvation. As far as illness was concerned, he was even worse off than most others, for the greater number of them were members of some sick benefit club, but Owen's ill-health rendered him ineligible for membership of such societies. As he walked homewards after being paid, feeling unutterably depressed and weary, he began once more to think of the future; and the more he thought of it the more dreadful it appeared. Even looking at it in the best possible light - supposing he did not fall too ill to work, or lose his employment from some other cause - what was there to live for? He had been working all this week. These few coins that he held in his hand were the result, and he laughed bitterly as he thought of all they had to try to do with this money, and of all that would have to be left undone. As he turned the corner of Kerk Street he saw Frankie coming to meet him, and the boy catching sight of him at the same moment began running and leapt into his arms with a joyous whoop. `Mother told me to tell you to buy something for dinner before you come home, because there's nothing in the house.' `Did she tell you what I was to get?' She did tell me something, but I forget what it was. But I know she said to get anything you like if you couldn't get what she told me to tell you.' `Well, we'll go and see what we can find,' said Owen. `If I were you, I'd get a tin of salmon or some eggs and bacon,' suggested Frankie as he skipped along holding his father's hand. `We don't want anything that's a lot of trouble to cook, you know, because Mum's not very well today.' `Is she up?' She's been up all the morning, but she's lying down now. We've done all the work, though. While she was making the beds I started washing up the cups and saucers without telling her, but when she came in and saw what a mess I'd made on the floor, she had to stop me doing it, and she had to change nearly all my clothes as well, because I was almost wet through; but I managed the wiping up all right when she did the washing, and I swept the passage and put all my things tidy and made the cat's bed. And that just reminds me: will you please give me my penny now? I promised the cat that I'd bring him back some meat.' Owen complied with the boy's request, and while the latter went to the butcher's for the meat, Owen went into the grocer's to get something for dinner, it being arranged that they were to meet again at the corner of the street. Owen was at the appointed place first and after waiting some time and seeing no sign of the boy he decided to go towards the butcher's to meet him. When he came in sight of the shop he saw the boy standing outside in earnest conversation with the butcher, a jolly-looking stoutly built man, with a very red face. Owen perceived at once that the child was trying to explain something, because Frankie had a habit of holding his head sideways and supplementing his speech by spreading out his fingers and making quaint gestures with his hands whenever he found it difficult to make himself understood. The boy was doing this now, waving one hand about with the fingers and thumb extended wide, and with the other flourishing a paper parcel which evidently contained the pieces of meat . Presently the man laughed heartily and after shaking hands with Frankie went into the shop to attend to a customer, and Frankie rejoined his father. `That butcher's a very decent sort of chap, you know, Dad,' he said. `He wouldn't take a penny for the meat.' `Is that what you were talking to him about?' No; we were talking about Socialism. You see, this is the second time he wouldn't take the money, and the first time he did it I thought he must be a Socialist, but I didn't ask him then. But when he did it again this time I asked him if he was. So he said, No. He said he wasn't quite mad yet. So I said, "If you think that Socialists are all mad, you're very much mistaken, because I'm a Socialist myself, and I'm quite sure I'M not mad." So he said he knew I was all right, but he didn't understand anything about Socialism himself - only that it meant sharing out all the money so that everyone could have the same. So then I told him that's not Socialism at all! And when I explained it to him properly and advised him to be one, he said he'd think about it. So I said if he'd only do that he'd be sure to change over to our side; and then he laughed and promised to let me know next time he sees me, and I promised to lend him some literature. You won't mind, will you, Dad?' `Of course not; when we get home we'll have a look through what we've got and you can take him some of them.' `I know!' cried Frankie eagerly. `The two very best of all. Happy Britain and England for the English.' He knew that these were `two of the best' because he had often heard his father and mother say so, and he had noticed that whenever a Socialist friend came to visit them, he was also of the same opinion. As a rule on Saturday evenings they all three went out together to do the marketing, but on this occasion, in consequence of Nora being unwell, Owen and Frankie went by themselves. The frequent recurrence of his wife's illness served to increase Owen's pessimism with regard to the future, and the fact that he was unable to procure for her the comforts she needed was not calculated to dispel the depression that filled his mind as he reflected that there was no hope of better times. In the majority of cases, for a workman there is no hope of advancement. After he has learnt his trade and become a `journeyman' all progress ceases. He is at the goal. After he has been working ten or twenty years he commands no more than he did at first - a bare living wage - sufficient money to purchase fuel to keep the human machine working. As he grows older he will have to be content with even less; and all the time he holds his employment at the caprice and by the favour of his masters, who regard him merely as a piece of mechanism that enables them to accumulate money - a thing which they are justified in casting aside as soon as it becomes unprofitable. And the workman must not only be an efficient money-producing machine, but he must also be the servile subject of his masters. If he is not abjectly civil and humble, if he will not submit tamely to insult, indignity, and every form of contemptuous treatment that occasion makes possible, he can be dismissed, and replaced in a moment by one of the crowd of unemployed who are always waiting for his job. This is the status of the majority of the `Heirs of all the ages' under the present system. As he walked through the crowded streets holding Frankie by the hand, Owen thought that to voluntarily continue to live such a life as this betokened a degraded mind. To allow one's child to grow up to suffer it in turn was an act of callous, criminal cruelty. In this matter he held different opinions from most of his fellow workmen. The greater number of them were quite willing and content that their children should be made into beasts of burden for the benefit of other people. As he looked down upon the little, frail figure trotting along by his side, Owen thought for the thousandth time that it would be far better for the child to die now: he would never be fit to be a soldier in the ferocious Christian Battle of Life. Then he remembered Nora. Although she was always brave, and never complained, he knew that her life was one of almost incessant physical suffering; and as for himself he was tired and sick of it all. He had been working like a slave all his life and there was nothing to show for it - there never would be anything to show for it. He thought of the man who had killed his wife and children. The jury had returned the usual verdict, `Temporary Insanity'. It never seemed to occur to these people that the truth was that to continue to suffer hopelessly like this was evidence of permanent insanity. But supposing that bodily death was not the end. Suppose there was some kind of a God? If there were, it wasn't unreasonable to think