the ragged trousered philanthropists-第9节

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He　messed　and　fooled　about　for　some　time；　but　could　not　make　it　come　right。　　At　last　he　gave　it　up。

‘I　suppose　it'll　have　to　have　two　coats　after　all；'　he　said；　mournfully。　　‘But　it's　a　thousand　pities。'

He　almost　wept。

The　firm　would　be　ruined　if　things　went　on　like　this。

‘You'd　better　go　on　with　it；'　he　said　as　he　laid　down　the　brush。

He　began　to　walk　about　the　house　again。　　He　wanted　to　go　away　now；　but　he　did　not　want　them　to　know　that　he　was　gone；　so　he　sneaked　out　of　the　back　door；　crept　around　the　house　and　out　of　the　gate；　mounted　his　bicycle　and　rode　away。

No　one　saw　him　go。

For　some　time　the　only　sounds　that　broke　the　silence　were　the　noises　made　by　the　hands　as　they　worked。　　The　musical　ringing　of　Bundy's　trowel；　the　noise　of　the　carpenters'　hammers　and　saws　and　the　occasional　moving　of　a　pair　of　steps。

No　one　dared　to　speak。

At　last　Philpot　could　stand　it　no　longer。　　He　was　very　thirsty。

He　had　kept　the　door　of　his　room　open　since　Hunter　arrived。

He　listened　intently。　　He　felt　certain　that　Hunter　must　be　gone：　he　looked　across　the　landing　and　could　see　Owen　working　in　the　front　room。　　Philpot　made　a　little　ball　of　paper　and　threw　it　at　him　to　attract　his　attention。　　Owen　looked　round　and　Philpot　began　to　make　signals：　he　pointed　downwards　with　one　hand　and　jerked　the　thumb　of　the　other　over　his　shoulder　in　the　direction　of　the　town；　winking　grotesquely　the　while。　　This　Owen　interpreted　to　be　an　inquiry　as　to　whether　Hunter　had　departed。　　He　shook　his　head　and　shrugged　his　shoulders　to　intimate　that　he　did　not　know。

Philpot　cautiously　crossed　the　landing　and　peeped　furtively　over　the　banisters；　listening　breathlessly。　　‘Was　it　gorn　or　not？'　he　wondered。

He　crept　along　on　tiptoe　towards　Owen's　room；　glancing　left　and　right；　the　trowel　in　his　hand；　and　looking　like　a　stage　murderer。　　‘Do　you　think　it's　gorn？'　he　asked　in　a　hoarse　whisper　when　he　reached　Owen's　door。

‘I　don't　know；'　replied　Owen　in　a　low　tone。

Philpot　wondered。　　He　MUST　have　a　drink；　but　it　would　never　do　for　Hunter　to　see　him　with　the　bottle：　he　must　find　out　somehow　whether　he　was　gone　or　not。

At　last　an　idea　came。　　He　would　go　downstairs　to　get　some　more　cement。　Having　confided　this　plan　to　Owen；　he　crept　quietly　back　to　the　room　in　which　he　had　been　working；　then　he　walked　noisily　across　the　landing　again。

‘Got　a　bit　of　stopping　to　spare；　Frank？'　he　asked　in　a　loud　voice。

‘No；'　replied　Owen。　　‘I'm　not　using　it。'

‘Then　I　suppose　I'll　have　to　go　down　and　get　some。　　Is　there　anything　I　can　bring　up　for　you？'

‘No；　thanks；'　replied　Owen。

Philpot　marched　boldly　down　to　the　scullery；　which　Crass　had　utilized　as　a　paint…shop。　　Crass　was　there　mixing　some　colour。

‘I　want　a　bit　of　stopping；'　Philpot　said　as　he　helped　himself　to　some。

‘Is　the　br　gorn？'　whispered　Crass。

‘I　don't　know；'　replied　Philpot。　　‘Where's　his　bike？'

