Crossbones Boys”, which existed for the purpose of perpetuating the
great religious festival of Guy Fawkes. This association also came to
the aid of the unemployed and organized a Grand Fancy Dress Carnival
and Torchlight Procession. When this took place, although there was a
slight sprinkling of individuals dressed in tawdry costumes as
cavaliers of the time of Charles I, and a few more as highwaymen or
footpads, the majority of the processionists were boys in women’s
clothes, or wearing sacks with holes cut in them for their heads and
arms, and with their faces smeared with soot. There were also a number
of men carrying frying-pans in which they burnt red and blue fire. The
procession—or rather, mob—was headed by a band, and the band was headed
by two men, arm in arm, one very tall, dressed to represent Satan, in
red tights, with horns on his head, and smoking a large cigar, and the
other attired in the no less picturesque costume of a bishop of the
Established Church.

This crew paraded the town, howling and dancing, carrying flaring
torches, burning the blue and red fire, and some of them singing silly
or obscene songs; whilst the collectors ran about with the boxes
begging for money from people who were in most cases nearly as
poverty-stricken as the unemployed they were asked to assist. The money
thus obtained was afterwards handed over to the Secretary of the
Organized Benevolence Society, Mr Sawney Grinder.

Then there was the Soup Kitchen, which was really an inferior
eating-house in a mean street. The man who ran this was a relative of
the secretary of the OBS. He cadged all the ingredients for the soup
from different tradespeople: bones and scraps of meat from butchers:
pea meal and split peas from provision dealers: vegetables from
greengrocers: stale bread from bakers, and so on. Well-intentioned,
charitable old women with more money than sense sent him donations in
cash, and he sold the soup for a penny a basin—or a penny a quart to
those who brought jugs.

He had a large number of shilling books printed, each containing
thirteen penny tickets. The Organized Benevolence Society bought a lot
of these books and resold them to benevolent persons, or gave them away
to “deserving cases”. It was this connection with the OBS that gave the
Soup Kitchen a semi-official character in the estimation of the public,
and furnished the proprietor with the excuse for cadging the materials
and money donations.

In the case of the Soup Kitchen, as with the unemployed processions,
most of those who benefited were unskilled labourers or derelicts: with
but few exceptions the unemployed artisans—although their need was just
as great as that of the others—avoided the place as if it were infected
with the plague. They were afraid even to pass through the street where
it was situated lest anyone seeing them coming from that direction
should think they had been there. But all the same, some of them
allowed their children to go there by stealth, by night, to buy some of
this charity-tainted food.

Another brilliant scheme, practical and statesmanlike, so different
from the wild projects of demented Socialists, was started by the Rev.
Mr Bosher, a popular preacher, the Vicar of the fashionable Church of
the Whited Sepulchre. He collected some subscriptions from a number of
semi-imbecile old women who attended his church. With some of this
money he bought a quantity of timber and opened what he called a Labour
Yard, where he employed a number of men sawing firewood. Being a
clergyman, and because he said he wanted it for a charitable purpose,
of course he obtained the timber very cheaply—for about half what
anyone else would have had to pay for it.

The wood-sawing was done piecework. A log of wood about the size of a
railway sleeper had to be sawn into twelve pieces, and each of these
had to be chopped into four. For sawing and chopping one log in this
manner the worker was paid ninepence. One log made two bags of
firewood, which were sold for a shilling each—a trifle under the usual
price. The men who delivered the bags were paid three half-pence for
each two bags.

As there were such a lot of men wanting to do this work, no one was
allowed to do more than three lots in one day—that came to two
shillings and threepence—and no one was allowed to do more than two
days in one week.

The Vicar had a number of bills printed and displayed in shop windows
calling attention to what he was doing, and informing the public that
orders could be sent to the Vicarage by post and would receive prompt
attention and the fuel could be delivered at any address—Messrs Rushton
& Co. having very kindly lent a handcart for the use of the men
employed at the Labour Yard.

As a result of the appearance of this bill, and of the laudatory
notices in the columns of the Ananias, the Obscurer, and the
Chloroform—the papers did not mind giving the business a free
advertisement, because it was a charitable concern—many persons
withdrew their custom from those who usually supplied them with
firewood, and gave their orders to the Yard; and they had the
satisfaction of getting their fuel cheaper than before and of
performing a charitable action at the same time.

As a remedy for unemployment this scheme was on a par with the method
of the tailor in the fable who thought to lengthen his cloth by cutting
a piece off one end and sewing it on to the other; but there was one
thing about it that recommended it to the Vicar—it was self-supporting.
He found that there would be no need to use all the money he had
extracted from the semi-imbecile old ladies for timber, so he bought
himself a Newfoundland dog, an antique set of carved ivory chessmen,
and a dozen bottles of whisky with the remainder of the cash.

The reverend gentleman hit upon yet another means of helping the poor.
He wrote a letter to the Weekly Chloroform appealing for cast-off boots
for poor children. This was considered such a splendid idea that the
editors of all the local papers referred to it in leading articles, and
several other letters were written by prominent citizens extolling the
wisdom and benevolence of the profound Bosher. Most of the boots that
were sent in response to this appeal had been worn until they needed
repair—in a very large proportion of instances, until they were beyond
repair. The poor people to whom they were given could not afford to
have them mended before using them, and the result was that the boots
generally began to fall to pieces after a few days’ wear.

This scheme amounted to very little. It did not increase the number of
cast-off boots, and most of the people who “cast off” their boots
generally gave them to someone or other. The only difference it can
have made was that possibly a few persons who usually threw their boots
away or sold them to second-hand dealers may have been induced to send
them to Mr Bosher instead. But all the same nearly everybody said it
was a splendid idea: its originator was applauded as a public
benefactor, and the pettifogging busybodies who amused themselves with
what they were pleased to term “charitable work” went into imbecile
ecstasies over him.

Chapter 36
The O.B.S.

One of the most important agencies for the relief of distress was the
Organized Benevolence Society. This association received money from
many sources. The proceeds of the fancy-dress carnival; the collections
from different churches and chapels which held special services in aid
of the unemployed; the weekly collections made by the employees of
several local firms and business houses; the proceeds of concerts,
bazaars, and entertainments, donations from charitable persons, and the
subscriptions of the members. The society also received large
quantities of cast-off clothing and boots, and tickets of admission to
hospitals, convalescent homes and dispensaries from subscribers to
those institutions, or from people like Rushton & Co., who had
collecting-boxes in their workshops and offices.

Altogether during the last year the Society had received from various
sources about three hundred pounds in hard cash. This money was devoted
to the relief of cases of distress.

The largest item in the expenditure of the Society was the salary of
the General Secretary, Mr Sawney Grinder—a most deserving case—who was
paid one hundred pounds a year.

After the death of the previous secretary there were so many candidates
for the vacant post that the election of the new secretary was a rather
exciting affair. The excitement was all the more intense because it was
restrained. A special meeting of the society was held: the Mayor,
Alderman Sweater, presided, and amongst those present were Councillors
Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, Mrs Starvem, Rev. Mr Bosher, a number of
the rich, semi-imbecile old women who had helped to open the Labour
Yard, and several other “ladies”. Some of these were the district
visitors already alluded to, most of them the wives of wealthy citizens
and retired tradesmen, richly dressed, ignorant, insolent, overbearing
frumps, who—after filling themselves with good things in their own
luxurious homes—went flouncing into the poverty-stricken dwellings of
their poor “sisters” and talked to them of “religion”, lectured them
about sobriety and thrift, and—sometimes—gave them tickets for soup or
orders for shillingsworths of groceries or coal. Some of these overfed
females—the wives of tradesmen, for instance—belonged to the Organized
Benevolence Society, and engaged in this “work” for the purpose of
becoming acquainted with people of superior social position—one of the
members was a colonel, and Sir Graball D’Encloseland—the Member of
Parliament for the borough—also belonged to the Society and
occasionally attended its meetings. Others took up district visiting as
a hobby; they had nothing to do, and being densely ignorant and of
inferior mentality, they had no desire or capacity for any intellectual
pursuit. So they took up this work for the pleasure of playing the
grand lady and the superior person at a very small expense. Other of
these visiting ladies were middle-aged, unmarried women with small
private incomes—some of them well-meaning, compassionate, gentle
creatures who did this work because they sincerely desired to help
others, and they knew of no better way. These did not take much part in
the business of the meetings; they paid their subscriptions and helped
to distribute the cast-off clothing and boots to those who needed them,
and occasionally obtained from the secretary an order for provisions or
coal or bread for some poverty-stricken family; but the poor, toil-worn
women whom they visited welcomed them more for their sisterly sympathy
than for the gifts they brought. Some of the visiting ladies were of
this character—but they were not many. They were as a few fragrant
flowers amidst a dense accumulation of noxious weeds. They were
examples of humility and kindness shining amidst a vile and loathsome
mass of hypocrisy, arrogance, and cant.

When the Chairman had opened the meeting, Mr Rushton moved a vote of
condolence with the relatives of the late secretary whom he eulogized
in the most extraordinary terms.

“The poor of Mugsborough had lost a kind and sympathetic friend”, “One
who had devoted his life to helping the needy”, and so on and so forth.
(As a matter of fact, most of the time of the defunct had been passed
in helping himself, but Rushton said nothing about that.)

Mr Didlum seconded the vote of condolence in similar terms, and it was
carried unanimously. Then the Chairman said that the next business was
to elect a successor to the departed paragon; and immediately no fewer
than nine members rose to propose a suitable person—they each had a
noble-minded friend or relative willing to sacrifice himself for the
good of the poor.

The nine Benevolent stood looking at each other and at the Chairman
with sickly smiles upon their hypocritical faces. It was a dramatic
moment. No one spoke. It was necessary to be careful. It would never do
to have a contest. The Secretary of the OBS was usually regarded as a
sort of philanthropist by the outside public, and it was necessary to
keep this fiction alive.

For one or two minutes an awkward silence reigned. Then, one after
another they all reluctantly resumed their seats with the exception of
Mr Amos Grinder, who said he wished to propose his nephew, Mr Sawney
Grinder, a young man of a most benevolent disposition who was desirous
of immolating himself upon the altar of charity for the benefit of the
poor—or words to that effect.

Mr Didlum seconded, and there being no other nomination—for they all
knew that it would give the game away to have a contest—the Chairman
put Mr Grinder’s proposal to the meeting and declared it carried
unanimously.

Another considerable item in the expenditure of the society was the
rent of the offices—a house in a back street. The landlord of this
place was another very deserving case.

There were numerous other expenses: stationery and stamps, printing,
and so on, and what was left of the money was used for the purpose for
which it had been given—a reasonable amount being kept in hand for
future expenses. All the details were of course duly set forth in the
Report and Balance Sheet at the annual meetings. No copy of this
document was ever handed to the reporters for publication; it was read
to the meeting by the Secretary; the representatives of the Press took
notes, and in the reports of the meeting that subsequently appeared in
the local papers the thing was so mixed up and garbled together that
the few people who read it could not make head or tail of it. The only
thing that was clear was that the society had been doing a great deal
of good to someone or other, and that more money was urgently needed to
carry on the work. It usually appeared something like this:

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

The annual meeting of the above Society was held yesterday at the Town
Hall. The Mayor, Alderman Sweater, presided, and amongst those present
were Sir Graball D’Encloseland, Lady D’Encloseland, Lady Slumrent. Rev.
Mr Bosher, Mr Cheeseman, Mrs Bilder, Mrs Grosare, Mrs Daree, Mrs
Butcher, Mrs Taylor, Mrs Baker, Mrs Starvem, Mrs Slodging, Mrs M. B.
Sile, Mrs Knobrane, Mrs M. T. Head, Mr Rushton, Mr Didlum, Mr Grinder
and (here followed about a quarter of a column of names of other
charitable persons, all subscribers to the Society).

The Secretary read the annual report which contained the following
amongst other interesting items:

During the year, 1,972 applications for assistance have been received,
and of this number 1,302 have been assisted as follows: Bread or
grocery orders, 273. Coal or coke orders, 57. Nourishment 579.
(Applause.) Pairs of boots granted, 29. Clothing, 105. Crutch granted
to poor man, 1. Nurses provided, 2. Hospital tickets, 26. Sent to
Consumption Sanatorium, 1. Twenty-nine persons, whose cases being
chronic, were referred to the Poor Law Guardians. Work found for 19
persons. (Cheers.) Pedlar’s licences, 4. Dispensary tickets, 24.
Bedding redeemed, 1. Loans granted to people to enable them to pay
their rent, 8. (Loud cheers.) Dental tickets, 2. Railway fares for men
who were going away from the town to employment elsewhere, 12. (Great
cheering.) Loans granted, 5. Advertisements for employment, 4— and so
on.