that the Being who was capable of creating such a world as this and who seemed so callously indifferent to the unhappiness of His creatures, would also be capable of devising and creating the other Hell that most people believed in. Although it was December the evening was mild and clear. The full moon deluged the town with silvery light, and the cloudless sky was jewelled with myriads of glittering stars. Looking out into the unfathomable infinity of space, Owen wondered what manner of Being or Power it was that had originated and sustained all this? Considered as an explanation of the existence of the universe, the orthodox Christian religion was too absurd to merit a second thought. But then, every other conceivable hypothesis was also - ultimately - unsatisfactory and even ridiculous. To believe that the universe as it is now has existed from all eternity without any Cause is surely ridiculous. But to say that it was created by a Being who existed without a Cause from all eternity is equally ridiculous. In fact, it was only postponing the difficulty one stage. Evolution was not more satisfactory, because although it was undoubtedly true as far as it went, it only went part of the way, leaving the great question still unanswered by assuming the existence - in the beginning - of the elements of matter, without a cause! The question remained unanswered because it was unanswerable. Regarding this problem man was but - `An infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light And with no language but a cry.' All the same, it did not follow, because one could not explain the mystery oneself, that it was right to try to believe an unreasonable explanation offered by someone else. But although he reasoned like this, Owen could not help longing for something to believe, for some hope for the future; something to compensate for the unhappiness of the present. In one sense, he thought, how good it would be if Christianity were true, and after all the sorrow there was to be an eternity of happiness such as it had never entered into the heart of man to conceive? If only that were true, nothing else would matter. How contemptible and insignificant the very worst that could happen here would be if one knew that this life was only a short journey that was to terminate at the beginning of an eternity of joy? But no one really believed this; and as for those who pretended to do so - their lives showed that they did not believe it at all. Their greed and inhumanity - their ferocious determination to secure for themselves the good things of THIS world - were conclusive proofs of their hypocrisy and infidelity. `Dad,' said Frankie, suddenly, 'let's go over and hear what that man's saying. ' He pointed across the way to where - a little distance back from the main road, just round the corner of a side street - a group of people were standing encircling a large lantern fixed on the top of a pole about seven feet high, which was being held by one of the men. A bright light was burning inside this lantern and on the pane of white, obscured glass which formed the sides, visible from where Owen and Frankie were standing, was written in bold plain letters that were readable even at that distance, the text: `Be not deceived: God is not mocked!' The man whose voice had attracted Frankie's attention was reading out a verse of a hymn: `I heard the voice of Jesus say, Behold, I freely give, The living water, thirsty one, Stoop down and drink, and live. I came to Jesus and I drank Of that life giving stream, My thirst was quenched, My soul revived, And now I live in Him.' The individual who gave out this hymn was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered, bony form. His long, thin legs - about which the baggy trousers hung in ungraceful folds - were slightly knock-kneed, and terminated in large, fiat feet. His arms were very long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. Regardless of the season, he had removed his bowler hat, revealing his forehead, which was high, flat and narrow. His nose was a large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the drooping moustache that concealed his mouth when he was not speaking, but the vast extent of which was perceptible now as he opened it to call out the words of the hymn. His chin was large and extraordinarily long: the eyes were pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible eyebrows with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. His head - covered with thick, coarse brown hair - was very large, especially at the back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage, it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin. As Owen and Frankie drew near, the boy tugged at his father's hand and whispered: `Dad! that's the teacher at the Sunday School where I went that day with Charley and Elsie.' Owen looked quickly and saw that it was Hunter. As Hunter ceased reading out the words of the hymn, the little company of evangelists began to sing, accompanied by the strains of a small but peculiarly sweet-toned organ. A few persons in the crowd joined in, the words being familiar to them. During the singing their faces were a study, they all looked so profoundly solemn and miserable, as if they were a gang of condemned criminals waiting to be led forth to execution. The great number of the people standing around appeared to be listening more out of idle curiosity than anything else, and two well-dressed young men - evidently strangers and visitors to the town - amused themselves by making audible remarks about the texts on the lantern. There was also a shabbily dressed, semi-drunken man in a battered bowler hat who stood on the inner edge of the crowd, almost in the ring itself, with folded arms and an expression of scorn. He had a very thin, pale face with a large, high-bridged nose, and bore a striking resemblance to the First Duke of Wellington. As the singing proceeded, the scornful expression faded from the visage of the Semi-drunk, and he not only joined in, but unfolded his arms and began waving them about as if he were conducting the music. By the time the singing was over a considerable crowd had gathered, and then one of the evangelists, the same man who had given out the hymn, stepped into the middle of the ring. He had evidently been offended by the unseemly conduct of the two well-dressed young men, for after a preliminary glance round upon the crowd, he fixed his gaze upon the pair, and immediately launched out upon a long tirade against what he called `Infidelity'. Then, having heartily denounced all those who - as he put it - `refused' to believe, he proceeded to ridicule those half-and-half believers, who, while professing to believe the Bible, rejected the doctrine of Hell. That the existence of a place of eternal torture is taught in the Bible, he tried to prove by a long succession of texts. As he proceeded he became very excited, and the contemptuous laughter of the two unbelievers seemed to make him worse. He shouted and raved, literally foaming at the mouth and glaring in a frenzied manner around upon the faces of the crowd. `There is a Hell!' he shouted. `And understand this clearly - "The wicked shall be turned into hell" - "He that believeth not shall be damned."' `Well, then, you'll stand a very good chance of being damned also,' exclaimed one of the two young men. `'Ow do you make it out?' demanded the preacher, wiping the froth from his lips and the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. `Why, because you don't believe the Bible yourselves.' Nimrod and the other evangelists laughed, and looked pityingly at the young man. `Ah, my dear brother,' said Misery. `That's your delusion. I thank God I do believe it, every word!' `Amen,' fervently ejaculated Slyme and several of the other disciples. `Oh no, you don't,' replied the other. `And I can prove you don't.' `Prove it, then,' said Nimrod. `Read out the 17th and 18th verses of the XVIth chapter of Mark,' said the disturber of