The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
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.
And they admitted it and gloried in it.
While these thoughts were seething in Owen's mind, his fellow workmen still patiently toiled on downstairs. Most of them had by this time dismissed Hunter from their thoughts. They did not take things as seriously as Owen. They flattered themselves that they had too much sense. 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 or 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.'
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