The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists [113]
to see if anyone had stopped work before the proper time. Passing the two workmen without speaking, he ascended to the next floor, and entered the room where Slyme was.
`You'd better not do this room yet,' said Hunter. `There's to be a new grate and mantelpiece put in.'
He crossed over to the fireplace and stood looking at it thoughtfully for a few minutes.
`It's not a bad little grate, you know, is it?' he remarked. `We'll be able to use it somewhere or other.'
`Yes; it's all right,' said Slyme, whose heart was beating like a steam-hammer.
`Do for a front room in a cottage,' continued Misery, stooping down to examine it more closely. `There's nothing broke that I can see.'
He put his hand against the register and vainly tried to push it open. `H'm, there's something wrong 'ere,' he remarked, pushing harder.
`Most likely a brick or some plaster fallen down,' gasped Slyme, coming to Misery's assistance. `Shall I try to open it?'
`Don't trouble,' replied Nimrod, rising to his feet. `It's most likely what you say. I'll see that the new grate is sent up after dinner. Bundy can fix it this afternoon and then you can go on papering as soon as you like.'
With this, Misery went out of the room, downstairs and away from the house, and Slyme wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Then he knelt down and, opening the register, he took out the broken rolls of paper and hid them up the chimney of the next room. While he was doing this the sound of Crass's whistle shrilled through the house.
`Thank Gord!' exclaimed Philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. The scene here is already familiar to the reader. For seats, the two pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight feet apart and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank placed across; and the upturned pails and the drawers of the dresser. The floor unswept and littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of plaster, pieces of lead pipe and dried mud; and in the midst, the steaming bucket of stewed tea and the collection of cracked cups, jam-jam and condensed milk tins. And on the seats the men in their shabby and in some cases ragged clothing sitting and eating their coarse food and cracking jokes.
It was a pathetic and wonderful and at the same time a despicable spectacle. Pathetic that human beings should be condemned to spend the greater part of their lives amid such surroundings, because it must be remembered that most of their time was spent on some job or other. When `The Cave' was finished they would go to some similar `job', if they were lucky enough to find one. Wonderful, because although they knew that they did more than their fair share of the great work of producing the necessaries and comforts of life, they did not think they were entitled to a fair share of the good things they helped to create! And despicable, because although they saw their children condemned to the same life of degradation, hard labour and privation, yet they refused to help to bring about a better state of affairs. Most of them thought that what had been good enough for themselves was good enough for their children.
It seemed as if they regarded their own children with a kind of contempt, as being only fit to grow up to be the servants of the children of such people as Rushton and Sweater. But it must be remembered that they had been taught self-contempt when they were children. In the so-called `Christian' schools. they attended then they were taught to `order themselves lowly and reverently towards their betters', and they were now actually sending their own children to learn the same degrading lessons in their turn! They had a vast amount of consideration for their betters, and for the children of their betters, but very little for their own children, for each other, or for themselves.
That was why they sat there in their rags and ate their coarse food, and cracked their coarser jokes, and drank the dreadful tea, and
`You'd better not do this room yet,' said Hunter. `There's to be a new grate and mantelpiece put in.'
He crossed over to the fireplace and stood looking at it thoughtfully for a few minutes.
`It's not a bad little grate, you know, is it?' he remarked. `We'll be able to use it somewhere or other.'
`Yes; it's all right,' said Slyme, whose heart was beating like a steam-hammer.
`Do for a front room in a cottage,' continued Misery, stooping down to examine it more closely. `There's nothing broke that I can see.'
He put his hand against the register and vainly tried to push it open. `H'm, there's something wrong 'ere,' he remarked, pushing harder.
`Most likely a brick or some plaster fallen down,' gasped Slyme, coming to Misery's assistance. `Shall I try to open it?'
`Don't trouble,' replied Nimrod, rising to his feet. `It's most likely what you say. I'll see that the new grate is sent up after dinner. Bundy can fix it this afternoon and then you can go on papering as soon as you like.'
With this, Misery went out of the room, downstairs and away from the house, and Slyme wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Then he knelt down and, opening the register, he took out the broken rolls of paper and hid them up the chimney of the next room. While he was doing this the sound of Crass's whistle shrilled through the house.
`Thank Gord!' exclaimed Philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. The scene here is already familiar to the reader. For seats, the two pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight feet apart and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank placed across; and the upturned pails and the drawers of the dresser. The floor unswept and littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of plaster, pieces of lead pipe and dried mud; and in the midst, the steaming bucket of stewed tea and the collection of cracked cups, jam-jam and condensed milk tins. And on the seats the men in their shabby and in some cases ragged clothing sitting and eating their coarse food and cracking jokes.
It was a pathetic and wonderful and at the same time a despicable spectacle. Pathetic that human beings should be condemned to spend the greater part of their lives amid such surroundings, because it must be remembered that most of their time was spent on some job or other. When `The Cave' was finished they would go to some similar `job', if they were lucky enough to find one. Wonderful, because although they knew that they did more than their fair share of the great work of producing the necessaries and comforts of life, they did not think they were entitled to a fair share of the good things they helped to create! And despicable, because although they saw their children condemned to the same life of degradation, hard labour and privation, yet they refused to help to bring about a better state of affairs. Most of them thought that what had been good enough for themselves was good enough for their children.
It seemed as if they regarded their own children with a kind of contempt, as being only fit to grow up to be the servants of the children of such people as Rushton and Sweater. But it must be remembered that they had been taught self-contempt when they were children. In the so-called `Christian' schools. they attended then they were taught to `order themselves lowly and reverently towards their betters', and they were now actually sending their own children to learn the same degrading lessons in their turn! They had a vast amount of consideration for their betters, and for the children of their betters, but very little for their own children, for each other, or for themselves.
That was why they sat there in their rags and ate their coarse food, and cracked their coarser jokes, and drank the dreadful tea, and