the meeting. The crowd began to close in on the centre, the better to hear the dispute. Misery, standing close to the lantern, found the verse mentioned and read aloud as follows: `And these signs shall follow them that believe. In my name shall they cast out devils: they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.' `Well, you can't heal the sick, neither can you speak new languages or cast out devils: but perhaps you can drink deadly things without suffering harm.' The speaker here suddenly drew from his waistcoat pocket a small glass bottle and held it out towards Misery, who shrank from it with horror as he continued: `I have here a most deadly poison. There is in this bottle sufficient strychnine to kill a dozen unbelievers. Drink it! And if it doesn't harm you, we'll know that you really are a believer and that what you believe is the truth!' `'Ear, 'ear!' said the Semi-drunk, who had listened to the progress of the argument with great interest. `'Ear, 'ear! That's fair enough. Git it acrost yer chest.' Some of the people in the crowd began to laugh, and voices were heard from several quarters calling upon Misery to drink the strychnine. `Now, if you'll allow me, I'll explain to you what that there verse means,' said Hunter. `If you read it carefully - WITH the context -' `I don't want you to tell me what it means,' interrupted the other. `I am able to read for myself. Whatever you may say, or pretend to think it means, I know what it says.' `Hear, Hear,' shouted several voices, and angry cries of `Why don't you drink the poison?' began to be heard from the outskirts of the crowd. `Are you going to drink it or not?' demanded the man with the bottle. `No! I'm not such a fool!' retorted Misery, fiercely, and a loud shout of laughter broke from the crowd.' `P'haps some of the other "believers" would like to,' said the young man sneeringly, looking round upon the disciples. As no one seemed desirous of availing himself of this offer, the man returned the bottle regretfully to his pocket. `I suppose,' said Misery, regarding the owner of the strychnine with a sneer, `I suppose you're one of them there hired critics wot's goin' about the country doin' the Devil's work?' `Wot I wants to know is this 'ere,' said the Semi-drunk, suddenly advancing into the middle of the ring and speaking in a loud voice. `Where did Cain get 'is wife from?' `Don't answer 'im, Brother 'Unter,' said Mr Didlum, one of the disciples. This was rather an unnecessary piece of advice, because Misery did not know the answer. An individual in a long black garment - the `minister' - now whispered something to Miss Didlum, who was seated at the organ, whereupon she began to play, and the `believers' began to sing, as loud as they could so as to drown the voices of the disturbers of the meeting, a song called `Oh, that will be Glory for me!' After this hymn the `minister' invited a shabbily dressed `brother' - a working-man member of the PSA, to say a `few words', and the latter accordingly stepped into the centre of the ring and held forth as follows: `My dear frens, I thank Gord tonight that I can stand 'ere tonight, hout in the hopen hair and tell hall you dear people tonight of hall wot's been done for ME. Ho my dear frens hi ham so glad tonight as I can stand 'ere tonight and say as hall my sins is hunder the blood tonight and wot 'E's done for me 'E can do for you tonight. If you'll honly do as I done and just acknowledge yourself a lost sinner -' `Yes! that's the honly way!' shouted Nimrod. `Amen,' cried all the other believers. `- If you'll honly come to 'im tonight in the same way as I done you'll see wot 'E's done for me 'E can do for you. Ho my dear frens, don't go puttin' it orf from day to day like a door turnin' on its 'inges, don't put orf to some more convenient time because you may never 'ave another chance. 'Im that bein' orfen reproved 'ardeneth 'is neck shall be suddenly cut orf and that without remedy. Ho come to 'im tonight, for 'Is name's sake and to 'Im we'll give hall the glory. Amen.' `Amen,' said the believers, fervently, and then the man who was dressed in the long garment entreated all those who were not yet true believers - and doers - of the word to join earnestly and MEANINGLY in the singing of the closing hymn, which he was about to read out to them. The Semi-drunk obligingly conducted as before, and the crowd faded away with the last notes of the music. Chapter 24 Ruth As has already been stated, hitherto Slyme had passed the greater number of his evenings at home, but during the following three weeks a change took place in his habits in this respect. He now went out nearly every night and did not return until after ten o'clock. On meeting nights he always changed his attire, dressing himself as on Sundays, but on the other occasions he went out in his week-day clothes. Ruth often wondered where he went on those nights, but he never volunteered the information and she never asked him. Easton had chummed up with a lot of the regular customers at the `Cricketers', where he now spent most of his spare time, drinking beer, telling yarns or playing shove-ha'penny or hooks and rings. When he had no cash the Old Dear gave him credit until Saturday. At first, the place had not had much attraction for him, and he really went there only for the purpose of `keeping in' with Crass: but after a time he found it a very congenial way of passing his evenings ... One evening, Ruth saw Slyme meet Crass as if by appointment and as the two men went away together she returned to her housework wondering what it meant. Meantime, Crass and Slyme proceeded on their way down town. It was about half past six o'clock: the shops and streets were brilliantly lighted, and as they went along they saw numerous groups of men talking together in a listless way. Most of them were artisans and labourers out of employment and evidently in no great hurry to go home. Some of them had neither tea nor fire to go to, and stayed away from home as long as possible so as not to be compelled to look upon the misery of those who were waiting for them there. Others hung about hoping against all probability that they might even yet - although it was so late - hear of some job to be started somewhere or other. As they passed one of these groups they recognized and nodded to Newman and old Jack Linden, and the former left the others and came up to Crass and Slyme, who did not pause, so Newman walked along with them. `Anything fresh in, Bob?' he asked. `No; we ain't got 'ardly anything,' replied Crass. `I reckon we shall finish up at "The Cave" next week, and then I suppose we shall all be stood orf. We've got several plumbers on, and I believe there's a little gas-fitting work in, but next to nothing in our line.' `I suppose you don't know of any other firm what's got anything?' `No, I don't, mate. Between you and me, I don't think any of 'em has; they're all in about the same fix.' `I've not done anything since I left, you know,' said Newman, `and we've just about got as far as we can get, at home.' Slyme and Crass said nothing in reply to this. They wished that Newman would take himself off, because they did not want him to know where they were going. However, Newman continued to accompany them and an awkward silence succeeded. He seemed to wish to say something more, and they both guessed what it was. So they walked along as rapidly as possible in order not to give him any encouragement. At last Newman blurted out: `I suppose - you don't happen - either of you - to have a tanner you could lend me? I'll let you have it back - when I get a job.' `I ain't mate,' replied Crass. `I'm sorry; if I 'ad one on me, you should 'ave it, with pleasure.' Slyme also expressed his regret that he had no money with him, and at the corner of the next street Newman - ashamed of having asked - wished them `good night' and went away. Slyme and Crass hurried along and presently arrived at Rushton & Co.'s shop. The windows were lit up with electric light, displaying