There was about another quarter of a column of these details, the
reading of which was punctuated with applause and concluded with:
“Leaving 670 cases which for various reasons the Society was unable to
assist”. The report then went on to explain that the work of inquiring
into the genuineness of the applications entailed a lot of labour on
the part of the Secretary, some cases taking several days. No fewer
than 649 letters had been sent out from the office, and 97 postcards.
(Applause.) Very few cash gifts were granted, as it was most necessary
to guard against the Charity being abused. (Hear, hear.)

Then followed a most remarkable paragraph headed “The Balance Sheet”,
which—as it was put—“included the following”. “The following” was a
jumbled list of items of expenditure, subscriptions, donations,
legacies, and collections, winding up with “the general summary showed
a balance in hand of £178.4.6’. (They always kept a good balance in
hand because of the Secretary’s salary and the rent of the offices.)

After this very explicit financial statement came the most important
part of the report: “Thanks are expressed to Sir Graball D’Encloseland
for a donation of 2 guineas. Mrs Grosare, 1 guinea. Mrs Starvem,
Hospital tickets. Lady Slumrent, letter of admission to Convalescent
Home. Mrs Knobrane, 1 guinea. Mrs M.B. Sile, 1 guinea. Mrs M.T. Head, 1
guinea. Mrs Sledging, gifts of clothing”—and so on for another quarter
of a column, the whole concluding with a vote of thanks to the
Secretary and an urgent appeal to the charitable public for more funds
to enable the Society to continue its noble work.

Meantime, in spite of this and kindred organizations the conditions of
the under-paid poverty stricken and unemployed workers remained the
same. Although the people who got the grocery and coal orders, the
“Nourishment”, and the cast-off clothes and boots, were very glad to
have them, yet these things did far more harm than good. They
humiliated, degraded and pauperized those who received them, and the
existence of the societies prevented the problem being grappled with in
a sane and practical manner. The people lacked the necessaries of life:
the necessaries of life are produced by Work: these people were willing
to work, but were prevented from doing so by the idiotic system of
society which these “charitable” people are determined to do their best
to perpetuate.

If the people who expect to be praised and glorified for being
charitable were never to give another farthing it would be far better
for the industrious poor, because then the community as a whole would
be compelled to deal with the absurd and unnecessary state of affairs
that exists today—millions of people living and dying in wretchedness
and poverty in an age when science and machinery have made it possible
to produce such an abundance of everything that everyone might enjoy
plenty and comfort. It if were not for all this so-called charity the
starving unemployed men all over the country would demand to be allowed
to work and produce the things they are perishing for want of, instead
of being—as they are now—content to wear their masters’ cast-off
clothing and to eat the crumbs that fall from his table.

Chapter 37
A Brilliant Epigram

All through the winter, the wise, practical, philanthropic, fat persons
whom the people of Mugsborough had elected to manage their affairs—or
whom they permitted to manage them without being elected—continued to
grapple, or to pretend to grapple, with the “problem” of unemployment
and poverty. They continued to hold meetings, rummage and jumble sales,
entertainments and special services. They continued to distribute the
rotten cast-off clothing and boots, and the nourishment tickets. They
were all so sorry for the poor, especially for the “dear little
children”. They did all sorts of things to help the children. In fact,
there was nothing that they would not do for them except levy a
halfpenny rate. It would never do to do that. It might pauperize the
parents and destroy parental responsibility. They evidently thought
that it would be better to destroy the health or even the lives of the
“dear little children” than to pauperize the parents or undermine
parental responsibility. These people seemed to think that the children
were the property of their parents. They did not have sense enough to
see that the children are not the property of their parents at all, but
the property of the community. When they attain to manhood and
womanhood they will be, if mentally or physically inefficient, a burden
on the community; if they become criminals, they will prey upon the
community, and if they are healthy, educated and brought up in good
surroundings, they will become useful citizens, able to render valuable
service, not merely to their parents, but to the community. Therefore
the children are the property of the community, and it is the business
and to the interest of the community to see that their constitutions
are not undermined by starvation. The Secretary of the local Trades
Council, a body formed of delegates from all the different trades
unions in the town, wrote a letter to the Obscurer, setting forth this
view. He pointed out that a halfpenny rate in that town would produce a
sum of £800, which would be more than sufficient to provide food for
all the hungry schoolchildren. In the next issue of the paper several
other letters appeared from leading citizens, including, of course,
Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, ridiculing the proposal of the
Trades Council, who were insultingly alluded to as “pothouse
politicians”, “beer-sodden agitators” and so forth. Their right to be
regarded as representatives of the working men was denied, and Grinder,
who, having made inquiries amongst working men, was acquainted with the
facts, stated that there was scarcely one of the local branches of the
trades unions which had more than a dozen members; and as Grinder’s
statement was true, the Secretary was unable to contradict it. The
majority of the working men were also very indignant when they heard
about the Secretary’s letter: they said the rates were quite high
enough as it was, and they sneered at him for presuming to write to the
papers at all:

“Who the bloody ’ell was ’e?” they said. “’E was not a Gentleman! ’E
was only a workin’ man the same as themselves—a common carpenter! What
the ’ell did ’e know about it? Nothing. ’E was just trying to make
’isself out to be Somebody, that was all. The idea of one of the likes
of them writing to the papers!”

One day, having nothing better to do, Owen was looking at some books
that were exposed for sale on a table outside a second-hand furniture
shop. One book in particular took his attention: he read several pages
with great interest, and regretted that he had not the necessary
sixpence to buy it. The title of the book was: Consumption: Its Causes
and Its Cure. The author was a well-known physician who devoted his
whole attention to the study of that disease. Amongst other things, the
book gave rules for the feeding of delicate children, and there were
also several different dietaries recommended for adult persons
suffering from the disease. One of these dietaries amused him very
much, because as far as the majority of those who suffer from
consumption are concerned, the good doctor might just as well have
prescribed a trip to the moon:

“Immediately on waking in the morning, half a pint of milk—this should
be hot, if possible—with a small slice of bread and butter.

“At breakfast: half a pint of milk, with coffee, chocolate, or oatmeal:
eggs and bacon, bread and butter, or dry toast.

“At eleven o’clock: half a pint of milk with an egg beaten up in it or
some beef tea and bread and butter.

“At one o’clock: half a pint of warm milk with a biscuit or sandwich.

“At two o’clock: fish and roast mutton, or a mutton chop, with as much
fat as possible: poultry, game, etc., may be taken with vegetables, and
milk pudding.

“At five o’clock: hot milk with coffee or chocolate, bread and butter,
watercress, etc.

“At eight o’clock: a pint of milk, with oatmeal or chocolate, and
gluten bread, or two lightly boiled eggs with bread and butter.

“Before retiring to rest: a glass of warm milk.

“During the night: a glass of milk with a biscuit or bread and butter
should be placed by the bedside and be eaten if the patient awakes.”

Whilst Owen was reading this book, Crass, Harlow, Philpot and Easton
were talking together on the other side of the street, and presently
Crass caught sight of him. They had been discussing the Secretary’s
letter re the halfpenny rate, and as Owen was one of the members of the
Trades Council, Crass suggested that they should go across and tackle
him about it.

“How much is your house assessed at?” asked Owen after listening for
about a quarter of an hour to Crass’s objection.

“Fourteen pound,” replied Crass.

“That means that you would have to pay sevenpence per year if we had a
halfpenny rate. Wouldn’t it be worth sevenpence a year to you to know
that there were no starving children in the town?”

“Why should I ’ave to ’elp to keep the children of a man who’s too lazy
to work, or spends all ’is money on drink?” shouted Crass. “’Ow are yer
goin’ to make out about the likes o’ them?”

“If his children are starving we should feed them first, and punish him
afterwards.”

“The rates is quite high enough as it is,” grumbled Harlow, who had
four children himself.

“That’s quite true, but you must remember that the rates the working
classes at present pay are spent mostly for the benefit of other
people. Good roads are maintained for people who ride in motor cars and
carriages; the Park and the Town Band for those who have leisure to
enjoy them; the Police force to protect the property of those who have
something to lose, and so on. But if we pay this rate we shall get
something for our money.”

“We gets the benefit of the good roads when we ’as to push a ’andcart
with a load o’ paint and ladders,” said Easton.

“Of course,” said Crass, “and besides, the workin’ class gets the
benefit of all the other things too, because it all makes work.”

“Well, for my part,” said Philpot, “I wouldn’t mind payin’ my share
towards a ’appeny rate, although I ain’t got no kids o’ me own.”

The hostility of most of the working men to the proposed rate was
almost as bitter as that of the “better” classes—the noble-minded
philanthropists who were always gushing out their sympathy for the
“dear little ones”, the loathsome hypocrites who pretended that there
was no need to levy a rate because they were willing to give sufficient
money in the form of charity to meet the case: but the children
continued to go hungry all the same.

“Loathsome hypocrites” may seem a hard saying, but it was a matter of
common knowledge that the majority of the children attending the local
elementary schools were insufficiently fed. It was admitted that the
money that could be raised by a halfpenny rate would be more than
sufficient to provide them all with one good meal every day. The
charity-mongers who professed such extravagant sympathy with the “dear
little children” resisted the levying of the rate “because it would
press so heavily on the poorer ratepayers”, and said that they were
willing to give more in voluntary charity than the rate would amount
to: but, the “dear little children”—as they were so fond of calling
them—continued to go to school hungry all the same.

To judge them by their profession and their performances, it appeared
that these good kind persons were willing to do any mortal thing for
the “dear little children” except allow them to be fed.

If these people had really meant to do what they pretended, they would
not have cared whether they paid the money to a rate-collector or to
the secretary of a charity society and they would have preferred to
accomplish their object in the most efficient and economical way.

But although they would not allow the children to be fed, they went to
church and to chapel, glittering with jewellery, their fat carcases
clothed in rich raiment, and sat with smug smiles upon their faces
listening to the fat parsons reading out of a Book that none of them
seemed able to understand, for this was what they read:

“And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst of
them, and said: Whosoever shall receive one such little child in My
name, receiveth Me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it
were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and
that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

“Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto
you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of My
Father.”

And this: “Then shall He say unto them: Depart from me, ye cursed, into
the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels: for I was
an hungered and ye gave Me no meat: I was thirsty and ye gave Me no
drink: I was a stranger and ye took Me not in; naked, and ye clothed Me
not.

“Then shall they answer: ‘Lord, when saw we Thee an hungered or athirst
or a stranger or naked, or sick, and did not minister unto Thee?’ and
He shall answer them, ‘Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not
to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me.’”

These were the sayings that the infidel parsons mouthed in the infidel
temples to the richly dressed infidel congregations, who heard but did
not understand, for their hearts were become gross and their ears dull
of hearing. And meantime, all around them, in the alley and the slum,
and more terrible still—because more secret—in the better sort of
streets where lived the respectable class of skilled artisans, the
little children became thinner and paler day by day for lack of proper
food, and went to bed early because there was no fire.

Sir Graball D’Encloseland, the Member of Parliament for the borough,
was one of the bitterest opponents of the halfpenny rate, but as he
thought it was probable that there would soon be another General
Election and he wanted the children’s fathers to vote for him again, he
was willing to do something for them in another way. He had a
ten-year-old daughter whose birthday was in that month, so the
kind-hearted Baronet made arrangements to give a Tea to all the school
children in the town in honour of the occasion. The tea was served in
the schoolrooms and each child was presented with a gilt-edged card on
which was a printed portrait of the little hostess, with “From your
loving little friend, Honoria D’Encloseland”, in gold letters. During
the evening the little girl, accompanied by Sir Graball and Lady
D’Encloseland, motored round to all the schools where the tea was being
consumed: the Baronet made a few remarks, and Honoria made a pretty
little speech, specially learnt for the occasion, at each place, and
they were loudly cheered and greatly admired in response. The
enthusiasm was not confined to the boys and girls, for while the
speechmaking was going on inside, a little crowd of grown-up children
were gathered round outside the entrance, worshipping the motor car:
and when the little party came out the crowd worshipped them also,
going into imbecile ecstasies of admiration of their benevolence and
their beautiful clothes.

For several weeks everybody in the town was in raptures over this
tea—or, rather, everybody except a miserable little minority of
Socialists, who said it was bribery, an electioneering dodge, that did
no real good, and who continued to clamour for a halfpenny rate.

Another specious fraud was the “Distress Committee”. This body—or
corpse, for there was not much vitality in it—was supposed to exist for
the purpose of providing employment for “deserving cases”. One might be
excused for thinking that any man—no matter what his past may have
been—who is willing to work for his living is a “deserving case”: but
this was evidently not the opinion of the persons who devised the
regulations for the working of this committee. Every applicant for work
was immediately given a long job, and presented with a double sheet of
foolscap paper to do it with. Now, if the object of the committee had
been to furnish the applicant with material for the manufacture of an
appropriate headdress for himself, no one could reasonably have found
fault with them: but the foolscap was not to be utilized in that way;
it was called a “Record Paper”, three pages of it were covered with
insulting, inquisitive, irrelevant questions concerning the private
affairs and past life of the “case” who wished to be permitted to work
for his living, and all these had to be answered to the satisfaction of
Messrs D’Encloseland, Bosher, Sweater, Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and the
other members of the committee, before the case stood any chance of
getting employment.

