The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
istence was that the majority of his fellow-workers were devoid of the power of reasoning. If they had not been they would have swept this silly system away long ago.
Why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that they would not eventually die of want.
No matter how prosperous a man might be he could not be certain that his children would never want for bread.
As Owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled with these thoughts, he was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet through to the skin. He was without an overcoat: it had been pawned in London, and he had not yet been able to redeem it. His boots were leaky and sodden with mud and rain.
He was nearly home now. At the corner of the street in which he lived there was a newsagent's shop, and on a board outside the door was displayed a placard:
TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
Double Murder and Suicide
He went in to buy a copy of the paper. He was a frequent customer here, and as he entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name.
'Dreadful weather,' he remarked, as he handed Owen the paper. 'It makes things pretty bad in your line, I suppose?'
'Yes,' responded Owen, 'there's a lot of men idle, but fortunately I happen to be working inside.'
'You're one of the lucky ones, then,' said the other. 'You know, there'll be a job here for some of 'em as soon as the weather gets a little better. All the outside of this block is going to be done up. That's a pretty big job, isn't it?'
'Yes,' returned Owen; 'who's going to do it?'
'Makehaste and Sloggit. You know, they've got a place over at Windley.'
'Yes, I know the firm,' said Owen, grimly. He had worked for them once or twice himself.
'The foreman was in here to-day,' the shopkeeper went on; 'he said they're going to make a start Monday morning if it's fine.'
'Well, I hope it will be,' said Owen, 'because things are very quiet just now.'
Wishing the other good-night Owen again proceeded homewards.
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