an assortment of wallpapers, gas and electric light fittings, glass shades, globes, tins of enamel, paint and varnish. Several framed show-cards - `Estimates Free', `First class work only, at moderate charges', `Only First Class Workmen Employed' and several others of the same type. On one side wall of the window was a large shield-shaped board covered with black velvet on which a number of brass fittings for coffins were arranged. The shield was on an oak mount with the inscription: `Funerals conducted on modern principles'. Slyme waited outside while Crass went in. Mr Budd, the shopman, was down at the far end near the glazed partition which separated Mr Rushton's office from the front shop. As Crass entered, Budd - who was a pale-faced, unhealthy-looking, undersized youth about twenty years of age - looked round and, with a grimace, motioned him to walk softly . Crass paused, wondering what the other meant; but the shopman beckoned him to advance, grinning and winking and jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the office. Crass hesitated, fearing that possibly the miserable Budd had gone - or been driven - out of his mind; but as the latter continued to beckon and grin and point towards the office Crass screwed up his courage and followed him behind one of the showcases, and applying his eye to a crack in the woodwork of the partition indicated by Budd, he could see Mr Rushton in the act of kissing and embracing Miss Wade, the young lady clerk. Crass watched them for some time and then whispered to Budd to call Slyme, and when the latter came they all three took turns at peeping through the crack in the partition. When they had looked their fill they came out from behind the showcase, almost bursting with suppressed merriment. Budd reached down a key from where it was hanging on a hook on the wall and gave it to Crass and the two resumed their interrupted journey. But before they had proceeded a dozen yards from the shop, they were accosted by a short, elderly man with grey hair and a beard. This man looked about sixty-five years of age, and was very shabbily dressed. The ends of the sleeves of his coat were frayed and ragged, and the elbows were worn threadbare. His boots were patched, broken, and down at heel, and the knees and bottoms of the legs of his trousers were in the same condition as the sleeves of his coat. This man's name was Latham; he was a venetian blind maker and repairer. With his son, he was supposed to be `in business' on his own account, but as most of their work was done for `the trade', that is, for such firms as Rushton & Co., they would be more correctly described as men who did piecework at home. He had been `in business' - as he called it - for about forty years working, working, always working; and ever since his son became old enough to labour he had helped his father in the philanthropic task of manufacturing profits for the sweaters who employed them. They had been so busy running after work, and working for the benefit of others, that they had overlooked the fact that they were only earning a bare living for themselves and now, after forty years' hard labour, the old man was clothed in rags and on the verge of destitution. `Is Rushton there?' he asked. `Yes, I think so,' replied Crass, attempting to pass on; but the old man detained him. `He promised to let us know about them blinds for "The Cave". We gave 'im a price for 'em about a month ago. In fact, we gave 'im two prices, because he said the first was too high. Five and six a set I asked 'im! take 'em right through the 'ole 'ouse! one with another - big and little. Two coats of paint, and new tapes and cords. That wasn't too much, was it?' `No,' said Crass, walking on; `that was cheap enough!' HE said it was too much,' continued Latham. `Said as 'e could get 'em done cheaper! But I say as no one can't do it and make a living.' As he walked along, talking, between Crass and Slyme, the old man became very excited. `But we 'adn't nothing to do to speak of, so my son told 'im we'd do 'em for five bob a set, and 'e said 'e'd let us know, but we ain't 'eard nothing from 'im yet, so I thought I'd try and see 'im tonight.' Well, you'll find 'im in there now,' said Slyme with a peculiar look, and walking faster. `Good night.' `I won't take 'em on for no less!' cried the old man as he turned back. I've got my livin' to get, and my son's got 'is wife and little 'uns to keep. We can't work for nothing!' `Certainly not,' said Crass, glad to get away at last. `Good night, and good luck to you.' As soon as they were out of hearing, they both burst out laughing at the old man's vehemence. `Seemed quite upset about it,' said Slyme; and they laughed again. They now left the main road and pursued their way through a number of badly lighted, mean-looking streets, and finally turning down a kind of alley, arrived at their destination. On one side of this street was a row of small houses; facing these were a number of buildings of a miscellaneous description - sheds and stables; and beyond these a plot of waste ground on which could be seen, looming weirdly through the dusk, a number of empty carts and waggons with their shafts resting on the ground or reared up into the air. Threading their way carefully through these and avoiding as much as possible the mud, pools of water, and rubbish which covered the ground, they arrived at a large gate fastened with a padlock. Applying the key, Crass swung back the gate and they found themselves in a large yard filled with building materials and plant, ladders, huge tressels, planks and beams of wood, hand-carts, and wheelbarrows, heaps of sand and mortar and innumerable other things that assumed strange fantastic shapes in the semi-darkness. Crates and packing cases, lengths of iron guttering and rain-pipes, old door-frames and other woodwork that had been taken from buildings where alterations had been made. And over all these things, a gloomy, indistinct and shapeless mass, rose the buildings and sheds that comprised Rushton & Co.'s workshop. Crass struck a match, and Slyme, stooping down, drew a key from a crevice in the wall near one of the doors, which he unlocked, and they entered. Crass struck another match and lit the gas at the jointed bracket fixed to the wall. This was the paint-shop. At one end was a fireplace without a grate but with an iron bar fixed across the blackened chimney for the purpose of suspending pails or pots over the fire, which was usually made of wood on the hearthstone. All round the walls of the shop - which had once been whitewashed, but were now covered with smears of paint of every colour where the men had `rubbed out' their brushes - were rows of shelves with kegs of paint upon them. In front of the window was a long bench covered with an untidy litter of dirty paint-pots, including several earthenware mixing vessels or mortars, the sides of these being thickly coated with dried paint. Scattered about the stone floor were a number of dirty pails, either empty or containing stale whitewash; and standing on a sort of low platform or shelf at one end of the shop were four large round tanks fitted with taps and labelled `Boiled Oil', `Turps', `Linseed Oil', `Turps Substitute'. The lower parts of the walls were discoloured with moisture. The atmosphere was cold and damp and foul with the sickening odours of the poisonous materials. It was in this place that Bert - the apprentice - spent most of his time, cleaning out pots and pails, during slack periods when there were no jobs going on outside. In the middle of the shop, under a two-armed gas pendant, was another table or bench, also thickly coated with old, dried paint, and by the side of this were two large stands on which were hanging up to dry some of the lathes of the venetian blinds belonging to `The Cave', which Crass and Slyme were painting - piecework - in their spare time. The remainder of the lathes were leaning against the walls or piled in stacks on the table. Crass shivered with cold