However, notwithstanding the offensive nature of the questions on the
application form, during the five months that this precious committee
was in session, no fewer than 1,237 broken-spirited and humble “lion’s
whelps” filled up the forms and answered the questions as meekly as if
they had been sheep. The funds of the committee consisted of £500,
obtained from the Imperial Exchequer, and about £250 in charitable
donations. This money was used to pay wages for certain work—some of
which would have had to be done even if the committee had never
existed—and if each of the 1,237 applicants had had an equal share of
the work, the wages they would have received would have amounted to
about twelve shillings each. This was what the “practical” persons, the
“business-men”, called “dealing with the problem of unemployment”.
Imagine having to keep your family for five months with twelve
shillings!

And, if you like, imagine that the Government grant had been four times
as much as it was, and that the charity had amounted to four times as
much as it did, and then fancy having to keep your family for five
months with two pounds eight shillings!

It is true that some of the members of the committee would have been
very glad if they had been able to put the means of earning a living
within the reach of every man who was willing to work; but they simply
did not know what to do, or how to do it. They were not ignorant of the
reality of the evil they were supposed to be “dealing with”—appalling
evidences of it faced them on every side, and as, after all, these
committee men were human beings and not devils, they would have been
glad to mitigate it if they could have done so without hurting
themselves: but the truth was that they did not know what to do!

These are the “practical” men; the monopolists of intelligence, the
wise individuals who control the affairs of the world: it is in
accordance with the ideas of such men as these that the conditions of
human life are regulated.

This is the position:

It is admitted that never before in the history of mankind was it
possible to produce the necessaries of life in such abundance as at
present.

The management of the affairs of the world—the business of arranging
the conditions under which we live—is at present in the hands of
Practical, Level-headed, Sensible Business-men.

The result of their management is, that the majority of the people find
it a hard struggle to live. Large numbers exist in perpetual poverty: a
great many more periodically starve: many actually die of want:
hundreds destroy themselves rather than continue to live and suffer.

When the Practical, Level-headed, Sensible Business-men are asked why
they do not remedy this state of things, they reply that they do not
know what to do! or, that it is impossible to remedy it!

And yet it is admitted that it is now possible to produce the
necessaries of life, in greater abundance than ever before!

With lavish kindness, the Supreme Being had provided all things
necessary for the existence and happiness of his creatures. To suggest
that it is not so is a blasphemous lie: it is to suggest that the
Supreme Being is not good or even just. On every side there is an
overflowing superfluity of the materials requisite for the production
of all the necessaries of life: from these materials everything we need
may be produced in abundance—by Work. Here was an army of people
lacking the things that may be made by work, standing idle. Willing to
work; clamouring to be allowed to work, and the Practical,
Level-headed, Sensible Business-men did not know what to do!

Of course, the real reason for the difficulty is that the raw materials
that were created for the use and benefit of all have been stolen by a
small number, who refuse to allow them to be used for the purposes for
which they were intended. This numerically insignificant minority
refused to allow the majority to work and produce the things they need;
and what work they do graciously permit to be done is not done with the
object of producing the necessaries of life for those who work, but for
the purpose of creating profit for their masters.

And then, strangest fact of all, the people who find it a hard struggle
to live, or who exist in dreadful poverty and sometimes starve, instead
of trying to understand the causes of their misery and to find out a
remedy themselves, spend all their time applauding the Practical,
Sensible, Level-headed Business-men, who bungle and mismanage their
affairs, and pay them huge salaries for doing so. Sir Graball
D’Encloseland, for instance, was a “Secretary of State” and was paid
£5,000 a year. When he first got the job the wages were only a beggarly
£2,000, but as he found it impossible to exist on less than £100 a week
he decided to raise his salary to that amount; and the foolish people
who find it a hard struggle to live paid it willingly, and when they
saw the beautiful motor car and the lovely clothes and jewellery he
purchased for his wife with the money, and heard the Great Speech he
made—telling them how the shortage of everything was caused by
Over-production and Foreign Competition, they clapped their hands and
went frantic with admiration. Their only regret was that there were no
horses attached to the motor car, because if there had been, they could
have taken them out and harnessed themselves to it instead.

Nothing delighted the childish minds of these poor people so much as
listening to or reading extracts from the speeches of such men as
these; so in order to amuse them, every now and then, in the midst of
all the wretchedness, some of the great statesmen made “great speeches”
full of cunning phrases intended to hoodwink the fools who had elected
them. The very same week that Sir Graball’s salary was increased to
£5,000 a year, all the papers were full of a very fine one that he
made. They appeared with large headlines like this:

GREAT SPEECH BY SIR GRABALL D’ENCLOSELAND
Brilliant Epigram!
None should have more than they need, whilst any have less than they
need!

The hypocrisy of such a saying in the mouth of a man who was drawing a
salary of five thousand pounds a year did not appear to occur to
anyone. On the contrary, the hired scribes of the capitalist Press
wrote columns of fulsome admiration of the miserable claptrap, and the
working men who had elected this man went into raptures over the
“Brilliant Epigram” as if it were good to eat. They cut it out of the
papers and carried it about with them: they showed it to each other:
they read it and repeated it to each other: they wondered at it and
were delighted with it, grinning and gibbering at each other in the
exuberance of their imbecile enthusiasm.

The Distress Committee was not the only body pretending to “deal” with
the poverty “problem”: its efforts were supplemented by all the other
agencies already mentioned—the Labour Yard, the Rummage Sales, the
Organized Benevolence Society, and so on, to say nothing of a most
benevolent scheme originated by the management of Sweater’s Emporium,
who announced in a letter that was published in the local Press that
they were prepared to employ fifty men for one week to carry sandwich
boards at one shilling—and a loaf of bread—per day.

They got the men; some unskilled labourers, a few old, worn out
artisans whom misery had deprived of the last vestiges of pride or
shame; a number of habitual drunkards and loafers, and a non-descript
lot of poor ragged old men—old soldiers and others of whom it would be
impossible to say what they had once been.

The procession of sandwich men was headed by the Semi-drunk and the
Besotted Wretch, and each board was covered with a printed poster:
“Great Sale of Ladies’ Blouses now Proceeding at Adam Sweater’s
Emporium.”

Besides this artful scheme of Sweater’s for getting a good
advertisement on the cheap, numerous other plans for providing
employment or alleviating the prevailing misery were put forward in the
columns of the local papers and at the various meetings that were held.
Any foolish, idiotic, useless suggestion was certain to receive
respectful attention; any crafty plan devised in his own interest or
for his own profit by one or other of the crew of sweaters and
landlords who controlled the town was sure to be approved of by the
other inhabitants of Mugsborough, the majority of whom were persons of
feeble intellect who not only allowed themselves to be robbed and
exploited by a few cunning scoundrels, but venerated and applauded them
for doing it.

Chapter 38
The Brigands’ Cave

One evening in the drawing-room at “The Cave” there was a meeting of a
number of the “Shining Lights” to arrange the details of a Rummage
Sale, that was to be held in aid of the unemployed. It was an informal
affair, and while they were waiting for the other luminaries, the early
arrivals, Messrs Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, Mr Oyley Sweater, the
Borough Surveyor, Mr Wireman, the electrical engineer who had been
engaged as an “expert” to examine and report on the Electric Light
Works, and two or three other gentlemen—all members of the Band—took
advantage of the opportunity to discuss a number of things they were
mutually interested in, which were to be dealt with at the meeting of
the Town Council the next day. First, there was the affair of the
untenanted Kiosk on the Grand Parade. This building belonged to the
Corporation, and “The Cosy Corner Refreshment Coy.” of which Mr Grinder
was the managing director, was thinking of hiring it to open as a
high-class refreshment lounge, provided the Corporation would make
certain alterations and let the place at a reasonable rent. Another
item which was to be discussed at the Council meeting was Mr Sweater’s
generous offer to the Corporation respecting the new drain connecting
“The Cave” with the Town Main.

The report of Mr Wireman, the electrical expert, was also to be dealt
with, and afterwards a resolution in favour of the purchase of the
Mugsborough Electric light and Installation Co. Ltd by the town, was to
be proposed.

In addition to these matters, several other items, including a proposal
by Mr Didlum for an important reform in the matter of conducting the
meetings of the Council, formed subjects for animated conversation
between the brigands and their host.

During this discussion other luminaries arrived, including several
ladies and the Rev. Mr Bosher, of the Church of the Whited Sepulchre.

The drawing-room of “The Cave” was now elaborately furnished. A large
mirror in a richly gilt frame reached from the carved marble
mantelpiece to the cornice. A magnificent clock in an alabaster case
stood in the centre of the mantelpiece and was flanked by two
exquisitely painted and gilded vases of Dresden ware. The windows were
draped with costly hangings, the floor was covered with a luxurious
carpet and expensive rugs. Sumptuously upholstered couches and easy
chairs added to the comfort of the apartment, which was warmed by the
immense fire of coal and oak logs that blazed and crackled in the
grate.

The conversation now became general and at times highly philosophical
in character, although Mr Bosher did not take much part, being too
busily engaged gobbling up the biscuits and tea, and only occasionally
spluttering out a reply when a remark or question was directly
addressed to him.

This was Mr Grinder’s first visit at the house, and he expressed his
admiration of the manner in which the ceiling and the walls were
decorated, remarking that he had always liked this ’ere Japanese style.

Mr Bosher, with his mouth full of biscuit, mumbled that it was sweetly
pretty—charming—beautifully done—must have cost a lot of money.

“Hardly wot you’d call Japanese, though, is it?” observed Didlum,
looking round with the air of a connoisseur. “I should be inclined to
say it was rather more of the—er—Chinese or Egyptian.”

“Moorish,” explained Mr Sweater with a smile. “I got the idear at the
Paris Exhibition. It’s simler to the decorations in the ‘Halambara’,
the palace of the Sultan of Morocco. That clock there is in the same
style.”

The case of the clock referred to—which stood on a table in a corner of
the room—was of fretwork, in the form of an Indian Mosque, with a
pointed dome and pinnacles. This was the case that Mary Linden had sold
to Didlum; the latter had had it stained a dark colour and polished and
further improved it by substituting a clock of more suitable design
than the one it originally held. Mr Sweater had noticed it in Didlum’s
window and, seeing that the design was similar in character to the
painted decorations on the ceiling and walls of his drawing-room, had
purchased it.

“I went to the Paris Exhibition meself,” said Grinder, when everyone
had admired the exquisite workmanship of the clock-case. “I remember
’avin’ a look at the moon through that big telescope. I was never so
surprised in me life: you can see it quite plain, and it’s round!”

“Round?” said Didlum with a puzzled look. “Round? Of course it’s round!
You didn’t used to think it was square, did yer?”

“No, of course not, but I always used to think it was flat—like a
plate, but it’s round like a football.”

“Certainly: the moon is a very simler body to the earth,” explained
Didlum, describing an aerial circle with a wave of his hand. “They
moves through the air together, but the earth is always nearest to the
sun and consequently once a fortnight the shadder of the earth falls on
the moon and darkens it so that it’s invisible to the naked eye. The
new moon is caused by the moon movin’ a little bit out of the earth’s
shadder, and it keeps on comin’ more and more until we gets the full
moon; and then it goes back again into the shadder; and so it keeps
on.”

For about a minute everyone looked very solemn, and the profound
silence was disturbed only by the crunching of the biscuits between the
jaws of Mr Bosher, and by certain gurglings in the interior of that
gentleman.

“Science is a wonderful thing,” said Mr Sweater at length, wagging his
head gravely, “wonderful!”

“Yes: but a lot of it is mere theory, you know,” observed Rushton.
“Take this idear that the world is round, for instance; I fail to see
it! And then they say as Hawstralia is on the other side of the globe,
underneath our feet. In my opinion it’s ridiculous, because if it was
true, wot’s to prevent the people droppin’ orf?”

“Yes: well, of course it’s very strange,” admitted Sweater. “I’ve often
thought of that myself. If it was true, we ought to be able to walk on
the ceiling of this room, for instance; but of course we know that’s
impossible, and I really don’t see that the other is any more
reasonable.”

“I’ve often noticed flies walkin’ on the ceilin’,” remarked Didlum, who
felt called upon to defend the globular theory.

“Yes; but they’re different,” replied Rushton. “Flies is provided by
nature with a gluey substance which oozes out of their feet for the
purpose of enabling them to walk upside down.”

“There’s one thing that seems to me to finish that idear once for all,”
said Grinder, “and that is—water always finds its own level. You can’t
get away from that; and if the world was round, as they want us to
believe, all the water would run off except just a little at the top.
To my mind, that settles the whole argymint.”

