The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Robert Tressell

• Publisher: Harper Perennial
• Year: 2010
• Print ISBN:
  9780007204502
• eBook ISBN:
  9780007375554
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

Originally published in 1914, The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists is a timeless story of socialism, political awakenings and class struggle, told with a volatile mix of heartfelt rage and sly humour.

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists tells the story of a group of working men who are joined one day by Owen, a journeyman-prophet with a vision of a just society. Owen's spirited attacks on the greed and dishonesty of the capitalist system rouse his fellow men from their political quietism. A masterpiece of wit and political passion, this is one of the most authentic novels of English working class life ever written.

This enduring favourite is now reinvigorated by a smart new jacket and exclusive extra material as part of Harper Perennial's Modern Classics line of reissues. Now its timeless message of justice, equality and reason will be introduced to a whole new generation of discerning readers.

1
An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves

The house was named ‘The Cave’. It was a large old-fashioned three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means of a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators.

There were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder. Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were being cut through walls and doors were being put where no doors had ever been before. Old broken chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and fixed in 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 sounds 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 prolonged 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 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 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 tightly 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 ‘im 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 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 & 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 Stock well, 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 but 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 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 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 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 and having closed and placed it on the mantelshelf above, 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 aint 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 to be a new set of drains altogether, 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 about 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 tail of it. At length he said aloud, addressing himself to Crass:

‘Wo...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Table of Contents
• PUBLISHER’S NOTE
• Introduction
• Introduction
• Preface
• 1 An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves
• 2 Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord
• 3 The Financiers
• 4 The Placard
• 5 The Clock-case
• 6 It is not My Crime
• 7 The Exterminating Machines
• 8 The Cap on the Stairs
• 9 Who is to Pay?
• 10 The Long Hill
• 11 Hands and Brains
• 12 The Letting of the Room
• 13 Penal Servitude and Death
• 14 Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence
• 15 The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones
• 16 True Freedom
• 17 The Rev. John Starr
• 18 The Lodger
• 19 The Filling of the Tank
• 20 The Forty Thieves. The Battle: Brigands versus Bandits
• 21 The Reign of Terror. The Great Money Trick
• 22 The Phrenologist
• 23 The ‘Open-air’
• 24 Ruth
• 25 The Oblong
• 26 The Slaughter
• 27 The March of the Imperialists
• 28 The Week before Christmas
• 29 The Pandorama
• 30 The Brigands hold a Council of War
• 31 The Deserter
• 32 The Veteran
• 33 The Soldier’s Children
• 34 The Beginning of the End
• 35 Facing the ‘Problem’
• 36 The OBS
• 37 A Brilliant Epigram
• 38 The Brigands’ Cave
• 39 The Brigands at Work
• 40 Vive la System!
• 41 The Easter Offering. The Beano Meeting
• 42 June
• 43 The Good Old Summer-time
• 44 The Beano
• 45 The Great Oration
• 46 The ‘Sixty-five’
• 47 The Ghouls
• 48 The Wise men of the East
• 49 The Undesired
• 50 Sundered
• 51 The Widow’s Son
• 52 ‘It’s a Far, Far Better Thing that I do, than I have Ever Done’
• 53 Barrington Finds a Situation
• 54 The End
• Appendix Mugsborough
• Select Bibliography
• P.S.
• About the Author
• Copyright
• About the Publisher