as he lit the two gas-jets. `Make a bit of a fire, Alf, he said, `while I gets the colour ready.' Slyme went outside and presently returned with his arms full of old wood, which he smashed up and threw into the fireplace; then he took an empty paint-pot and filled it with turpentine from the big tank and emptied it over the wood. Amongst the pots on the mixing bench he found one full of old paint, and he threw this over the wood also, and in a few minutes he had made a roaring fire. Meantime, Crass had prepared the paint and brushes and taken down the lathes from the drying frames. The two men now proceeded with the painting of the blinds, working rapidly, each lathe being hung on the wires of the drying frame after being painted. They talked freely as they worked, having no fear of being overheard by Rushton or Nimrod. This job was piecework, so it didn't matter whether they talked or not. They waxed hilarious over Old Latham's discomfiture and wondered what he would say if he could see them now. Then the conversation drifted to the subject of the private characters of the other men who were employed by Rushton & Co., and an impartial listener - had there been one there - would have been forced to come to the same conclusion as Crass and Slyme did: namely, that they themselves were the only two decent fellows on the firm. There was something wrong or shady about everybody else. That bloke Barrington, for instance - it was a very funny business, you know, for a chap like 'im to be workin' as a labourer, it looked very suspicious. Nobody knowed exactly who 'e was or where 'e come from, but anyone could tell 'e'd been a toff. It was very certain 'e'd never bin brought up to work for 'is livin'. The most probable explanation was that 'e'd committed some crime and bin disowned by 'is family - pinched some money, or forged a cheque or something like that. Then there was that Sawkins. He was no class whatever. It was a well-known fact that he used to go round to Misery's house nearly every night to tell him every little thing that had happened on the job during the day! As for Payne, the foreman carpenter, the man was a perfect fool: he'd find out the difference if ever he got the sack from Rushton's and went to work for some other firm! He didn't understand his trade, and he couldn't make a coffin properly to save 'is life! Then there was that rotter Owen; there was a bright specimen for yer! An Atheist! didn't believe in no God or Devil or nothing else. A pretty state of things there would be if these Socialists could have their own way: for one thing, nobody would be allowed to work overtime! Crass and Slyme worked and talked in this manner till ten o'clock, and then they extinguished the fire by throwing some water on it - put out the gas and locked up the shop and the yard, dropping the key of the latter into the letter-box at Rushton's office on their way home. In this way they worked at the blinds nearly every night for three weeks. When Saturday arrived the, men working at `The Cave' were again surprised that nobody was sacked, and they were divided in opinion as to the reason, some thinking that Nimrod was determined to keep them all on till the job was finished, so as to get it done as quickly as possible; and others boldly asserting the truth of a rumour that had been going about for several days that the firm had another big job in. Mr Sweater had bought another house; Rushton had to do it up, and they were all to be kept on to start this other work as soon as `The Cave' was finished. Crass knew no more than anyone else and he maintained a discreet silence, but the fact that he did not contradict the rumour served to strengthen it. The only foundation that existed for this report was that Rushton and Misery had been seen looking over the garden gate of a large empty house near `The Cave'. But although it had such an insignificant beginning, the rumour had grown and increased in detail and importance day by day. That very morning at breakfast-time, the man on the pail had announced that he had heard on the very best authority that Mr Sweater had sold all his interest in the great business that bore his name and was about to retire into private life, and that he intended to buy up all the house property in the neighbourhood of `The Cave'. Another individual - one of the new hands - said that he had heard someone else - in a public house - say that Rushton was about to marry one of Sweater's daughters, and that Sweater intended to give the couple a house to live in, as a wedding present: but the fact that Rushton was already married and the father of four children, rather knocked the bottom out of this story, so it was regretfully dismissed. Whatever the reason, the fact remained that nobody had been discharged, and when pay-time arrived they set out for the office in high spirits. That evening, the weather being fine, Slyme went out as usual to his open-air meeting, but Easton departed from HIS usual custom of rushing off to the `Cricketers' directly he had had his tea, having on this occasion promised to wait for Ruth and to go with her to do the marketing. The baby was left at home alone, asleep in the cradle. By the time they had made all their purchases they had a fairly heavy load. Easton carried the string-bag containing the potatoes and other vegetables, and the meat, and Ruth, the groceries. On their way home, they had to pass the `Cricketers' and just before they reached that part of their journey they met Mr and Mrs Crass, who were also out marketing. They both insisted on Easton and Ruth going in to have a drink with them. Ruth did not want to go, but she allowed herself to be persuaded for she could see that Easton was beginning to get angry with her for refusing. Crass had on a new overcoat and a new hat, with dark grey trousers and yellow boots, and a `stand-up' collar with a bright blue tie. His wife - a fat, vulgar-looking, well-preserved woman about forty - was arrayed in a dark red `motor' costume, with hat to match. Both Easton and Ruth - whose best clothes had all been pawned to raise the money to pay the poor rate - felt very mean and shabby before them. When they got inside, Crass paid for the first round of drinks, a pint of Old Six for himself; the same for Easton, half a pint for Mrs Easton and threepenny-worth of gin for Mrs Crass. The Besotted Wretch was there, just finishing a game of hooks and rings with the Semi-drunk - who had called round on the day after he was thrown out, to apologize for his conduct to the Old Dear, and had since then become one of the regular customers. Philpot was absent. He had been there that afternoon, so the Old Dear said, but he had gone home about five o'clock, and had not been back since. He was almost sure to look in again in the course of the evening. Although the house was not nearly so full as it would have been if times had been better, there was a large number of people there, for the `Cricketers' was one of the most popular houses in the town. Another thing that helped to make them busy was the fact that two other public houses in the vicinity had recently been closed up. There were people in all the compartments. Some of the seats in the public bar were occupied by women, some young and accompanied by their husbands, some old and evidently sodden with drink. In one corner of the public bar, drinking beer or gin with a number of young fellows, were three young girls who worked at a steam laundry in the neighbourhood. Two large, fat, gipsy-looking women: evidently hawkers, for on the floor beside them were two baskets containing bundles of flowers - chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies. There were also two very plainly and shabbily dressed women about thirty-five years of age, who were always to be found there on Saturday nights, drinking with any man who was willing to pay for them. The behaviour of these two women was very quiet and their manners unobtrusive. They seemed to realize that they were there only