“Another thing that gets over me,” continued Rushton, “is this:
according to science, the earth turns round on its axle at the rate of
twenty miles a minit. Well, what about when a lark goes up in the sky
and stays there about a quarter of an hour? Why, if it was true that
the earth was turnin’ round at that rate all the time, when the bird
came down it would find itself ’undreds of miles away from the place
where it went up from! But that doesn’t ’appen at all; the bird always
comes down in the same spot.”

“Yes, and the same thing applies to balloons and flyin’ machines,” said
Grinder. “If it was true that the world is spinnin’ round on its axle
so quick as that, if a man started out from Calais to fly to Dover, by
the time he got to England he’d find ’imself in North America, or
p’r’aps farther off still.”

“And if it was true that the world goes round the sun at the rate they
makes out, when a balloon went up, the earth would run away from it!
They’d never be able to get back again!” remarked Rushton.

This was so obvious that nearly everyone said there was probably
something in it, and Didlum could think of no reply. Mr Bosher upon
being appealed to for his opinion, explained that science was alright
in its way, but unreliable: the things scientists said yesterday they
contradicted today, and what they said today they would probably
repudiate tomorrow. It was necessary to be very cautious before
accepting any of their assertions.

“Talking about science,” said Grinder, as the holy man relapsed into
silence and started on another biscuit and a fresh cup of tea. “Talking
about science reminds me of a conversation I ’ad with Dr Weakling the
other day. You know, he believes we’re all descended from monkeys.”

Everyone laughed; the thing was so absurd: the idea of placing
intellectual beings on a level with animals!

“But just wait till you hear how nicely I flattened ’im out,” continued
Grinder. “After we’d been arguin’ a long time about wot ’e called
everlution or some sich name, and a lot more tommy-rot that I couldn’t
make no ’ead or tail of—and to tell you the truth I don’t believe ’e
understood ’arf of it ’imself—I ses to ’im, ‘Well,’ I ses, ‘if it’s
true that we’re hall descended from monkeys,’ I ses, ‘I think your
famly must ’ave left orf where mine begun.’”

In the midst of the laughter that greeted the conclusion of Grinder’s
story it was seen that Mr Bosher had become black in the face. He was
waving his arms and writhing about like one in a fit, his goggle eyes
bursting from their sockets, whilst his huge stomach quivering
spasmodically, alternately contracted and expanded as if it were about
to explode.

In the exuberance of his mirth, the unfortunate disciple had swallowed
two biscuits at once. Everybody rushed to his assistance, Grinder and
Didlum seized an arm and a shoulder each and forced his head down.
Rushton punched him in the back and the ladies shrieked with alarm.
They gave him a big drink of tea to help to get the biscuits down, and
when he at last succeeded in swallowing them he sat in the armchair
with his eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, which ran down over his
white, flabby face.

The arrival of the other members of the committee put an end to the
interesting discussion, and they shortly afterwards proceeded with the
business for which the meeting had been called—the arrangements for the
forthcoming Rummage Sale.

Chapter 39
The Brigands at Work

The next day, at the meeting of the Town Council, Mr Wireman’s report
concerning the Electric Light Works was read. The expert’s opinion was
so favourable—and it was endorsed by the Borough Engineer, Mr Oyley
Sweater—that a resolution was unanimously carried in favour of
acquiring the Works for the town, and a secret committee was appointed
to arrange the preliminaries. Alderman Sweater then suggested that a
suitable honorarium be voted to Mr Wireman for his services. This was
greeted with a murmur of approval from most of the members, and Mr
Didlum rose with the intention of proposing a resolution to that effect
when he was interrupted by Alderman Grinder, who said he couldn’t see
no sense in giving the man a thing like that. “Why not give him a sum
of money?”

Several members said “Hear, hear,” to this, but some of the others
laughed.

“I can’t see nothing to laugh at,” cried Grinder angrily. “For my part
I wouldn’t give you tuppence for all the honorariums in the country. I
move that we pay ’im a sum of money.”

“I’ll second that,” said another member of the Band—one of those who
had cried “Hear, Hear.”

Alderman Sweater said that there seemed to be a little misunderstanding
and explained that an honorarium WAS a sum of money.

“Oh, well, in that case I’ll withdraw my resolution,” said Grinder. “I
thought you wanted to give ’im a ’luminated address or something like
that.”

Didlum now moved that a letter of thanks and a fee of fifty guineas be
voted to Mr Wireman, and this was also unanimously agreed to. Dr
Weakling said that it seemed rather a lot, but he did not go so far as
to vote against it.

The next business was the proposal that the Corporation should take
over the drain connecting Mr Sweater’s house with the town main. Mr
Sweater—being a public-spirited man—proposed to hand this connecting
drain—which ran through a private road—over to the Corporation to be
theirs and their successors for ever, on condition that they would pay
him the cost of construction—£55—and agreed to keep it in proper
repair. After a brief discussion it was decided to take over the drain
on the terms offered, and then Councillor Didlum proposed a vote of
thanks to Alderman Sweater for his generosity in the matter: this was
promptly seconded by Councillor Rushton and would have been carried
nem. con., but for the disgraceful conduct of Dr Weakling, who had the
bad taste to suggest that the amount was about double what the drain
could possibly have cost to construct, that it was of no use to the
Corporation at all, and that they would merely acquire the liability to
keep it in repair.

However, no one took the trouble to reply to Weakling, and the Band
proceeded to the consideration of the next business, which was Mr
Grinder’s offer—on behalf of the “Cosy Corner Refreshment Company”—to
take the Kiosk on the Grand Parade. Mr Grinder submitted a plan of
certain alterations that he would require the Corporation to make at
the Kiosk, and, provided the Council agreed to do this work he was
willing to take a lease of the place for five years at £20 per year.

Councillor Didlum proposed that the offer of the “Cosy Corner
Refreshment Co. Ltd” be accepted and the required alterations proceeded
with at once. The Kiosk had brought in no rent for nearly two years,
but, apart from that consideration, if they accepted this offer they
would be able to set some of the unemployed to work. (Applause.)

Councillor Rushton seconded.

Dr Weakling pointed out that as the proposed alterations would cost
about £175—according to the estimate of the Borough Engineer—and, the
rent being only £20 a year, it would mean that the Council would be £75
out of pocket at the end of the five years; to say nothing of the
expense of keeping the place in repair during all that time.
(Disturbance.) He moved as an amendment that the alterations be made,
and that they then invite tenders, and let the place to the highest
bidder. (Great uproar.)

Councillor Rushton said he was disgusted with the attitude taken up by
that man Weakling. (Applause.) Perhaps it was hardly right to call him
a man. (Hear! Hear!) In the matter of these alterations they had had
the use of Councillor Grinder’s brains: it was he who first thought of
making these improvements in the Kiosk, and therefore he—or rather the
company he represented—had a moral right to the tenancy. (Loud cheers.)

Dr Weakling said that he thought it was understood that when a man was
elected to that Council it was because he was supposed to be willing to
use his brains for the benefit of his constituents. (Sardonic
laughter.)

The Mayor asked if there was any seconder to Weakling’s amendment, and
as there was not the original proposition was put and carried.

Councillor Rushton suggested that a large shelter with seating
accommodation for about two hundred persons should be erected on the
Grand Parade near the Kiosk. The shelter would serve as a protection
against rain, or the rays of the sun in summer. It would add materially
to the comfort of visitors and would be a notable addition to the
attractions of the town.

Councillor Didlum said it was a very good idear, and proposed that the
Surveyor be instructed to get out the plans.

Dr Weakling opposed the motion. (Laughter.) It seemed to him that the
object was to benefit, not the town, but Mr Grinder. (Disturbance.) If
this shelter were erected, it would increase the value of the Kiosk as
a refreshment bar by a hundred per cent. If Mr Grinder wanted a shelter
for his customers he should pay for it himself. (Uproar.) He (Dr
Weakling) was sorry to have to say it, but he could not help thinking
that this was a Put-up job. (Loud cries of “Withdraw” “Apologize” “Cast
’im out” and terrific uproar.)

Weakling did not apologize or withdraw, but he said no more. Didlum’s
proposition was carried, and the “Band” went on to the next item on the
agenda, which was a proposal by Councillor Didlum to increase the
salary of Mr Oyley Sweater, the Borough Engineer, from fifteen pounds
to seventeen pounds per week.

Councillor Didlum said that when they had a good man they ought to
appreciate him. (Applause.) Compared with other officials, the Borough
Engineer was not fairly paid. (Hear, hear.) The magistrates’ clerk
received seventeen pounds a week. The Town Clerk seventeen pounds per
week. He did not wish it to be understood that he thought those
gentlemen were overpaid—far from it. (Hear, hear.) It was not that they
got too much but that the Engineer got too little. How could they
expect a man like that to exist on a paltry fifteen pounds a week? Why,
it was nothing more or less than sweating! (Hear, hear.) He had much
pleasure in moving that the Borough Engineer’s salary be increased to
seventeen pounds a week, and that his annual holiday be extended from a
fortnight to one calendar month with hard la—he begged pardon—with full
pay. (Loud cheers.)

Councillor Rushton said that he did not propose to make a long
speech—it was not necessary. He would content himself with formally
seconding Councillor Didlum’s excellent proposition. (Applause.)

Councillor Weakling, whose rising was greeted with derisive laughter,
said he must oppose the resolution. He wished it to be understood that
he was not actuated by any feeling of personal animosity towards the
Borough Engineer, but at the same time he considered it his duty to say
that in his (Dr Weakling’s) opinion, that official would be dear at
half the price they were now paying him. (Disturbance.) He did not
appear to understand his business, nearly all the work that was done
cost in the end about double what the Borough Engineer estimated it
could be done for. (Liar.) He considered him to be a grossly
incompetent person (uproar) and was of opinion that if they were to
advertise they could get dozens of better men who would be glad to do
the work for five pounds a week. He moved that Mr Oyley Sweater be
asked to resign and that they advertise for a man at five pounds a
week. (Great uproar.)

Councillor Grinder rose to a point of order. He appealed to the
Chairman to squash the amendment. (Applause.)

Councillor Didlum remarked that he supposed Councillor Grinder meant
“quash”: in that case, he would support the suggestion.

Councillor Grinder said it was about time they put a stopper on that
feller Weakling. He (Grinder) did not care whether they called it
squashing or quashing; it was all the same so long as they nipped him
in the bud. (Cheers.) The man was a disgrace to the Council; always
interfering and hindering the business.

The Mayor—Alderman Sweater—said that he did not think it consistent
with the dignity of that Council to waste any more time over this
scurrilous amendment. (Applause.) He was proud to say that it had never
even been seconded, and therefore he would put Mr Didlum’s resolution—a
proposition which he had no hesitation in saying reflected the highest
credit upon that gentleman and upon all those who supported it.
(Vociferous cheers.)

All those who were in favour signified their approval in the customary
manner, and as Weakling was the only one opposed, the resolution was
carried and the meeting proceeded to the next business.

Councillor Rushton said that several influential ratepayers and
employers of labour had complained to him about the high wages of the
Corporation workmen, some of whom were paid sevenpence-halfpenny an
hour. Sevenpence an hour was the maximum wage paid to skilled workmen
by private employers in that town, and he failed to see why the
Corporation should pay more. (Hear, hear.) It had a very bad effect on
the minds of the men in the employment of private firms, tending to
make them dissatisfied with their wages. The same state of affairs
prevailed with regard to the unskilled labourers in the Council’s
employment. Private employers could get that class of labour for
fourpence-halfpenny or fivepence an hour, and yet the corporation paid
fivepence-halfpenny and even sixpence for the same class of work.
(Shame.) It was not fair to the ratepayers. (Hear, hear.) Considering
that the men in the employment of the Corporation had almost constant
work, if there was to be a difference at all, they should get not more,
but less, than those who worked for private firms. (Cheers.) He moved
that the wages of the Corporation workmen be reduced in all cases to
the same level as those paid by private firms.

Councillor Grinder seconded. He said it amounted to a positive scandal.
Why, in the summer-time some of these men drew as much as 35/- in a
single week! (Shame.) and it was quite common for unskilled
labourers—fellers who did nothing but the very hardest and most
laborious work, sich as carrying sacks of cement, or digging up the
roads to get at the drains, and sich-like easy jobs—to walk off with
25/- a week! (Sensation.) He had often noticed some of these men
swaggering about the town on Sundays, dressed like millionaires and
cigared up! They seemed quite a different class of men from those who
worked for private firms, and to look at the way some of their children
was dressed you’d think their fathers was Cabinet Minstrels! No wonder
the ratepayers complained of the high rates. Another grievance was that
all the Corporation workmen were allowed two days’ holiday every year,
in addition to the Bank Holidays, and were paid for them! (Cries of
“Shame”, “Scandalous”, “Disgraceful”, etc.) No private contractor paid
his men for Bank Holidays, and why should the Corporation do so? He had
much pleasure in seconding Councillor Rushton’s resolution.

