Ragged Trousered Philanthropists/Chapter 7

by Robert Tressell

CHAPTER VII

The Cap on the Stairs

After breakfast, when they were working together in the drawing-room, Easton, desiring to do Owen a good turn, thought he would put him on his guard, and repeated to him in a whisper the substance of the conversation he had held with Crass concerning him.

'Of course, you needn't mention that I told you, Frank,' he said, 'but I thought I ought to let you know. You can take it from me, Crass ain't no friend of yours.'

'I've known that for a long time, mate,' replied Owen. 'Thanks for telling me, all the same.'

'The bloody rotter's no friend of mine either, or anyone else's, for that matter,' Easton continued, 'but of course it doesn't do to fall out with 'im, because you never know what he'd go and say to old 'Unter.'

'Of course we all know what's the matter with 'im as far as you're concerned,' Easton went on; 'he don't like 'avin' anyone on the firm wot knows more about the work than 'e does 'imself—thinks 'e might get worked out of 'is job.'

Owen laughed bitterly.

'He needn't be afraid of me on that account. I wouldn't have his job if it were offered to me.'

'But 'e don't think so,' replied Easton, 'and that's why 'e's got 'is knife into you.'

'I believe that what he said about Hunter is true enough,' said Owen. 'Every time he comes here he tries to goad me into doing or saying something that would give him an excuse to tell me to clear out. I might have done it before now if I had not guessed what he was after, and been on my guard.'

Meantime, Crass, in the kitchen, had resumed his seat by the fire with the purpose of finishing his pipe of tobacco. Presently he took out his pocket book and began to write in it with a piece of blacklead pencil, and, having torn out the leaf, went into the pantry, where Bert was still struggling with the old whitewash.

'Ain't yer nearly finished? I don't want yer to stop in 'ere all day, yer know.'

'I ain't got much more to do now,' said the boy; 'just this bit under the bottom shelf and then I'm done.'

'Yes, and a bloody fine mess you've made, what I can see of it!' growled Crass. 'Look at all this water on the floor!'

Bert looked guiltily at the floor and turned very red.

'I'll clean it all up,' he stammered; 'as soon as I've got this bit of wall done, I'll wipe all the mess up with a swab.'

Crass now took a pot of paint and some brushes and having put some more fuel on the fire, began in a leisurely way to paint some of the woodwork in the kitchen.

Presently Bert came in.

'I've finished out there,' he said.

'About time, too. You'll 'ave to look a bit livelier than you do, you know, or me and you will fall out.'

Bert did not answer.

'Now I've got another job for yer. You're fond of drorin, ain't yer?' continued Crass in a jeering tone.

'Yes, a little,' replied the boy, shamefacedly.

'Well,' said Crass, giving him the leaf he had torn out of the pocketbook, 'you can go to the yard and git them things and put 'em on a truck and dror it up 'ere, and git back as soon as you can. Just look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. I don't want you to make no mistakes.'

Bert took the paper and with some difficulty read as follows:—

1	pare steppes 8 foot
½	galoon Plaster off perish
1	pale off witewash
12	lbs wite led
½	galoon Linsede Hoil
Do. Do. turps.

'I can make it out all right.'

'You'd better bring the big truck,' said Crass, 'because I want you to take the venetian blinds with you on it when you take it back to-night. They've got to be painted at the shop.'

'All right.'

When the boy had departed Crass took a stroll through the house to see how the others were getting on. Then he returned to the kitchen and proceeded with his work.

Crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rather above middle height and rather stout. He had a considerable quantity of curly black hair and wore a short beard of the same colour. His head was rather large, but low, and flat on the top. When among his cronies he was in the habit of referring to his obesity as the result of good nature and a contented mind. Behind his back other people attributed it to beer, some even going so far as to nickname him the 'tank.'

There was no work of a noisy kind being done this morning, both the carpenters and the bricklayers having gone away, temporarily, to another 'job.' At the same time there was not absolute silence; occasionally Crass could hear the voices of the other workmen as they spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. Now and then Harlow's voice rang through the house as he sang snatches of music hall songs or a verse of a Moody and Sankey hymn, and occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupted the singer with squeals and catcalls. Once or twice Crass was on the point of telling them to make less row: there would be a fine to do if Nimrod came and heard them. Just as he had made up his mind to tell them to stop the noise, it ceased of itself and he heard loud whispers.

