Роберт Тресселл – The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists (страница 8)

‘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 ‘im 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 all 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 Stock well, 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 but 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 thin 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 and having closed and placed it on the mantelshelf above, 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.