Councillor Weakling opposed the motion. He thought that 35/- a week was
little enough for a man to keep a wife and family with (Rot), even if
all the men got it regularly, which they did not. Members should
consider what was the average amount per week throughout the whole
year, not merely the busy time, and if they did that they would find
that even the skilled men did not average more than 25/- a week, and in
many cases not so much. If this subject had not been introduced by
Councillor Rushton, he (Dr Weakling) had intended to propose that the
wages of the Corporation workmen should be increased to the standard
recognized by the Trades Unions. (Loud laughter.) It had been proved
that the notoriously short lives of the working people—whose average
span of life was about twenty years less than that of the well-to-do
classes—their increasingly inferior physique, and the high rate of
mortality amongst their children was caused by the wretched
remuneration they received for hard and tiring work, the excessive
number of hours they have to work, when employed, the bad quality of
their food, the badly constructed and insanitary homes their poverty
compels them to occupy, and the anxiety, worry, and depression of mind
they have to suffer when out of employment. (Cries of “Rot”, “Bosh”,
and loud laughter.) Councillor Didlum said, “Rot”. It was a very good
word to describe the disease that was sapping the foundations of
society and destroying the health and happiness and the very lives of
so many of their fellow countrymen and women. (Renewed merriment and
shouts of “Go and buy a red tie.”) He appealed to the members to reject
the resolution. He was very glad to say that he believed it was true
that the workmen in the employ of the Corporation were a little better
off than those in the employ of private contractors, and if it were so,
it was as it should be. They had need to be better off than the
poverty-stricken, half-starved poor wretches who worked for private
firms.

Councillor Didlum said that it was very evident that Dr Weakling had
obtained his seat on that Council by false pretences. If he had told
the ratepayers that he was a Socialist, they would never have elected
him. (Hear, hear.) Practically every Christian minister in the country
would agree with him (Didlum) when he said that the poverty of the
working classes was caused not by the “wretched remuneration they
receive as wages”, but by Drink. (Loud applause.) And he was very sure
that the testimony of the clergy of all denominations was more to be
relied upon than the opinion of a man like Dr Weakling. (Hear, hear.)

Dr Weakling said that if some of the clergymen referred to or some of
the members of the council had to exist and toil amid the same sordid
surroundings, overcrowding and ignorance as some of the working
classes, they would probably seek to secure some share of pleasure and
forgetfulness in drink themselves! (Great uproar and shouts of “Order”,
“Withdraw”, “Apologize”.)

Councillor Grinder said that even if it was true that the haverage
lives of the working classes was twenty years shorter than those of the
better classes, he could not see what it had got to do with Dr
Weakling. (Hear, hear.) So long as the working class was contented to
die twenty years before their time, he failed to see what it had got to
do with other people. They was not runnin’ short of workers, was they?
There was still plenty of ’em left. (Laughter.) So long as the workin’
class was satisfied to die orf—let ’em die orf! It was a free country.
(Applause.) The workin’ class adn’t arst Dr Weakling to stick up for
them, had they? If they wasn’t satisfied, they would stick up for
theirselves! The working men didn’t want the likes of Dr Weakling to
stick up for them, and they would let ’im know it when the next
election came round. If he (Grinder) was a wordly man, he would not
mind betting that the workin’ men of Dr Weakling’s ward would give him
“the dirty kick out” next November. (Applause.)

Councillor Weakling, who knew that this was probably true, made no
further protest. Rushton’s proposition was carried, and then the Clerk
announced that the next item was the resolution Mr Didlum had given
notice of at the last meeting, and the Mayor accordingly called upon
that gentleman.

Councillor Didlum, who was received with loud cheers, said that
unfortunately a certain member of that Council seemed to think he had a
right to oppose nearly everything that was brought forward.

(The majority of the members of the Band glared malignantly at
Weakling.)

He hoped that for once the individual he referred to would have the
decency to restrain himself, because the resolution he (Didlum) was
about to have the honour of proposing was one that he believed no
right-minded man—no matter what his politics or religious
opinions—could possibly object to; and he trusted that for the credit
of the Council it would be entered on the records as an unopposed
motion. The resolution was as follows:

“That from this date all the meetings of this Council shall be opened
with prayer and closed with the singing of the Doxology.” (Loud
applause.)

Councillor Rushton seconded the resolution, which was also supported by
Mr Grinder, who said that at a time like the present, when there was
sich a lot of infiddles about who said that we all came from monkeys,
the Council would be showing a good example to the working classes by
adopting the resolution.

Councillor Weakling said nothing, so the new rule was carried nem.
con., and as there was no more business to be done it was put into
operation for the first time there and then. Mr Sweater conducting the
singing with a roll of paper—the plan of the drain of “The Cave”—and
each member singing a different tune.

Weakling withdrew during the singing, and afterwards, before the Band
dispersed, it was agreed that a certain number of them were to meet the
Chief at the Cave, on the following evening to arrange the details of
the proposed raid on the finances of the town in connection with the
sale of the Electric Light Works.

Chapter 40
Vive la System!

The alterations which the Corporation had undertaken to make in the
Kiosk on the Grand Parade provided employment for several carpenters
and plasterers for about three weeks, and afterwards for several
painters. This fact was sufficient to secure the working men’s
unqualified approval of the action of the Council in letting the place
to Grinder, and Councillor Weakling’s opposition—the reasons of which
they did not take the trouble to inquire into or understand—they as
heartily condemned. All they knew or cared was that he had tried to
prevent the work being done, and that he had referred in insulting
terms to the working men of the town. What right had he to call them
half-starved, poverty-stricken, poor wretches? If it came to being
poverty-stricken, according to all accounts, he wasn’t any too well orf
hisself. Some of those blokes who went swaggering about in frock-coats
and pot-’ats was just as ’ard up as anyone else if the truth was known.

As for the Corporation workmen, it was quite right that their wages
should be reduced. Why should they get more money than anyone else?

“It’s us what’s got to find the money,” they said. “We’re the
ratepayers, and why should we have to pay them more wages than we get
ourselves? And why should they be paid for holidays any more than us?”

During the next few weeks the dearth of employment continued, for, of
course, the work at the Kiosk and the few others jobs that were being
done did not make much difference to the general situation. Groups of
workmen stood at the corners or walked aimlessly about the streets.
Most of them no longer troubled to go to the different firms to ask for
work, they were usually told that they would be sent for if wanted.

During this time Owen did his best to convert the other men to his
views. He had accumulated a little library of Socialist books and
pamphlets which he lent to those he hoped to influence. Some of them
took these books and promised, with the air of men who were conferring
a great favour, that they would read them. As a rule, when they
returned them it was with vague expressions of approval, but they
usually evinced a disinclination to discuss the contents in detail
because, in nine instances out of ten, they had not attempted to read
them. As for those who did make a half-hearted effort to do so, in the
majority of cases their minds were so rusty and stultified by long
years of disuse, that, although the pamphlets were generally written in
such simple language that a child might have understood, the argument
was generally too obscure to be grasped by men whose minds were addled
by the stories told them by their Liberal and Tory masters. Some, when
Owen offered to lend them some books or pamphlets refused to accept
them, and others who did him the great favour of accepting them,
afterwards boasted that they had used them as toilet paper.

Owen frequently entered into long arguments with the other men, saying
that it was the duty of the State to provide productive work for all
those who were willing to do it. Some few of them listened like men who
only vaguely understood, but were willing to be convinced.

“Yes, mate. It’s right enough what you say,” they would remark.
“Something ought to be done.”

Others ridiculed this doctrine of State employment: It was all very
fine, but where was the money to come from? And then those who had been
disposed to agree with Owen could relapse into their old apathy.

There were others who did not listen so quietly, but shouted with many
curses that it was the likes of such fellows as Owen who were
responsible for all the depression in trade. All this talk about
Socialism and State employment was frightening Capital out of the
country. Those who had money were afraid to invest it in industries, or
to have any work done for fear they would be robbed. When Owen quoted
statistics to prove that as far as commerce and the quantity produced
of commodities of all kinds was concerned, the last year had been a
record one, they became more infuriated than ever, and talked
threateningly of what they would like to do to those bloody Socialists
who were upsetting everything.

One day Crass, who was one of these upholders of the existing system,
scored off Owen finely. A little group of them were standing talking in
the Wage Slave Market near the Fountain. In the course of the argument,
Owen made the remark that under existing conditions life was not worth
living, and Crass said that if he really thought so, there was no
compulsion about it; if he wasn’t satisfied—if he didn’t want to
live—he could go and die. Why the hell didn’t he go and make a hole in
the water, or cut his bloody throat?

On this particular occasion the subject of the argument was—at
first—the recent increase of the Borough Engineer’s salary to seventeen
pounds per week. Owen had said it was robbery, but the majority of the
others expressed their approval of the increase. They asked Owen if he
expected a man like that to work for nothing! It was not as if he were
one of the likes of themselves. They said that, as for it being
robbery, Owen would be very glad to have the chance of getting it
himself. Most of them seemed to think the fact that anyone would be
glad to have seventeen pounds a week, proved that it was right for them
to pay that amount to the Borough Engineer!

Usually whenever Owen reflected upon the gross injustices, and
inhumanity of the existing social disorder, he became convinced that it
could not possibly last; it was bound to fall to pieces because of its
own rottenness. It was not just, it was not common sense, and therefore
it could not endure. But always after one of these arguments—or,
rather, disputes—with his fellow workmen, he almost relapsed into
hopelessness and despondency, for then he realized how vast and how
strong are the fortifications that surround the present system; the
great barriers and ramparts of invincible ignorance, apathy and
self-contempt, which will have to be broken down before the system of
society of which they are the defences, can be swept away.

At other times as he thought of this marvellous system, it presented
itself to him in such an aspect of almost comical absurdity that he was
forced to laugh and to wonder whether it really existed at all, or if
it were only an illusion of his own disordered mind.

One of the things that the human race needed in order to exist was
shelter; so with much painful labour they had constructed a large
number of houses. Thousands of these houses were now standing
unoccupied, while millions of the people who had helped to build the
houses were either homeless or herding together in overcrowded hovels.

These human beings had such a strange system of arranging their affairs
that if anyone were to go and burn down a lot of the houses he would be
conferring a great boon upon those who had built them, because such an
act would “Make a lot more work!”

Another very comical thing was that thousands of people wore broken
boots and ragged clothes, while millions of pairs of boots and
abundance of clothing, which they had helped to make, were locked up in
warehouses, and the System had the keys.

Thousands of people lacked the necessaries of life. The necessaries of
life are all produced by work. The people who lacked begged to be
allowed to work and create those things of which they stood in need.
But the System prevented them from so doing.

If anyone asked the System why it prevented these people from producing
the things of which they were in want, the System replied:

“Because they have already produced too much. The markets are glutted.
The warehouses are filled and overflowing, and there is nothing more
for them to do.”

There was in existence a huge accumulation of everything necessary. A
great number of the people whose labour had produced that vast store
were now living in want, but the System said that they could not be
permitted to partake of the things they had created. Then, after a
time, when these people, being reduced to the last extreme of misery,
cried out that they and their children were dying of hunger, the System
grudgingly unlocked the doors of the great warehouses, and taking out a
small part of the things that were stored within, distributed it
amongst the famished workers, at the same time reminding them that it
was Charity, because all the things in the warehouses, although they
had been made by the workers, were now the property of the people who
do nothing.

And then the starving, bootless, ragged, stupid wretches fell down and
worshipped the System, and offered up their children as living
sacrifices upon its altars, saying:

“This beautiful System is the only one possible, and the best that
human wisdom can devise. May the System live for ever! Cursed be those
who seek to destroy the System!”

As the absurdity of the thing forced itself upon him, Owen, in spite of
the unhappiness he felt at the sight of all the misery by which he was
surrounded, laughed aloud and said to himself that if he was sane, then
all these people must be mad.

In the face of such colossal imbecility it was absurd to hope for any
immediate improvement. The little already accomplished was the work of
a few self-sacrificing enthusiasts, battling against the opposition of
those they sought to benefit, and the results of their labours were, in
many instances, as pearls cast before the swine who stood watching for
opportunities to fall upon and rend their benefactors.

There was only one hope. It was possible that the monopolists,
encouraged by the extraordinary stupidity and apathy of the people
would proceed to lay upon them even greater burdens, until at last,
goaded by suffering, and not having sufficient intelligence to
understand any other remedy, these miserable wretches would turn upon
their oppressors and drown both them and their System in a sea of
blood.

Besides the work at the Kiosk, towards the end of March things
gradually began to improve in other directions. Several firms began to
take on a few hands. Several large empty houses that were relet had to
be renovated for their new tenants, and there was a fair amount of
inside work arising out of the annual spring-cleaning in other houses.
There was not enough work to keep everyone employed, and most of those
who were taken on as a rule only managed to make a few hours a week,
but still it was better than absolute idleness, and there also began to
be talk of several large outside jobs that were to be done as soon as
the weather was settled.

