Ragged Trousered Philanthropists - Robert Tressell (best pdf ebook reader .txt) 📗

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