Ragged Trousered Philanthropists | Page 7

out of his head and his mouth wide open, was
devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned
Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as
mate or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who
wanted him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and

with his coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the
same intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another
who took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who,
having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back
into his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled,
and proceeded to smoke in silence.
Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy
gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside
Mugsborough. This gentleman also owned some property in the town
and it was commonly reported that he had used his influence with
Rushton to induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was
whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative
of the gentleman's, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and
been disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him
a job in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom
he hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the
mystery may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew
nothing of the work except what he had learned since he had been taken
on, was employed as a painter's labourer at the usual wages - fivepence
per hour.
He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the
majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and
slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to
learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved in
his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his
workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it
was difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the
present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and
unconscious of his surroundings.
Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation
ensued.
`Is the gent what's bought this 'ouse any relation to Sweater the draper?'
asked Payne, the carpenter's foreman.

`It's the same bloke,' replied Crass.
`Didn't he used to be on the Town Council or something?'
`'E's bin on the Council for years,' returned Crass. `'E's on it now. 'E's
mayor this year. 'E's bin mayor several times before.'
`Let's see,' said Payne, reflectively, `'e married old Grinder's sister,
didn't 'e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.'
`Yes, I believe he did,' said Crass.
`It wasn't Grinder's sister,' chimed in old Jack Linden. `It was 'is niece.
I know, because I remember working in their 'ouse just after they was
married, about ten year ago.'
`Oh yes, I remember now,' said Payne. `She used to manage one of
Grinder's branch shops didn't she?'
`Yes,' replied Linden. `I remember it very well because there was a lot
of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used to be a
regler 'ot un: no one never thought as he'd ever git married at all: there
was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work
for him.'
This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief silence,
which was presently broken by Harlow.
`Funny name to call a 'ouse, ain't it?' he said. `"The Cave." I wonder
what made 'em give it a name like that.'
`They calls 'em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,' said old Jack
Linden.
`There's generally some sort of meaning to it, though,' observed Payne.
`For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, 'e might call
'is 'ouse, "Epsom Lodge" or "Newmarket Villa".'
`Or sometimes there's a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,' said

another man; `then they calls it "Hoak Lodge" or "Cherry Cottage".'
`Well, there's a cave up at the end of this garden,' said Harlow with a
grin, `you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the 'ouse runs into;
praps they called it after that.'
`Talking about the drains,' said old Jack Linden when the laughter
produced by this elegant joke had ceased. `Talking about the drains, I
wonder what they're going to do about them; the 'ouse ain't fit to live in
as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done
away with.'
`So it is going to be,' replied Crass. `There's going