This bad weather, by the way, was a sort of boon to the defenders of
the present system, who were hard-up for sensible arguments to explain
the cause of poverty. One of the principal causes was, of course, the
weather, which was keeping everything back. There was not the slightest
doubt that if only the weather would allow there would always be plenty
of work, and poverty would be abolished.

Rushton & Co. had a fair share of what work there was, and Crass,
Sawkins, Slyme and Owen were kept employed pretty regularly, although
they did not start until half past eight and left off at four. At
different houses in various parts of the town they had ceilings to wash
off and distemper, to strip the old paper from the walls, and to
repaint and paper the rooms, and sometimes there were the venetian
blinds to repair and repaint. Occasionally a few extra hands were taken
on for a few days, and discharged again as soon as the job they were
taken on to do was finished.

The defenders of the existing system may possibly believe that the
knowledge that they would be discharged directly the job was done was a
very good incentive to industry, that they would naturally under these
circumstances do their best to get the work done as quickly as
possible. But then it must be remembered that most of the defenders of
the existing system are so constituted, that they can believe anything
provided it is not true and sufficiently silly.

All the same, it was a fact that the workmen did do their very best to
get over this work in the shortest possible time, because although they
knew that to do so was contrary to their own interests, they also knew
that it would be very much more contrary to their interests not to do
so. Their only chance of being kept on if other work came in was to
tear into it for all they were worth. Consequently, most of the work
was rushed and botched and slobbered over in about half the time that
it would have taken to do it properly. Rooms for which the customers
paid to have three coats of paint were scamped with one or two. What
Misery did not know about scamping and faking the work, the men
suggested to and showed him in the hope of currying favour with him in
order that they might get the preference over others and be sent for
when the next job came in. This is the principal incentive provided by
the present system, the incentive to cheat. These fellows cheated the
customers of their money. They cheated themselves and their fellow
workmen of work, and their children of bread, but it was all for a good
cause—to make profit for their master.

Harlow and Slyme did one job—a room that Rushton & Co. had contracted
to paint three coats. It was finished with two and the men cleared away
their paints. The next day, when Slyme went there to paper the room,
the lady of the house said that the painting was not yet finished—it
was to have another coat. Slyme assured her that it had already had
three, but, as the lady insisted, Slyme went to the shop and sought out
Misery. Harlow had been stood off, as there was not another job in just
then, but fortunately he happened to be standing in the street outside
the shop, so they called him and then the three of them went round to
the job and swore that the room had had three coats. The lady protested
that it was not so. She had watched the progress of the work. Besides,
it was impossible; they had only been there three days. The first day
they had not put any paint on at all; they had done the ceiling and
stripped the walls; the painting was not started till the second day.
How then could it have had three coats? Misery explained the mystery:
he said that for first coating they had an extra special very
fast-drying paint—paint that dried so quickly that they were able to
give the work two coats in one day. For instance, one man did the
window, the other the door: when these were finished both men did the
skirting; by the time the skirting was finished the door and window
were dry enough to second coat; and then, on the following day—the
finishing coat!

Of course, this extra special quick-drying paint was very expensive,
but the firm did not mind that. They knew that most of their customers
wished to have their work finished as quickly as possible, and their
study was to give satisfaction to the customers. This explanation
satisfied the lady—a poverty-stricken widow making a precarious living
by taking in lodgers—who was the more easily deceived because she
regarded Misery as a very holy man, having seen him preaching in the
street on many occasions.

There was another job at another boarding-house that Owen and Easton
did—two rooms which had to be painted three coats of white paint and
one of enamel, making four coats altogether. That was what the firm had
contracted to do. As the old paint in these rooms was of a rather dark
shade it was absolutely necessary to give the work three coats before
enamelling it. Misery wanted them to let it go with two, but Owen
pointed out that if they did so it would be such a ghastly mess that it
would never pass. After thinking the matter over for a few minutes,
Misery told them to go on with the third coat of paint. Then he went
downstairs and asked to see the lady of the house. He explained to her
that, in consequence of the old paint being so dark, he found that it
would be necessary, in order to make a good job of it, to give the work
four coats before enamelling it. Of course, they had agreed for only
three, but as they always made a point of doing their work in a
first-class manner rather than not make a good job, they would give it
the extra coat for nothing, but he was sure she would not wish them to
do that. The lady said that she did not want them to work for nothing,
and she wanted it done properly. If it were necessary to give it an
extra coat, they must do so and she would pay for it. How much would it
be? Misery told her. The lady was satisfied, and Misery was in the
seventh heaven. Then he went upstairs again and warned Owen and Easton
to be sure to say, if they were asked, that the work had had four
coats.

It would not be reasonable to blame Misery or Rushton for not wishing
to do good, honest work—there was no incentive. When they secured a
contract, if they had thought first of making the very best possible
job of it, they would not have made so much profit. The incentive was
not to do the work as well as possible, but to do as little as
possible. The incentive was not to make good work, but to make good
profit.

The same rule applied to the workers. They could not justly be blamed
for not doing good work—there was no incentive. To do good work
requires time and pains. Most of them would have liked to take time and
pains, because all those who are capable of doing good work find
pleasure and happiness in doing it, and have pride in it when done: but
there was no incentive, unless the certainty of getting the sack could
be called an incentive, for it was a moral certainty that any man who
was caught taking time and pains with his work would be promptly
presented with the order of the boot. But there was plenty of incentive
to hurry and scamp and slobber and botch.

There was another job at a lodging-house—two rooms to be painted and
papered. The landlord paid for the work, but the tenant had the
privilege of choosing the paper. She could have any pattern she liked
so long as the cost did not exceed one shilling per roll, Rushton’s
estimate being for paper of that price. Misery sent her several
patterns of sixpenny papers, marked at a shilling, to choose from, but
she did not fancy any of them, and said that she would come to the shop
to make her selection. So Hunter tore round to the shop in a great
hurry to get there before her. In his haste to dismount, he fell off
his bicycle into the muddy road, and nearly smashed the plate-glass
window with the handle-bar of the machine as he placed it against the
shop front before going in.

Without waiting to clean the mud off his clothes, he ordered Budd, the
pimply-faced shopman, to get out rolls of all the sixpenny papers they
had, and then they both set to work and altered the price marked upon
them from sixpence to a shilling. Then they got out a number of
shilling papers and altered the price marked upon them, changing it
from a shilling to one and six.

When the unfortunate woman arrived, Misery was waiting for her with a
benign smile upon his long visage. He showed her all the sixpenny ones,
but she did not like any of them, so after a while Nimrod suggested
that perhaps she would like a paper of a little better quality, and she
could pay the trifling difference out of her own pocket. Then he showed
her the shilling papers that he had marked up to one and sixpence, and
eventually the lady selected one of these and paid the extra sixpence
per roll herself, as Nimrod suggested. There were fifteen rolls of
paper altogether—seven for one room and eight for the other—so that in
addition to the ordinary profit on the sale of the paper—about two
hundred and seventy-five per cent.—the firm made seven and sixpence on
this transaction. They might have done better out of the job itself if
Slyme had not been hanging the paper piece-work, for, the two rooms
being of the same pattern, he could easily have managed to do them with
fourteen rolls; in fact, that was all he did use, but he cut up and
partly destroyed the one that was over so that he could charge for
hanging it.

Owen was working there at the same time, for the painting of the rooms
was not done before Slyme papered them; the finishing coat was put on
after the paper was hung. He noticed Slyme destroying the paper and,
guessing the reason, asked him how he could reconcile such conduct as
that with his profession of religion.

Slyme replied that the fact that he was a Christian did not imply that
he never did anything wrong: if he committed a sin, he was a Christian
all the same, and it would be forgiven him for the sake of the Blood.
As for this affair of the paper, it was a matter between himself and
God, and Owen had no right to set himself up as a Judge.

In addition to all this work, there were a number of funerals. Crass
and Slyme did very well out of it all, working all day white-washing or
painting, and sometimes part of the night painting venetian blinds or
polishing coffins and taking them home, to say nothing of the lifting
in of the corpses and afterwards acting as bearers.

As time went on, the number of small jobs increased, and as the days
grew longer the men were allowed to put in a greater number of hours.
Most of the firms had some work, but there was never enough to keep all
the men in the town employed at the same time. It worked like this:
Every firm had a certain number of men who were regarded as the regular
hands. When there was any work to do, they got the preference over
strangers or outsiders. When things were busy, outsiders were taken on
temporarily. When the work fell off, these casual hands were the first
to be “stood still”. If it continued to fall off, the old hands were
also stood still in order of seniority, the older hands being preferred
to strangers—so long, of course, as they were not old in the sense of
being aged or inefficient.

This kind of thing usually continued all through the spring and summer.
In good years the men of all trades, carpenters, bricklayers,
plasterers, painters and so on, were able to keep almost regularly at
work, except in wet weather.

The difference between a good and bad spring and summer is that in good
years it is sometimes possible to make a little overtime, and the
periods of unemployment are shorter and less frequent than in bad
years. It is rare even in good years for one of the casual hands to be
employed by one firm for more than one, two or three months without a
break. It is usual for them to put in a month with one firm, then a
fortnight with another, then perhaps six weeks somewhere else, and
often between there are two or three days or even weeks of enforced
idleness. This sort of thing goes on all through spring, summer and
autumn.

Chapter 41
The Easter Offering. The Beano Meeting

By the beginning of April, Rushton & Co. were again working nine hours
a day, from seven in the morning till five-thirty at night, and after
Easter they started working full time from 6 A.M. till 5.30 P.M.,
eleven and a half hours—or, rather, ten hours, for they had to lose
half an hour at breakfast and an hour at dinner.

Just before Easter several of the men asked Hunter if they might be
allowed to work on Good Friday and Easter Monday, as, they said, they
had had enough holidays during the winter; they had no money to spare
for holiday-making, and they did not wish to lose two days’ pay when
there was work to be done. Hunter told them that there was not
sufficient work in to justify him in doing as they requested: things
were getting very slack again, and Mr Rushton had decided to cease work
from Thursday night till Tuesday morning. They were thus prevented from
working on Good Friday, but it is true that not more than one working
man in fifty went to any religious service on that day or on any other
day during the Easter festival. On the contrary, this festival was the
occasion of much cursing and blaspheming on the part of those whose
penniless, poverty-stricken condition it helped to aggravate by
enforcing unprofitable idleness which they lacked the means to enjoy.

During these holidays some of the men did little jobs on their own
account and others put in the whole time—including Good Friday and
Easter Sunday—gardening, digging and planting their plots of allotment
ground.

When Owen arrived home one evening during the week before Easter,
Frankie gave him an envelope which he had brought home from school. It
contained a printed leaflet:

CHURCH OF THE WHITED SEPULCHRE,
MUGSBOROUGH

Easter 19—

Dear Sir (or Madam),

In accordance with the usual custom we invite you to join with us in
presenting the Vicar, the Rev. Habbakuk Bosher, with an Easter
Offering, as a token of affection and regard.

Yours faithfully,

A. Cheeseman }
W. Taylor } Churchwardens

Mr Bosher’s income from various sources connected with the church was
over six hundred pounds a year, or about twelve pounds per week, but as
that sum was evidently insufficient, his admirers had adopted this
device for supplementing it. Frankie said all the boys had one of these
letters and were going to ask their fathers for some money to give
towards the Easter offering. Most of them expected to get twopence.

As the boy had evidently set his heart on doing the same as the other
children, Owen gave him the twopence, and they afterwards learned that
the Easter Offering for that year was one hundred and twenty-seven
pounds, which was made up of the amounts collected from the
parishioners by the children, the district visitors and the verger, the
collection at a special Service, and donations from the feeble-minded
old females elsewhere referred to.

By the end of April nearly all the old hands were back at work, and
several casual hands had also been taken on, the Semi-drunk being one
of the number. In addition to these, Misery had taken on a number of
what he called “lightweights”, men who were not really skilled workmen,
but had picked up sufficient knowledge of the simpler parts of the
trade to be able to get over it passably. These were paid fivepence or
fivepence-halfpenny, and were employed in preference to those who had
served their time, because the latter wanted more money and therefore
were only employed when absolutely necessary. Besides the lightweights
there were a few young fellows called improvers, who were also employed
because they were cheap.

Crass now acted as colourman, having been appointed possibly because he
knew absolutely nothing about the laws of colour. As most of the work
consisted of small jobs, all the paint and distemper was mixed up at
the shop and sent out ready for use to the various jobs.

Sawkins or some of the other lightweights generally carried the heavier
lots of colour or scaffolding, but the smaller lots of colour or such
things as a pair of steps or a painter’s plank were usually sent by the
boy, whose slender legs had become quite bowed since he had been
engaged helping the other philanthropists to make money for Mr Rushton.