'Look out! Someone's comin'.'

The house became very quiet. Crass put out his pipe and opened the window and the back door to get rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. Then he shifted the pair of steps noisily, and proceeded to work more quickly than before. Most likely it was old Misery.

He worked on for some time in silence, but no one came to the kitchen; whoever it was must have gone upstairs. Crass listened attentively. Who could it be? He would have liked to go to see but at the same time, if it were Nimrod, Crass wished to be discovered at work. He therefore waited a little longer and presently he heard the sound of voices upstairs but was unable to recognise them. He was just about to go out into the passage to listen, when the intruder began to descend the stairs. Crass at once resumed his work. The footsteps came along the passage leading to the kitchen, slow, heavy, ponderous footsteps, but yet the sound was not such as would be made by a man heavily shod. It was not Misery, evidently.

As the footsteps entered the kitchen, Crass looked round and beheld Mr Sweater, the owner of 'The Cave,' a very tall, obese figure, with a large, coarse featured, clean-shaven face, and a great double chin, the complexion being of the colour and appearance of the fat of uncooked bacon. His nose was large and fleshy, and his weak-looking, pale blue eyes had slightly inflamed lids and were almost destitute of eyelashes. His large fat feet were cased in soft calf-skin boots, with drab-coloured spats. His overcoat, heavily trimmed with sealskin, reached just below the knees; and although the trousers were very wide they were filled by the fat legs within, the shape of the calves being distinctly perceptible. He was so large that his figure completely filled up the doorway, and as he came in he stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glistening silk hat on his head. One gloved hand was thrust into the pocket of the overcoat and in the other he carried a small gladstone bag.

When Crass beheld this being, he touched his cap respectfully.

'Good morning, sir.'

'Good morning. They told me upstairs that I should find the foreman here. Are you the foreman?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I see you're getting on with the work here.'

'Ho yes, sir, we're beginning to make a bit hov a show, now, sir,' replied Crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth.

'Mr Rushton isn't here yet, I suppose?'

'No sir; 'e don't horfun come hon the job hin the mornin' sir; 'e generally comes hafternoons, sir, but Mr 'Unter's halmost sure to be 'ere presently, sir.'

'It's Mr Rushton I want to see. I arranged to meet him here at ten o'clock, but'—looking at his watch—'I'm rather before my time.'

'He'll be here presently, I suppose,' added Mr Sweater, 'I'll just take a look round till he comes.'

'Yes, sir,' responded Crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went out of the room.

Hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, Crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what progress had so far been made with the work, but as Mr Sweater answered only by monosyllables and grunts, Crass presently concluded that his conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen.

Meantime, upstairs, Philpot had gone into Newman's room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from Mr Sweater the price of a little light refreshment.

'I think,' he remarked, 'that we oughter see-ise this 'ere tuneropperty to touch 'im for an allowance.'

'We won't git nothin' out of 'im, mate,' returned Newman. ''E's a red 'ot teetotaller.'

'That don't matter. 'Ow's 'e to know that we buys beer with it? We might 'ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime juice and glycerine for all 'e knows!'

Mr Sweater now began ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently came into the room where Philpot was at work. The latter greeted him with respectful cordiality.

'Good morning, sir.'

'Good morning. You've begun painting up here then.'

'Yes, sir, we've made a start on it,' replied Philpot, affably.

'Is this door wet?'—asked Sweater, glancing apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat.

'Yes, sir,' answered Philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the great man, 'the paint is wet, sir, but the painters is dry.'

'Confound it!' exclaimed Sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter part of Philpot's reply. 'I've got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.'

'Oh, that's nothing, sir,' cried Philpot, secretly delighted; 'I'll get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just 'arf a mo!'

He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and moistening it slightly with turpentine he carefully removed the paint from Sweater's sleeve.

'It's all orf now, sir,' he remarked as he rubbed the place with a dry part of the rag;' the smell of the turps will go away in about a hour's time.'

'Thanks,' said Sweater.