‘'E　always　leaves　it　outside　the　gate；　so's　we　can't　see　it；'　replied　Crass。

‘Tell　you　what；'　whispered　Philpot；　after　a　pause。　　‘Give　the　boy　a　hempty　bottle　and　let　'im　go　to　the　gate　and　look　to　the　bikes　there。　If　Misery　sees　him　'e　can　pretend　to　be　goin'　to　the　shop　for　some　hoil。'

This　was　done。　　Bert　went　to　the　gate　and　returned　almost　immediately：　the　bike　was　gone。　　As　the　good　news　spread　through　the　house　a　chorus　of　thanksgiving　burst　forth。

‘Thank　Gord！'　said　one。

‘Hope　the　br　falls　orf　and　breaks　'is　bloody　neck；'　said　another。

‘These　Bible…thumpers　are　all　the　same；　no　one　ever　knew　one　to　be　any　good　yet；'　cried　a　third。

Directly　they　knew　for　certain　that　he　was　gone；　nearly　everyone　left　off　work　for　a　few　minutes　to　curse　him。　　　Then　they　again　went　on　working　and　now　that　they　were　relieved　of　the　embarrassment　that　Misery's　presence　inspired；　they　made　better　progress。　　A　few　of　them　lit　their　pipes　and　smoked　as　they　worked。

One　of　these　was　old　Jack　Linden。　　He　was　upset　by　the　bullying　he　had　received；　and　when　he　noticed　some　of　the　others　smoking　he　thought　he　would　have　a　pipe；　it　might　steady　his　nerves。　　As　a　rule　he　did　not　smoke　when　working；　it　was　contrary　to　orders。

As　Philpot　was　returning　to　work　again　he　paused　for　a　moment　to　whisper　to　Linden；　with　the　result　that　the　latter　accompanied　him　upstairs。

On　reaching　Philpot's　room　the　latter　placed　the　step…ladder　near　the　cupboard　and；　taking　down　the　bottle　of　beer；　handed　it　to　Linden　with　the　remark；　‘Get　some　of　that　acrost　yer；　matey；　it'll　put　yer　right。'

While　Linden　was　taking　a　hasty　drink；　Joe　kept　watch　on　the　landing　outside　in　case　Hunter　should　suddenly　and　unexpectedly　reappear。

When　Linden　was　gone　downstairs　again；　Philpot；　having　finished　what　remained　of　the　beer　and　hidden　the　bottle　up　the　chimney；　resumed　the　work　of　stopping　up　the　holes　and　cracks　in　the　ceiling　and　walls。　　He　must　make　a　bit　of　a　show　tonight　or　there　would　be　a　hell　of　a　row　when　Misery　came　in　the　morning。

Owen　worked　on　in　a　disheartened；　sullen　way。　　He　felt　like　a　beaten　dog。

He　was　more　indignant　on　poor　old　Linden's　account　than　on　his　own；　and　was　oppressed　by　a　sense　of　impotence　and　shameful　degradation。

All　his　life　it　had　been　the　same：　incessant　work　under　similar　more　or　less　humiliating　conditions；　and　with　no　more　result　than　being　just　able　to　avoid　starvation。

And　the　future；　as　far　as　he　could　see；　was　as　hopeless　as　the　past；　darker；　for　there　would　surely　come　a　time；　if　he　lived　long　enough；　when　he　would　be　unable　to　work　any　more。

He　thought　of　his　child。　　Was　he　to　be　a　slave　and　a　drudge　all　his　life　also？

it　would　be　better　for　the　boy　to　die　now。

As　Owen　thought　of　his　child's　future　there　sprung　up　within　him　a　feeling　of　hatred　and　fury　against　the　majority　of　his　fellow　workmen。

THEY　WERE　THE　ENEMY。　　Those　who　not　only　quietly　submitted　like　so　many　cattle　to　the　existing　state　of　things；　but　defended　it；　and　opposed　and　ridiculed　any　suggestion　to　alter　it。