Crass’s work as colourman was simplified, to a certain extent, by the
great number of specially prepared paints and distempers in all
colours, supplied by the manufacturers ready for use. Most of these
new-fangled concoctions were regarded with an eye of suspicion and
dislike by the hands, and Philpot voiced the general opinion about them
one day during a dinner-hour discussion when he said they might appear
to be all right for a time, but they would probably not last, because
they was mostly made of kimicles.

One of these new-fashioned paints was called “Petrifying Liquid”, and
was used for first-coating decaying stone or plaster work. It was also
supposed to be used for thinning up a certain kind of patent distemper,
but when Misery found out that it was possible to thin the latter with
water, the use of “Petrifying Liquid” for that purpose was
discontinued. This “Petrifying Liquid” was a source of much merriment
to the hands. The name was applied to the tea that they made in buckets
on some of the jobs, and also to the four-ale that was supplied by
certain pubs.

One of the new inventions was regarded with a certain amount of
indignation by the hands: it was a white enamel, and they objected to
it for two reasons—one was because, as Philpot remarked, it dried so
quickly that you had to work like greased lightning; you had to be all
over the door directly you started it.

The other reason was that, because it dried so quickly, it was
necessary to keep closed the doors and windows of the room where it was
being used, and the smell was so awful that it brought on fits of
dizziness and sometimes vomiting. Needless to say, the fact that it
compelled those who used it to work quickly recommended the stuff to
Misery.

As for the smell, he did not care about that; he did not have to inhale
the fumes himself.

It was just about this time that Crass, after due consultation with
several of the others, including Philpot, Harlow, Bundy, Slyme, Easton
and the Semi-drunk, decided to call a meeting of the hands for the
purpose of considering the advisability of holding the usual Beano
later on in the summer. The meeting was held in the carpenter’s shop
down at the yard one evening at six o’clock, which allowed time for
those interested to attend after leaving work.

The hands sat on the benches or carpenter’s stools, or reclined upon
heaps of shavings. On a pair of tressels in the centre of the workshop
stood a large oak coffin which Crass had just finished polishing.

When all those who were expected to turn up had arrived, Payne, the
foreman carpenter—the man who made the coffins—was voted to the chair
on the proposition of Crass, seconded by Philpot, and then a solemn
silence ensued, which was broken at last by the chairman, who, in a
lengthy speech, explained the object of the meeting. Possibly with a
laudable desire that there should be no mistake about it, he took the
trouble to explain several times, going over the same ground and
repeating the same words over and over again, whilst the audience
waited in a deathlike and miserable silence for him to leave off.
Payne, however, did not appear to have any intention of leaving off,
for he continued, like a man in a trance, to repeat what he had said
before, seeming to be under the impression that he had to make a
separate explanation to each individual member of the audience. At last
the crowd could stand it no longer, and began to shout “Hear, hear” and
to bang bits of wood and hammers on the floor and the benches; and
then, after a final repetition of the statement, that the object of the
meeting was to consider the advisability of holding an outing, or
beanfeast, the chairman collapsed on to a carpenter’s stool and wiped
the sweat from his forehead.

Crass then reminded the meeting that the last year’s Beano had been an
unqualified success, and for his part he would be very sorry if they
did not have one this year. Last year they had four brakes, and they
went to Tubberton Village.

It was true that there was nothing much to see at Tubberton, but there
was one thing they could rely on getting there that they could not be
sure of getting for the same money anywhere else, and that was—a good
feed. (Applause.) Just for the sake of getting on with the business, he
would propose that they decide to go to Tubberton, and that a committee
be appointed to make arrangements—about the dinner—with the landlord of
the Queen Elizabeth’s Head at that place.

Philpot seconded the motion, and Payne was about to call for a show of
hands when Harlow rose to a point of order. It appeared to him that
they were getting on a bit too fast. The proper way to do this business
was first to take the feeling of the meeting as to whether they wished
to have a Beano at all, and then, if the meeting was in favour of it,
they could decide where they were to go, and whether they would have a
whole day or only half a day.

The Semi-drunk said that he didn’t care a dreadful expression where
they went: he was willing to abide by the decision of the majority.
(Applause.) It was a matter of indifference to him whether they had a
day, or half a day, or two days; he was agreeable to anything.

Easton suggested that a special saloon carriage might be engaged, and
they could go and visit Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. He had never been to
that place and had often wished to see it. But Philpot objected that if
they went there, Madame Tussaud’s might be unwilling to let them out
again.

Bundy endorsed the remarks that had fallen from Crass with reference to
Tubberton. He did not care where they went, they would never get such a
good spread for the money as they did last year at the Queen Elizabeth.
(Cheers.)

The chairman said that he remembered the last Beano very well. They had
half a day—left off work on Saturday at twelve instead of one—so there
was only one hour’s wages lost—they went home, had a wash and changed
their clothes, and got up to the Cricketers, where the brakes was
waiting, at one. Then they had the two hours’ drive to Tubberton,
stopping on the way for drinks at the Blue Lion, the Warrior’s Head,
the Bird in Hand, the Dewdrop Inn and the World Turned Upside Down.
(Applause.) They arrived at the Queen Elizabeth at three-thirty, and
the dinner was ready; and it was one of the finest blow-outs he had
ever had. (Hear, hear.) There was soup, vegetables, roast beef, roast
mutton, lamb and mint sauce, plum duff, Yorkshire, and a lot more. The
landlord of the Elizabeth kept as good a drop of beer as anyone could
wish to drink, and as for the teetotallers, they could have tea, coffee
or ginger beer.

Having thus made another start, Payne found it very difficult to leave
off, and was proceeding to relate further details of the last Beano
when Harlow again rose up from his heap of shavings and said he wished
to call the chairman to order. (Hear, hear.) What the hell was the use
of all this discussion before they had even decided to have a Beano at
all! Was the meeting in favour of a Beano or not? That was the
question.

A prolonged and awkward silence followed. Everyone was very
uncomfortable, looking stolidly on the ground or staring straight in
front of them.

At last Easton broke the silence by suggesting that it would not be a
bad plan if someone was to make a motion that a Beano be held. This was
greeted with a general murmur of “Hear, hear,” followed by another
awkward pause, and then the chairman asked Easton if he would move a
resolution to that effect. After some hesitation, Easton agreed, and
formally moved: “That this meeting is in favour of a Beano.”

The Semi-drunk said that, in order to get on with the business, he
would second the resolution. But meantime, several arguments had broken
out between the advocates of different places, and several men began to
relate anecdotes of previous Beanos. Nearly everyone was speaking at
once and it was some time before the chairman was able to put the
resolution. Finding it impossible to make his voice heard above the
uproar, he began to hammer on the bench with a wooden mallet, and to
shout requests for order, but this only served to increase the din.
Some of them looked at him curiously and wondered what was the matter
with him, but the majority were so interested in their own arguments
that they did not notice him at all.

Whilst the chairman was trying to get the attention of the meeting in
order to put the question, Bundy had become involved in an argument
with several of the new hands who claimed to know of an even better
place than the Queen Elizabeth, a pub called “The New Found Out”, at
Mirkfield, a few miles further on than Tubberton, and another
individual joined in the dispute, alleging that a house called “The
Three Loggerheads” at Slushton-cum-Dryditch was the finest place for a
Beano within a hundred miles of Mugsborough. He went there last year
with Pushem and Driver’s crowd, and they had roast beef, goose, jam
tarts, mince pies, sardines, blancmange, calves’ feet jelly and one
pint for each man was included in the cost of the dinner. In the middle
of the discussion, they noticed that most of the others were holding up
their hands, so to show there was no ill feeling they held up theirs
also and then the chairman declared it was carried unanimously.

Bundy said he would like to ask the chairman to read out the resolution
which had just been passed, as he had not caught the words.

The chairman replied that there was no written resolution. The motion
was just to express the feeling of this meeting as to whether there was
to be an outing or not.

Bundy said he was only asking a civil question, a point of information:
all he wanted to know was, what was the terms of the resolution? Was
they in favour of the Beano or not?

The chairman responded that the meeting was unanimously in favour.
(Applause.)

Harlow said that the next thing to be done was to decide upon the date.
Crass suggested the last Saturday in August. That would give them
plenty of time to pay in.

Sawkins asked whether it was proposed to have a day or only half a day.
He himself was in favour of the whole day. It would only mean losing a
morning’s work. It was hardly worth going at all if they only had half
the day.

The Semi-drunk remarked that he had just thought of a very good place
to go if they decided to have a change. Three years ago he was working
for Dauber and Botchit and they went to “The First In and the Last Out”
at Bashford. It was a very small place, but there was a field where you
could have a game of cricket or football, and the dinner was A1 at
Lloyds. There was also a skittle alley attached to the pub and no
charge was made for the use of it. There was a bit of a river there,
and one of the chaps got so drunk that he went orf his onion and jumped
into the water, and when they got him out the village policeman locked
him up, and the next day he was took before the beak and fined two
pounds or a month’s hard labour for trying to commit suicide.

Easton pointed out that there was another way to look at it: supposing
they decided to have the Beano, he supposed it would come to about six
shillings a head. If they had it at the end of August and started
paying in now, say a tanner a week, they would have plenty of time to
make up the amount, but supposing the work fell off and some of them
got the push?

Crass said that in that case a man could either have his money back or
he could leave it, and continue his payments even if he were working
for some other firm; the fact that he was off from Rushton’s would not
prevent him from going to the Beano.

Harlow proposed that they decide to go to the Queen Elizabeth the same
as last year, and that they have half a day.

Philpot said that, in order to get on with the business, he would
second the resolution.

Bundy suggested—as an amendment—that it should be a whole day, starting
from the Cricketers at nine in the morning, and Sawkins said that, in
order to get on with the business, he would second the amendment.

One of the new hands said he wished to move another amendment. He
proposed to strike out the Queen Elizabeth and substitute the Three
Loggerheads.

The Chairman—after a pause—inquired if there were any seconder to this,
and the Semi-drunk said that, although he did not care much where they
went, still, to get on with the business, he would second the
amendment, although for his own part he would prefer to go to the
“First In and Last Out” at Bashford.

The new hand offered to withdraw his suggestion re the Three
Loggerheads in favour of the Semi-drunk’s proposition, but the latter
said it didn’t matter; it could go as it was.

As it was getting rather late, several men went home, and cries of “Put
the question” began to be heard on all sides; the chairman accordingly
was proceeding to put Harlow’s proposition when the new hand
interrupted him by pointing out that it was his duty as chairman to put
the amendments first. This produced another long discussion, in the
course of which a very tall, thin man who had a harsh, metallic voice
gave a long rambling lecture about the rules of order and the conduct
of public meetings. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, using very
long words and dealing with the subject in an exhaustive manner. A
resolution was a resolution, and an amendment was an amendment; then
there was what was called an amendment to an amendment; the procedure
of the House of Commons differed very materially from that of the House
of Lords—and so on.

This man kept on talking for about ten minutes, and might have
continued for ten hours if he had not been rudely interrupted by
Harlow, who said that it seemed to him that they were likely to stay
there all night if they went on like they were going. He wanted his
tea, and he would also like to get a few hours’ sleep before having to
resume work in the morning. He was getting about sick of all this talk.
(Hear, hear.) In order to get on with the business, he would withdraw
his resolution if the others would withdraw their amendments. If they
would agree to do this, he would then propose another resolution
which—if carried—would meet all the requirements of the case.
(Applause.)

The man with the metallic voice observed that it was not necessary to
ask the consent of those who had moved amendments: if the original
proposition was withdrawed, all the amendments fell to the ground.

“Last year,” observed Crass, “when we was goin’ out of the room after
we’d finished our dinner at the Queen Elizabeth, the landlord pointed
to the table and said, ‘There’s enough left over for you all to ’ave
another lot.’” (Cheers.)

Harlow said that he would move that it be held on the last Saturday in
August; that it be for half a day, starting at one o’clock so that they
could work up till twelve, which would mean that they would only have
to lose one hour’s pay: that they go to the same place as last year—the
Queen Elizabeth. (Hear, hear.) That the same committee that acted last
year—Crass and Bundy—be appointed to make all the arrangements and
collect the subscriptions. (Applause.)

The tall man observed that this was what was called a compound
resolution, and was proceeding to explain further when the chairman
exclaimed that it did not matter a dam’ what it was called—would anyone
second it? The Semi-drunk said that he would—in order to get on with
the business.

Bundy moved, and Sawkins seconded, as an amendment, that it should be a
whole day.

The new hand moved to substitute the Loggerheads for the Queen
Elizabeth.

Easton proposed to substitute Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks for the Queen
Elizabeth. He said he moved this just to test the feeling of the
meeting.

Harlow pointed out that it would cost at least a pound a head to defray
the expenses of such a trip. The railway fares, tram fares in London,
meals—for it would be necessary to have a whole day—and other
incidental expenses; to say nothing of the loss of wages. It would not
be possible for any of them to save the necessary amount during the
next four months. (Hear, hear.)