on sufferance, and their demeanour was shamefaced and humble. The majority of the guests were standing. The floor was sprinkled with sawdust which served to soak up the beer that slopped out of the glasses of those whose hands were too unsteady to hold them upright. The air was foul with the smell of beer, spirits and tobacco smoke, and the uproar was deafening, for nearly everyone was talking at the same time, their voices clashing discordantly with the strains of the Polyphone, which was playing `The Garden of Your Heart'. In one corner a group of men convulsed with laughter at the details of a dirty story related by one of their number. Several impatient customers were banging the bottoms of their empty glasses or pewters on the counter and shouting their orders for more beer. Oaths, curses and obscene expressions resounded on every hand, coming almost as frequently from the women as the men. And over all the rattle of money, the ringing of the cash register. The clinking and rattling of the glasses and pewter pots as they were being washed, and the gurgling noise made by the beer as it poured into the drinking vessels from the taps of the beer engine, whose handles were almost incessantly manipulated by the barman, the Old Dear and the glittering landlady, whose silken blouse, bejewelled hair, ears, neck and fingers scintillated gloriously in the blaze of the gaslight. The scene was so novel and strange to Ruth that she felt dazed and bewildered. Previous to her marriage she had been a total abstainer, but since then she had occasionally taken a glass of beer with Easton for company's sake with their Sunday dinner at home; but it was generally Easton who went out and bought the beer in a jug. Once or twice she had bought it herself at an Off Licence beer-shop near where they lived, but she had never before been in a public house to drink. She was so confused and ill at ease that she scarcely heard or understood Mrs Crass, who talked incessantly, principally about their other residents in North Street where they both resided; and about Mr Crass. She also promised Ruth to introduce her presently - if he came in, as he was almost certain to do - to Mr Partaker, one of her two lodgers a most superior young man, who had been with them now for over three years and would not leave on any account. In fact, he had been their lodger in their old house, and when they moved he came with them to North Street, although it was farther away from his place of business than their former residence. Mrs Crass talked a lot more of the same sort of stuff, to which Ruth listened like one in a dream, and answered with an occasional yes or no. Meantime, Crass and Easton - the latter had deposited the string-bag on the seat at Ruth's side - and the Semi-drunk and the Besotted Wretch, arranged to play a match of Hooks and Rings, the losers to pay for drinks for all the party, including the two women. Crass and the Semi-drunk tossed up for sides. Crass won and picked the Besotted Wretch, and the game began. It was a one-sided affair from the first, for Easton and the Semi-drunk were no match for the other two. The end of it was that Easton and his partner had to pay for the drinks. The four men had a pint each of four ale, and Mrs Crass had another threepennyworth of gin. Ruth protested that she did not want any more to drink, but the others ridiculed this, and both the Besotted Wretch and the Semi-drunk seemed to regard her unwillingness as a personal insult, so she allowed them to get her another half-pint of beer, which she was compelled to drink, because she was conscious that the others were watching her to see that she did so. The Semi-drunk now suggested a return match. He wished to have his revenge. He was a little out of practice, he said, and was only just getting his hand in as they were finishing the other game. Crass and his partner readily assented, and in spite of Ruth's whispered entreaty that they should return home without further delay, Easton insisted on joining the game. Although they played more carefully than before, and notwithstanding the fact that the Besotted Wretch was very drunk, Easton and his partner were again beaten and once more had to pay for the drinks. The men had a pint each as before. Mrs Crass - upon whom the liquor so far seemed to have no effect - had another threepennyworth of gin; and Ruth consented to take another glass of beer on condition that Easton would come away directly their drinks were finished. Easton agreed to do so, but instead of keeping his word he began to play a four-handed game of shove-ha'penny with the other three, the sides and stakes being arranged as before. The liquor was by this time beginning to have some effect upon Ruth: she felt dizzy and confused. Whenever it was necessary to reply to Mrs Crass's talk she found some difficulty in articulating the words and she knew she was not answering very intelligently. Even when Mrs Crass introduced her to the interesting Mr Partaker, who arrived about this time, she was scarcely able to collect herself sufficiently to decline that fascinating gentleman's invitation to have another drink with himself and Mrs Crass. After a time a kind of terror took possession of her, and she resolved that if Easton would not come when he had finished the game he was playing, she would go home without him. Meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded merrily, the majority of the male guests crowding round the board, applauding or censuring the players as occasion demanded. The Semi-drunk was in high glee, for Crass was not much of a hand at this game, and the Besotted Wretch, although playing well, was not able to make up for his partner's want of skill. As the game drew near its end and it became more and more certain that his opponents would be defeated, the joy of the Semi-drunk was unbounded, and he challenged them to make it double or quits - a generous offer which they wisely declined, and shortly afterwards, seeing that their position was hopeless, they capitulated and prepared to pay the penalty of the vanquished. Crass ordered the drinks and the Besotted Wretch - half the damage - a pint of four ale for each of the men and the same as before for the ladies. The Old Dear executed the order, but by mistake, being very busy, he served two `threes' of gin instead of one. Ruth did not want any more at all, but she was afraid to say so, and she did not like to make any fuss about it being the wrong drink, especially as they all assured her that the spirits would do her more good than beer. She did not want either; she wanted to get away, and would have liked to empty the stuff out of the glass on the floor, but she was afraid that Mrs Crass or one of the others might see her doing so, and there might be some trouble about it. Anyway, it seemed easier to drink this small quantity of spirits and water than a big glass of beer, the very thought of which now made her feel ill. She drank the stuff which Easton handed to her at a single draught and, handing back the empty glass with a shudder, stood up resolutely. `Are you coming home now? You promised you would,' she said. `All right: presently,' replied Easton. 