Ragged Trousered Philanthropists | Page 6

Sawkins, `and then p'raps we'll 'ave
a little peace at meal-times.'
`An' you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,'
added Bert, tearfully, `cos I won't do it.'
Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve
months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a

simple labourer, but since then he had `picked up' a slight knowledge of
the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a
white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The others
did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition, but his
wages - fivepence an hour - were twopence an hour less than the
standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better
workman was `stood off' when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he was
generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the
`Bloke'. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his
new mates `not to let the b--r Sawkins see anything.'
The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one
of the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that
followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.
`How did you get on yesterday?' asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the
plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the Daily
Obscurer.
`No luck,' replied Bundy, gloomily. `I had a bob each way on
Stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.'
This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two
others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow's races.
It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion of
Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence
for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned
Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the
syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper.
He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there
must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing
or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and
politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally admitted to
be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had little
hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about
thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built that
he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his
clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an

unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks.
There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow
workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions on
the subjects mentioned.
The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox
opinions. If anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon
discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small
class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of
the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very great
number - in fact the majority of the people - lived on the verge of want;
and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of
semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but
still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by
privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a period
to their misery. And strangest of all - in his opinion - he saw that people
who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were the
people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or died
of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he thought
that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results was rotten
and should be altered. And he had sought out and eagerly read the
writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done.
It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his
fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably
something wrong with his mind.
When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their
contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and
when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy
had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some
carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection. Bert,
his eyes starting