Philpot repeated his warning as to the danger of visiting Madame
Tussaud’s. He was certain that if she once got them in there she would
never let them out again. He had no desire to pass the rest of his life
as an image in a museum.

One of the new hands—a man with a red tie—said that they would look
well, after having been soaked for a month or two in petrifying liquid,
chained up in the Chamber of Horrors with labels round their
necks—“Specimens of Liberal and Conservative upholders of the
Capitalist System, 20 century”.

Crass protested against the introduction of politics into that meeting.
(Hear, hear.) The remarks of the last speakers were most uncalled-for.

Easton said that he would withdraw his amendment.

Acting under the directions of the man with the metallic voice, the
chairman now proceeded to put the amendment to the vote. Bundy’s
proposal that it should be a whole day was defeated, only himself,
Sawkins and the Semi-drunk being in favour. The motion to substitute
the Loggerheads for the Queen Elizabeth was also defeated, and the
compound resolution proposed by Harlow was then carried nem. con.

Philpot now proposed a hearty vote of thanks to the chairman for the
very able manner in which he had conducted the meeting. When this had
been unanimously agreed to, the Semi-drunk moved a similar tribute of
gratitude to Crass for his services to the cause and the meeting
dispersed.

Chapter 42
June

During the early part of May the weather was exceptionally bad, with
bitterly cold winds. Rain fell nearly every day, covering the roads
with a slush that penetrated the rotten leather of the cheap or
second-hand boots worn by the workmen. This weather had the effect of
stopping nearly all outside work, and also caused a lot of illness, for
those who were so fortunate as to have inside jobs frequently got wet
through on their way to work in the morning and had to work all day in
damp clothing, and with their boots saturated with water. It was also a
source of trouble to those of the men who had allotments, because if it
had been fine they would have been able to do something to their
gardens while they were out of work.

Newman had not succeeded in getting a job at the trade since he came
out of prison, but he tried to make a little money by hawking bananas.
Philpot—when he was at work—used often to buy a tanner’s or a bob’s
worth from him and give them to Mrs Linden’s children. On Saturdays Old
Joe used to waylay these children and buy them bags of cakes at the
bakers. One week when he knew that Mrs Linden had not had much work to
do, he devised a very cunning scheme to help her. He had been working
with Slyme, who was papering a large boarded ceiling in a shop. It had
to be covered with unbleached calico before it could be papered and
when the work was done there were a number of narrow pieces of calico
left over. These he collected and tore into strips about six inches
wide which he took round to Mrs Linden, and asked her to sew them
together, end to end, so as to make one long strip: then this long
strip had to be cut into four pieces of equal length and the edges sewn
together in such a manner that it would form a long tube. Philpot told
her that it was required for some work that Rushton’s were doing, and
said he had undertaken to get the sewing done. The firm would have to
pay for it, so she could charge a good price.

“You see,” he said with a wink, “this is one of those jobs where we
gets a chance to get some of our own back.”

Mary thought it was rather a strange sort of job, but she did as
Philpot directed and when he came for the stuff and asked how much it
was she said threepence: it had only taken about half an hour. Philpot
ridiculed this: it was not nearly enough. THEY were not supposed to
know how long it took: it ought to be a bob at the very least. So,
after some hesitation she made out a bill for that amount on a
half-sheet of note-paper. He brought her the money the next Saturday
afternoon and went off chuckling to himself over the success of the
scheme. It did not occur to him until the next day that he might just
as well have got her to make him an apron or two: and when he did think
of this he said that after all it didn’t matter, because if he had done
that it would have been necessary to buy new calico, and anyhow, it
could be done some other time.

Newman did not make his fortune out of the bananas—seldom more than two
shillings a day—and consequently he was very glad when Philpot called
at his house one evening and told him there was a chance of a job at
Rushton’s. Newman accordingly went to the yard the next morning, taking
his apron and blouse and his bag of tools with him, ready to start
work. He got there at about quarter to six and was waiting outside when
Hunter arrived. The latter was secretly very glad to see him, for there
was a rush of work in and they were short of men. He did not let this
appear, of course, but hesitated for a few minutes when Newman repeated
the usual formula: “Any chance of a job, sir?”

“We wasn’t at all satisfied with you last time you was on, you know,”
said Misery. “Still, I don’t mind giving you another chance. But if you
want to hold your job you’ll have to move yourself a bit quicker than
you did before.”

Towards the end of the month things began to improve all round. The
weather became finer and more settled. As time went on the improvement
was maintained and nearly everyone was employed. Rushton’s were so busy
that they took on several other old hands who had been sacked the
previous year for being too slow.

Thanks to the influence of Crass, Easton was now regarded as one of the
regular hands. He had recently resumed the practice of spending some of
his evenings at the Cricketers. It is probable that even if it had not
been for his friendship with Crass, he would still have continued to
frequent the public house, for things were not very comfortable at
home. Somehow or other, Ruth and he seemed to be always quarrelling,
and he was satisfied that it was not always his fault. Sometimes, after
the day’s work was over he would go home resolved to be good friends
with her: he would plan on his way homewards to suggest to her that
they should have their tea and then go out for a walk with the child.
Once or twice she agreed, but on each occasion, they quarrelled before
they got home again. So after a time he gave up trying to be friends
with her and went out by himself every evening as soon as he had had
his tea.

Mary Linden, who was still lodging with them, could not help perceiving
their unhappiness: she frequently noticed that Ruth’s eyes were red and
swollen as if with crying, and she gently sought to gain her
confidence, but without success. On one occasion when Mary was trying
to advise her, Ruth burst out into a terrible fit of weeping, but she
would not say what was the cause—except that her head was aching—she
was not well, that was all.

Sometimes Easton passed the evening at the Cricketers but frequently he
went over to the allotments, where Harlow had a plot of ground. Harlow
used to get up about four o’clock in the morning and put in an hour or
so at his garden before going to work; and every evening as soon as he
had finished tea he used to go there again and work till it was dark.
Sometimes he did not go home to tea at all, but went straight from work
to the garden, and his children used to bring his tea to him there in a
glass bottle, with something to eat in a little basket. He had four
children, none of whom were yet old enough to go to work, and as may be
imagined, he found it a pretty hard struggle to live. He was not a
teetotaller, but as he often remarked, “what the publicans got from him
wouldn’t make them very fat”, for he often went for weeks together
without tasting the stuff, except a glass or two with the Sunday
dinner, which he did not regard as an unnecessary expense, because it
was almost as cheap as tea or coffee.

Fortunately his wife was a good needlewoman, and as sober and
industrious as himself; by dint of slaving incessantly from morning
till night she managed to keep her home fairly comfortable and the
children clean and decently dressed; they always looked respectable,
although they did not always have enough proper food to eat. They
looked so respectable that none of the “visiting ladies” ever regarded
them as deserving cases.

Harlow paid fifteen shillings a year for his plot of ground, and
although it meant a lot of hard work it was also a source of pleasure
and some profit. He generally made a few shillings out of the flowers,
besides having enough potatoes and other vegetables to last them nearly
all the year.

Sometimes Easton went over to the allotments and lent Harlow a hand
with this gardening work, but whether he went there or to the
Cricketers, he usually returned home about half past nine, and then
went straight to bed, often without speaking a single word to Ruth, who
for her part seldom spoke to him except to answer something he said, or
to ask some necessary question. At first, Easton used to think that it
was all because of the way he had behaved to her in the public house,
but when he apologized—as he did several times—and begged her to
forgive him and forget about it, she always said it was all right;
there was nothing to forgive. Then, after a time, he began to think it
was on account of their poverty and the loss of their home, for nearly
all their furniture had been sold during the last winter. But whenever
he talked of trying to buy some more things to make the place
comfortable again, she did not appear to take any interest: the house
was neat enough as it was: they could manage very well, she said,
indifferently.

One evening, about the middle of June, when he had been over to the
allotments, Easton brought her home a bunch of flowers that Harlow had
given him—some red and white roses and some pansies. When he came in,
Ruth was packing his food basket for the next day. The baby was asleep
in its cot on the floor near the window. Although it was nearly nine
o’clock the lamp had not yet been lighted and the mournful twilight
that entered the room through the open window increased the desolation
of its appearance. The fire had burnt itself out and the grate was
filled with ashes. On the hearth was an old rug made of jute that had
once been printed in bright colours which had faded away till the whole
surface had become almost uniformly drab, showing scarcely any trace of
the original pattern. The rest of the floor was bare except for two or
three small pieces of old carpet that Ruth had bought for a few pence
at different times at some inferior second-hand shop. The chairs and
the table were almost the only things that were left of the original
furniture of the room, and except for three or four plates of different
patterns and sizes and a few cups and saucers, the shelves of the
dresser were bare.

The stillness of the atmosphere was disturbed only by the occasional
sound of the wheels of a passing vehicle and the strangely distinct
voices of some children who were playing in the street.

“I’ve brought you these,” said Easton, offering her the flowers. “I
thought you’d like them. I got them from Harlow. You know I’ve been
helping him a little with his garden.”

At first he thought she did not want to take them. She was standing at
the table with her back to the window, so that he was unable to see the
expression of her face, and she hesitated for a moment before she
faltered out some words of thanks and took the flowers, which she put
down on the table almost as soon as she touched them.

Offended at what he considered her contemptuous indifference, Easton
made no further attempt at conversation but went into the scullery to
wash his hands, and then went up to bed.

Downstairs, for a long time after he was gone, Ruth sat alone by the
fireless grate, in the silence and the gathering shadows, holding the
bunch of flowers in her hand, living over again the events of the last
year, and consumed with an agony of remorse.

The presence of Mary Linden and the two children in the house probably
saved Ruth from being more unhappy than she was. Little Elsie had made
an arrangement with her to be allowed to take the baby out for walks,
and in return Ruth did Elsie’s housework. As for Mary, she had not much
time to do anything but sew, almost the only relaxation she knew being
when she took the work home, and on Sunday, which she usually devoted
to a general clean-up of the room, and to mending the children’s
clothes. Sometimes on Sunday evening she used to go with Ruth and the
children to see Mrs Owen, who, although she was not ill enough to stay
in bed, seldom went out of the house. She had never really recovered
from the attack of illness which was brought on by her work at the
boarding house. The doctor had been to see her once or twice and had
prescribed—rest. She was to lie down as much as possible, not to do any
heavy work—not to carry or lift any heavy articles, scrub floors, make
beds, or anything of that sort: and she was to take plenty of
nourishing food, beef tea, chicken, a little wine and so on. He did not
suggest a trip round the world in a steam yacht or a visit to
Switzerland—perhaps he thought they might not be able to afford it.
Sometimes she was so ill that she had to observe one at least of the
doctor’s instructions—to lie down: and then she would worry and fret
because she was not able to do the housework and because Owen had to
prepare his own tea when he came home at night. On one of these
occasions it would have been necessary for Owen to stay at home from
work if it had not been for Mrs Easton, who came for several days in
succession to look after her and attend to the house.

Fortunately, Owen’s health was better since the weather had become
warmer. For a long time after the attack of haemorrhage he had while
writing the show-card he used to dread going to sleep at night for fear
it should recur. He had heard of people dying in their sleep from that
cause. But this terror gradually left him. Nora knew nothing of what
occurred that night: to have told her would have done no good, but on
the contrary would have caused her a lot of useless anxiety. Sometimes
he doubted whether it was right not to tell her, but as time went by
and his health continued to improve he was glad he had said nothing
about it.

Frankie had lately resumed his athletic exercises with the flat iron:
his strength was returning since Owen had been working regularly,
because he had been having his porridge and milk again and also some
Parrish’s Food which a chemist at Windley was selling large bottles of
for a shilling. He used to have what he called a “party” two or three
times a week with Elsie, Charley and Easton’s baby as the guests.
Sometimes, if Mrs Owen were not well, Elsie used to stay in with her
after tea and do some housework while the boys went out to play, but
more frequently the four children used to go together to the park to
play or sail boats on the lake. Once one of the boats was becalmed
about a couple of yards from shore and while trying to reach it with a
stick Frankie fell into the water, and when Charley tried to drag him
out he fell in also. Elsie put the baby down on the bank and seized
hold of Charley and while she was trying to get him out, the baby began
rolling down, and would probably have tumbled in as well if a man who
happened to be passing by had not rushed up in time to prevent it.
Fortunately the water at that place was only about two feet deep, so
the boys were not much the worse for their ducking. They returned home
wet through, smothered with mud, and feeling very important, like boys
who had distinguished themselves.

After this, whenever she could manage to spare the time, Ruth Easton
used to go with the children to the park. There was a kind of
summer-house near the shore of the lake, only a few feet away from the
water’s edge, surrounded and shaded by trees, whose branches arched
over the path and drooped down to the surface of the water. While the
children played Ruth used to sit in this arbour and sew, but often her