'There's plenty of time; it's not nine yet.' `That doesn't matter; it's quite late enough. You know we've left the child at home alone in the house. You promised you'd come as soon as you'd finished that other game.' `All right, all right,' answered Easton impatiently. `Just wait a minute, I want to see this, and then I'll come.' `This' was a most interesting problem propounded by Crass, who had arranged eleven matches side by side on the shove-ha'penny board. The problem was to take none away and yet leave only nine. Nearly all the men in the bar were crowding round the shove-ha'penny board, some with knitted brows and drunken gravity trying to solve the puzzle and others waiting curiously for the result. Easton crossed over to see how it was done, and as none of the crowd were able to do the trick, Crass showed that it could be accomplished by simply arranging the eleven matches so as to form the word NINE. Everybody said it was very good indeed, very clever and interesting. But the Semi-drunk and the Besotted Wretch were reminded by this trick of several others equally good, and they proceeded to do them; and then the men had another pint each all round as a reviver after the mental strain of the last few minutes. Easton did not know any tricks himself, but he was an interested spectator of those done by several others until Ruth came over and touched his arm. `Aren't you coming?' `Wait a minute, can't you?' cried Easton roughly. `What's your hurry?' `I don't want to stay here any longer,' said Ruth, hysterically. `You said you'd come as soon as you saw that trick. If you don't come, I shall go home by myself. I don't want to stay in this place any longer.' `Well, go by yourself if you want to!' shouted Easton fiercely, pushing her away from him. `I shall stop 'ere as long as I please, and if you don't like it you can do the other thing.' Ruth staggered and nearly fell from the force of the push he gave her, and the man turned again to the table to watch the Semi-drunk, who was arranging six matches so as to form the numeral XII, and who said he could prove that this was equal to a thousand. Ruth waited a few minutes longer, and then as Easton took no further notice of her, she took up the string-bag and the other parcels, and without staying to say good night to Mrs Crass - who was earnestly conversing with the interesting Partaker - she with some difficulty opened the door and went out into the street. The cold night air felt refreshing and sweet after the foul atmosphere of the public house, but after a little while she began to feel faint and dizzy, and was conscious also that she was walking unsteadily, and she fancied that people stared at her strangely as they passed. The parcels felt very heavy and awkward to carry, and the string-bag seemed as if it were filled with lead. Although under ordinary circumstances it was only about ten minutes' walk home from here, she resolved to go by one of the trams which passed by the end of North Street. With this intention, she put down her bag on the pavement at the stopping-place, and waited, resting her hand on the iron pillar at the corner of the street, where a little crowd of people were standing evidently with the same object as herself. Two trains passed without stopping, for they were already full of passengers, a common circumstance on Saturday nights. The next one stopped, and several persons alighted, and then ensued a fierce struggle amongst the waiting crowd for the vacant seats. Men and women pushed, pulled and almost fought, shoving their fists and elbows into each other's sides and breasts and faces. Ruth was quickly thrust aside and nearly knocked down, and the tram, having taken aboard as many passengers as it had accommodation for, passed on. She waited for the next one, and the same scene was enacted with the same result for her, and then, reflecting that if she had not stayed for these trains she might have been home by now, she determined to resume her walk. The parcels felt heavier than ever, and she had not proceeded very far before she was compelled to put the bag down again upon the pavement, outside an empty house. Leaning against the railings, she felt very tired and ill. Everything around her - the street, the houses, the traffic - seemed vague and shadowy and unreal. Several people looked curiously at her as they passed, but by this time she was scarcely conscious of their scrutiny. Slyme had gone that evening to the usual `open-air' conducted by the Shining Light Mission. The weather being fine, they had a most successful meeting, the disciples, including Hunter, Rushton, Sweater, Didlum, and Mrs Starvem - Ruth's former mistress - assembled in great force so as to be able to deal more effectively with any infidels or hired critics or drunken scoffers who might try to disturb the proceedings; and - possibly as an evidence of how much real faith there was in them - they had also arranged to have a police officer in attendance, to protect them from what they called the `Powers of Darkness'. One might be excused for thinking that - if they really believed - they would have relied rather upon those powers of Light which they professed to represent on this planet to protect them without troubling to call in the aid of such a `worldly' force as the police. However, it came to pass that on this occasion the only infidels present were those who were conducting the meeting, but as these consisted for the most part of members of the chapel, it will be seen that the infidel fraternity was strongly represented. On his way home after the meeting Slyme had to pass by the `Cricketers' and as he drew near the place he wondered if Easton was there, but he did not like to go and look in, because he was afraid someone might see him coming away and perhaps think he had been in to drink. Just as he arrived opposite the house another man opened the door of the public bar and entered, enabling Slyme to catch a momentary glimpse of the interior, where he saw Easton and Crass with a number of others who were strangers to him, laughing and drinking together. Slyme hurried away; it had turned very cold, and he was anxious to get home. As he approached the place where the trams stopped to take up passengers and saw that there was a tram in sight he resolved to wait for it and ride home: but when the tram arrived and there were only one or two seats vacant, and although he did his best to secure one of these he was unsuccessful, and after a moment's hesitation he decided that it would be quicker to walk than to wait for the next one. He accordingly resumed his journey, but he had not gone very far when he saw a small crowd of people on the pavement on the other side of the road outside an unoccupied house, and although he was in a hurry to get home he crossed over to see what was the matter. There were about twenty people standing there, and in the centre close to the railing there were three or four women whom Slyme could not see although he could hear their voices. `What's up?' he inquired of a man on the edge of the crowd. `Oh, nothing much,' returned the other. `Some young woman; she's either ill, come over faint, or something - or else she's had a drop too much.' `Quite a respectable-looking young party, too,' said another man. Several young fellows in the crowd were amusing themselves by making suggestive jokes about the young woman and causing some laughter by the expressions of mock sympathy. `Doesn't anyone know who she is?' said the second man who had spoken in reply to Slyme's inquiry. `No,' said a woman who was standing a little nearer the middle of the crowd. `And she won't say where she lives.' `She'll be all right now she's had that glass of soda,' said another man, elbowing his way out of the crowd. As this individual came out, Slyme managed to work himself a little further into the group of people, and he uttered an involuntary cry of astonishment as he caught sight of Ruth, very pale, and looking very ill, as she stood clasping one of the railings with her left hand and holding the packages of groceries in the other. She had by this time recovered sufficiently to feel overwhelmed with shame and confusion before the crowd of strangers who hemmed her in on every side, and some of whom she could hear laughing and joking about her. It was therefore with a sensation of intense relief and gratitude that she saw Slyme's familiar face and heard his friendly voice as he forced his way through to her side. `I can walk home all right now,' she stammered in reply to his anxious questioning. `If you wouldn't mind carrying some of these things for me.' He insisted on taking all the parcels, and the crowd, having jumped to the conclusion that he was the young woman's husband began to dwindle away, one of the jokers remarking `It's all over!' in a loud voice