Ragged Trousered Philanthropists | Page 5

their places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off
the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls
preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was full
of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the
rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of the
stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper.
Besides being full of these the air was heavily laden with dust and
disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had
been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those
employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff Reform Paradise -
they had Plenty of Work.

At twelve o'clock Bob Crass - the painters' foreman - blew a blast upon
a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the
apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large
galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By
the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated
tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each man on the
`job' paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar - they did not
have milk - and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at
dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune.
Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about
eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the fire,
several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser,
formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered
with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster.
A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls, and a
bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner.
As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin
with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them
brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their laps
or placed on the floor beside them.
At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but
the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater which
Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at
the fire.
`I don't think much of this bloody tea,' suddenly remarked Sawkins, one
of the labourers.
`Well it oughter be all right,' retorted Bert; `it's been bilin' ever since
'arf past eleven.'
Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of
age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of
a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they
had become too small for him, fitting rather lightly and scarcely

reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees
and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with
square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric,
and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too
large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a
pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an
upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his
clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
`Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've bin usin' up
wot was left yesterday,' continued Sawkins.
`Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone?' said Harlow,
another painter. `If you don't like the tea you needn't drink it. For my
part, I'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.'
`It's all very well for you to say I needn't drink it,' answered Sawkins,
`but I've paid my share an' I've got a right to express an opinion. It's my
belief that 'arf the money we gives 'him is spent on penny 'orribles: 'e's
always got one in 'is hand, an' to make wot tea 'e does buy last, 'e
collects all the slops wot's left and biles it up day after day.'
`No, I don't!' said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. `It's not me wot
buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and 'e buys
them 'imself, so there!'
At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant
glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.
`You'd better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea
after this week,' he said, addressing