The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Robert Tressall

• Publisher: Left of Brain Books
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781396321498

Robert Tressell brilliantly displays why the poor stay poor and the rich get richer in the chapter "The Great Money Trick".In this timeless depressingly realistic classic of working-class literature, the relationship between the haves and the have-nots is portrayed through the labor of workmen painting a mansion in the fictional English town of Mugsborough. Tressell calls out the hypocrisy of religion and the exploitation of workers by a select few through heartbreakingly powerful metaphors, like one of the workers collapsing to his death on the job one day, paintbrush in hand; in perpetual hope for a better tomorrow until his last breath.The philanthropists in the title refer to the workmen who acquiesce the value of their work to their masters. George Orwell described this as "a book that everyone should read." And described Tressell as "a considerable novelist who was lost in this young working-man whom society could not bother to keep alive"."Tressell's bitterness and anger are mixed with compassion, sympathy, and a sharp sense of humor."
~Jonah Raskin, American writer"Robert Tressell died penniless, and was buried in a pauper's grave, and I often think that might have been me if it wasn't for this book. At times it will make you weep because of what was happening to those characters on that page. It stirred up again in me the beauty of reading."
~Ricky Tomlinson, English actor, author, and political activist

CHAPTER I

AN IMPERIAL BANQUET

The house was named ‘The Cave.’ It was a large old-fashioned three-storied building, standing in about an acre of ground, a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It had been unoccupied for many years, and was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of Rushton and Company, Builders and Decorators.

Altogether, about twenty-five men were working there—carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides several unskilled labourers. They were putting new floors where the old ones were decayed, and making two rooms into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder. They were replacing window frames and sashes, re-plastering cracked ceilings and walls, cutting openings and fitting doors where no doors had ever been before. They were taking down broken chimney pots and fixing new ones in their places. They were washing the old whitewash off the ceilings, and scraping the old paper off the walls. 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. It was also 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 painter’s foreman, blew a prolonged blast upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the apprentice had already prepared the tea in the large galvanised iron pail 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 sideways in front of the fire at a distance of about eight feet with a plank placed across, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser, formed the seating accommodation. The floor was covered with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster. A sack of 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 frizzling 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 bin 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 tightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hobnailed boots. The knees 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. I’m sick of listening to you about it every dam 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 give ’im is spent in 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!’ says Bert, who was on the verge of tears. ‘It’s not me wot buys the things at all. I gives all 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 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 and Company, 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 perhaps did not 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 turns a better workman was often ‘stoodoff’ 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 was usually warned by his mates ‘not to let that swine 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 as usual seemed 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 but little hesitation in thinking him mad. Owen was about thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built that he appeared taller. His clean shaven face showed a suggestion of refinement, his complexion was ominously clear, and an unnatural colour flushed the thin cheeks.

There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow-workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions, and it was because he was in the habit of discussing them openly, 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 during his absence Easton annexed the copy of ‘The Obscurer’ that Bundy had thrown away and proceeded to work laboriously through some carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection. Bert, his eyes starting 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.

Most of the men 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 ’e 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 were married, about ten years ago.’

‘Oh yes, I remember now,’ said Payne, ‘she used to manage one of Grinder’s branch shops.’

‘Yes,’ replied Linden. ‘I remember it very well because there was a lot of talk about it at the time. No one never thought as ole Sweater’d ever git married at all, although there was always several young women about what would have been glad enough to ’ave 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.’

‘There’s going to be a new set of drains altogether,’ replied Crass, ‘carried right out to the road and connected with the main.’

Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.

‘That’s goin’ to cost a good bit,’ said Linden.

‘Yes, I suppose it will,’ replied Crass, ‘but money ain’t no object to old Sweater. ’E’s got tons of it; you know ’e’s got a large wholesale business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one ’e’s got ’ere.’

Easton was still reading the ‘Obscurer.’ He was not able to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at—probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand—but he was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question; to tell the truth he himself could not make head or tale of it. At length he said aloud, addressing himself to Crass:

‘Wot do you think of this ’ere fissical policy, Bob?’

‘Ain’t thought much about it,’ replied Crass. ‘I don’t never worry my ’ed about politics.’

‘Much better left alone,’ chimed in old Jack Linden, sagely, ’argyfying about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an’ does no good to nobody.’

At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. Most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If two or three men of similar opinions happened to be together they might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed company it was better left alone. The ‘Fissical Policy’ emanated from the Tory Party. That was the reason why some of them were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. Some of them were under the delusion that they were Conservatives; others imagined themselves to be Liberals; as a matter of fact most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in the planet Jupiter.

Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject, when, looking up from his paper, Owen said:

‘Does the fact that you never trouble your heads about politics prevent you from voting at election times?’

No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence, Easton, however, in spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking.

‘Well, I don’t go in for politics much, either, but if what’s in this ’ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take some interest in it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.’

‘If you’re goin’ to believe all that’s in that bloody rag you’ll want some salt,’ said Harlow.

The ’Obscurer’ was a Tory paper and Harlow was a member of the local Liberal club.

Harlow’s remark roused Crass.

‘Wots the use of talkin’ like that?’ he said. ‘You know very well that the country is being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to buy something; look round the place an’ you’ll see that more than ’arf the dam stuff comes from abroad. They’re able to sell their goods ’ere because they don’t ’ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to put ’cavy dooties on our goods to keep ’em out of their countries; and I say it’s about time it was stopped.’

‘’Ear, ’ear!’ said Linden, who always agreed with Crass, because the latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a good—or bad—w...

Table of contents

• PREFACE
• CHAPTER I
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• CHAPTER XII
• CHAPTER XIII
• CHAPTER XIV
• CHAPTER XV
• CHAPTER XVI
• CHAPTER XVII
• CHAPTER XVIII
• CHAPTER XIX
• THE OBLONG
• CHAPTER XX
• CHAPTER XXI
• CHAPTER XXII
• CHAPTER XXIII
• CHAPTER XXIV
• CHAPTER XXV
• CHAPTER XXVI
• CHAPTER XXVII
• CHAPTER XXVIII
• CHAPTER XXIX
• CHAPTER XXX
• CHAPTER XXXI
• CHAPTER XXXII
• CHAPTER XXXIII
• CHAPTER XXXIV
• CHAPTER XXXV
• CHAPTER XXXVI