as he took himself off. It was only about seven minutes' walk home from there, and as the streets along which they had to pass were not very brilliantly lighted, Ruth was able to lean on Slyme's arm most of the way. When they arrived home, after she had removed her hat, he made her sit down in the armchair by the fire, which was burning brightly, and the kettle was singing on the hob, for she had banked up the fire with cinders and small coal before she went out. The baby was still asleep in the cradle, but his slumbers had evidently not been of the most restful kind, for he had kicked all the bedclothes off him and was lying all uncovered. Ruth obeyed passively when Slyme told her to sit down, and, lying back languidly in the armchair, she watched him through half-closed eyes and with a slight flush on her face as he deftly covered the sleeping child with the bedclothes and settled him more comfortably in the cot. Slyme now turned his attention to the fire, and as he placed the kettle upon it he remarked: `As soon as the water boils I'll make you some strong tea.' During their walk home she had acquainted Slyme with the cause of her being in the condition in which he found her in the street, and as she reclined in the armchair, drowsily watching him, she wondered what would have happened to her if he had not passed by when he did. `Are you feeling better?' he asked, looking down at her. `Yes, thanks. I feel quite well now; but I'm afraid I've given you a lot of trouble.' `No, you haven't. Nothing I can do for you is a trouble to me. But don't you think you'd better take your jacket off? Here, let me help you.' It took a very long time to get this jacket off, because whilst he was helping her, Slyme kissed her repeatedly and passionately as she lay limp and unresisting in his arms. Chapter 25 The Oblong During the following week the work at `The Cave' progressed rapidly towards completion, although, the hours of daylight being so few, the men worked only from 8 A.M. till 4 P.M. and they had their breakfasts before they came. This made 40 hours a week, so that those who were paid sevenpence an hour earned ?.3.4. Those who got sixpence- halfpenny drew ?.1.8. Those whose wages were fivepence an hour were paid the princely sum of 16/8d. for their week's hard labour, and those whose rate was fourpence-halfpenny `picked up' 15/-. And yet there are people who have the insolence to say that Drink is the cause of poverty. And many of the persons who say this, spend more money than that on drink themselves - every day of their useless lives. By Tuesday night all the inside was finished with the exception of the kitchen and scullery. The painting of the kitchen had been delayed owing to the non-arrival of the new cooking range, and the scullery was still used as the paint shop. The outside work was also nearly finished: all the first coating was done and the second coating was being proceeded with. According to the specification, all the outside woodwork was supposed to have three coats, and the guttering, rain-pipes and other ironwork two coats, but Crass and Hunter had arranged to make two coats do for most of the windows and woodwork, and all the ironwork was to be made to do with one coat only. The windows were painted in two colours: the sashes dark green and the frames white. All the rest - gables, doors, railings, guttering, etc. - was dark green; and all the dark green paint was made with boiled linseed oil and varnish; no turpentine being allowed to be used on this part of the work. `This is some bloody fine stuff to 'ave to use, ain't it?' remarked Harlow to Philpot on Wednesday morning. `It's more like a lot of treacle than anything else.' `Yes: and it won't arf blister next summer when it gets a bit of sun on it,' replied Philpot with a grin. `I suppose they're afraid that if they was to put a little turps in, it wouldn't bear out, and they'd 'ave to give it another coat.' `You can bet yer life that's the reason,' said Philpot. `But all the same I mean to pinch a drop to put in mine as soon as Crass is gorn.' `Gorn where?' `Why, didn't you know? there's another funeral on today? Didn't you see that corfin plate what Owen was writing in the drorin'-room last Saturday morning?' `No, I wasn't 'ere. Don't you remember I was sent away to do a ceilin' and a bit of painting over at Windley?' `Oh, of course; I forgot,' exclaimed Philpot. `I reckon Crass and Slyme must be making a small fortune out of all these funerals,' said Harlow. `This makes the fourth in the last fortnight. What is it they gets for 'em?' `A shillin' for taking' 'ome the corfin and liftin' in the corpse, and four bob for the funeral - five bob altogether.' `That's a bit of all right, ain't it?' said Harlow. `A couple of them in a week besides your week's wages, eh? Five bob for two or three hours work!' `Yes, the money's all right, mate, but they're welcome to it for my part . I don't want to go messin' about with no corpses,' replied Philpot with a shudder. `Who is this last party what's dead?' asked Harlow after a pause. `It's a parson what used to belong to the "Shining Light" Chapel. He'd been abroad for 'is 'ollerdays - to Monte Carlo. It seems 'e was ill before 'e went away, but the change did 'im a lot of good; in fact, 'e was quite recovered, and 'e was coming back again. But while 'e was standin' on the platform at Monte Carlo Station waitin' for the train, a porter runned into 'im with a barrer load o' luggage, and 'e blowed up.' `Blowed up?' `Yes,' repeated Philpot. `Blowed up! Busted! Exploded! All into pieces. But they swep' 'em all up and put it in a corfin and it's to be planted this afternoon.' Harlow maintained an awestruck silence, and Philpot continued: `I had a drink the other night with a butcher bloke what used to serve this parson with meat, and we was talkin' about what a strange sort of death it was, but 'e said 'e wasn't at all surprised to 'ear of it; the only thing as 'e wondered at was that the man didn't blow up long ago, considerin' the amount of grub as 'e used to make away with. He ses the quantities of stuff as 'e's took there and seen other tradesmen take was something chronic. Tons of it!' `What was the parson's name?' asked Harlow. `Belcher. You must 'ave noticed 'im about the town. A very fat chap,' replied Philpot. `I'm sorry you wasn't 'ere on Saturday to see the corfin plate. Frank called me in to see the wordin' when 'e'd finished it. It had on: "Jonydab Belcher. Born January 1st, 1849. Ascended, December 8th, 19--"' `Oh, I know the bloke now!' cried Harlow. `I remember my youngsters bringin' 'ome a subscription list what they'd got up at the Sunday School to send 'im away for a 'ollerday because 'e was ill, and I gave 'em a penny each to put on their cards because I didn't want 'em to feel mean before the other young 'uns.' `Yes, it's the same party. Two or three young 'uns asked me to give 'em something to put on at the time. And I see they've got another subscription list on now. I met one of Newman's children yesterday and she showed it to me. It's for an entertainment and a Christmas Tree for all the children what goes to the Sunday School, so I didn't mind giving just a trifle for anything like that.' ... `Seems to be gettin' colder, don't it?' `It's enough to freeze the ears orf a brass monkey!' remarked Easton as he descended from a ladder close by and, placing his pot of paint on the pound, began to try to warm his hands by rubbing and beating them together. He was trembling, and his teeth were chattering with cold. `I could just do with a nice pint of beer, now,' he said as he stamped his feet on the pound. `That's just what I was thinkin',' said Philpot, wistfully, 'and what's more, I mean to 'ave one, too, at dinner-time. I shall nip down to the "Cricketers". Even if I don't get back till a few minutes after one, it won't matter, because Crass and Nimrod will be gorn to the funeral.' `Will you bring me a pint back with you, in a bottle?' asked Easton. `Yes, certainly,' said Philpot.