THEY　WERE　THE　REAL　OPPRESSORS　…　the　men　who　spoke　of　themselves　as　‘The　likes　of　us；'　who；　having　lived　in　poverty　and　degradation　all　their　lives　considered　that　what　had　been　good　enough　for　them　was　good　enough　for　the　children　they　had　been　the　cause　of　bringing　into　existence。

He　hated　and　despised　them　because　the　calmly　saw　their　children　condemned　to　hard　labour　and　poverty　for　life；　and　deliberately　refused　to　make　any　effort　to　secure　for　them　better　conditions　than　those　they　had　themselves。

It　was　because　they　were　indifferent　to　the　fate　of　THEIR　children　that　he　would　be　unable　to　secure　a　natural　and　human　life　for　HIS。　It　was　their　apathy　or　active　opposition　that　made　it　impossible　to　establish　a　better　system　of　society　under　which　those　who　did　their　fair　share　of　the　world's　work　would　be　honoured　and　rewarded。　Instead　of　helping　to　do　this；　they　abased　themselves；　and　grovelled　before　their　oppressors；　and　compelled　and　taught　their　children　to　do　the　same。　　THEY　were　the　people　who　were　really　responsible　for　the　continuance　of　the　present　system。

Owen　laughed　bitterly　to　himself。　　What　a　very　comical　system　it　was。

Those　who　worked　were　looked　upon　with　contempt；　and　subjected　to　every　possible　indignity。　　Nearly　everything　they　produced　was　taken　away　from　them　and　enjoyed　by　the　people　who　did　nothing。　　And　then　the　workers　bowed　down　and　grovelled　before　those　who　had　robbed　them　of　the　fruits　of　their　labour　and　were　childishly　grateful　to　them　for　leaving　anything　at　all。

No　wonder　the　rich　despised　them　and　looked　upon　them　as　dirt。　　They　WERE　despicable。　　They　WERE　dirt。　　They　admitted　it　and　gloried　in　it。

While　these　thoughts　were　seething　in　Owen's　mind；　his　fellow　workmen　were　still　patiently　toiling　on　downstairs。　　Most　of　them　had　by　this　time　dismissed　Hunter　from　their　thoughts。　　They　did　not　take　things　so　seriously　as　Owen。　　They　flattered　themselves　that　they　had　more　sense　than　that。　　It　could　not　be　altered。　　Grin　and　bear　it。　　After　all；　it　was　only　for　life！　　Make　the　best　of　things；　and　get　your　own　back　whenever　you　get　a　chance。

Presently　Harlow　began　to　sing。　　He　had　a　good　voice　and　it　was　a　good　song；　but　his　mates　just　then　did　not　appreciate　either　one　of　the　other。　　His　singing　was　the　signal　for　an　outburst　of　exclamations　and　catcalls。

‘Shut　it；　for　Christ's　sake！'

‘That's　enough　of　that　bloody　row！'

And　so　on。　　Harlow　stopped。

‘How's　the　enemy？'　asked　Easton　presently；　addressing　no　one　in　particular。

‘Don't　know；'　replied　Bundy。　　‘It　must　be　about　half　past　four。　　Ask　Slyme；　he's　got　a　watch；'

It　was　a　quarter　past　four。

‘It　gets　dark　very　early　now；'　said　Easton。

‘Yes；'　replied　Bundy。　　‘It's　been　very　dull　all　day。　　I　think　it's　goin'　to　rain。　　　Listen　to　the　wind。'

‘I　'ope　not；'　replied　Easton。　　‘That　means　a　wet　shirt　goin'　'ome。'

He　called　out　to　old　Jack　Linden；　who　was　still　working　at　the　front　doors：

‘Is　it　raining；　Jack？'

Old　Jack；　his　pipe　still　in　his　mouth；　turned　to　look　at　the　weather。　It　was　raining；　but　Linden　did　not　see　the　large　drops　which　splashed　heavily　upon　the　ground。　　He　saw　only　Hunter；　who　was　standing　at　the　gate；　watching　him。　　For　a　few　seconds　the　two　men　looked　at　each　other　in　silence。　　Linden　was　paralysed　wi