Philpot looked at him wistfully, but Sweater evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room.

'I see they've put a new piece of skirting here,' he observed.

'Yes, sir,' said Newman, who came into the room just then to get the turps, 'the old piece was all to bits with dry rot.'

'I feel as if I 'ad a touch of the dry rot meself, don't you?' said Philpot to Newman, who smiled feebly and cast a side-long glance at Sweater, who did not appear to notice the significance of the remark, but walked out of the room and began climbing up to the next floor, where Harlow and Sawkins were working.

'Well, there's a bleeder for yer!' said Philpot, with indignation. 'After all the trouble I took to clean 'is coat! Not a bloody stiver! Well, it takes the cake, don't it?'

'I told you 'ow it would be, didn't I?' replied Newman.

'P'raps I didn't make it plain enough,' said Philpot thoughtfully. 'We must try to get some of our own back somehow, you know.'

Going out on the landing he called softly upstairs:

'I say, Harlow.'

'Hallo,' said that individual, looking over the banisters.

''Ow are yer getting on up there?'

'Oh, all right, you know.'

'Pretty dry job, ain't it?' Philpot continued, raising his voice a little and winking at Harlow.

'Yes, it is, rather,' replied Harlow with a grin.

'I think this would be a very good time to take up the collection, don't you?'

'Yes; it wouldn't be a bad idear.'

'Well, I'll put me cap on the stairs,' said Philpot, suiting the action to the word; 'you never knows yer luck. Things is gettin a bit serious on this floor, you know; my mate's fainted away once already!'

Philpot now went back to his room to await developments; but as Sweater made no sign, he returned to the landing and again hailed Harlow.

'I always reckon a man can work all the better after 'e's 'ad a drink; you can seem to get over more of it, like.'

'Oh, that's true enough,' responded Harlow; 'I've often noticed it meself.'

Sweater came out of the front bedroom and passed into one of the back rooms without any notice of either of the men.

'I'm afraid it's a frost, mate,' Harlow whispered, and Philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little while he came out again and once more accosted Harlow.

'I knowed a case once,' he said in a melancholy tone, 'where a chap died—of thirst—on a job just like this; and at the inquest the doctor said as 'arf a pint would 'a saved 'im!'

'It must 'ave been a norrible death,' remarked Harlow.

''Orrible ain't the word for it, mate,' replied Philpot mournfully; 'it was something chronic!'

After this final heartrending appeal to Sweater's humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their efforts, they had done their best, and the issue now rested with him.

But it was all in vain. Sweater either did not or would not understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the cap which Philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floor, and reached the hall at the same moment as Rushton entered by the front door. They greeted each other in a friendly way, and after a few remarks concerning the work, went into the drawing-room where Owen and Easton were busy.

'What about this room?' remarked Rushton. 'Have you made up your mind what you're going to have done to it?'

'Yes,' replied Sweater, 'but I'll tell you about that afterwards. What I'm anxious about is the drains. Have you brought the plans?'

'Yes.'

'What's it going to cost?'

'Just wait a minute,' said Rushton, with a slight gesture calling Sweater's attention to the presence of the two workmen. Sweater understood.

'You might leave that for a few minutes, will you?' Rushton continued, addressing Owen and Easton. 'Go and get on with something helse for a little while.'

When they were alone Rushton closed the door and remarked: 'It's always as well not to let these 'ere fellows know more than is necessary.'

Sweater agreed.

'Now this 'ere drain work is really two separate jobs,' said Rushton. 'First, the drains of the house: that is, the part of the work that's actually on your ground. When that's done, there will 'ave to be a pipe carried right along under this private road to the main road to connect the drains of the house with the town main. You follow me?'

'Perfectly. What's it going to cost for the lot?'

'For the drains of the house £25, and for the connecting pipe £30—£55 for the lot.'

''Um: that's the lowest you can do it for, eh?'

'That's the lowest. I've figured it out most carefully, the time and material, and that's practically all I'm charging you.'

The truth of this matter was that Rushton had had nothing whatever to do with estimating the cost of this work; he had not the necessary knowledge. Hunter had drawn the plans, calculated the cost and prepared the estimate.

'I've been thinking over this business lately,' said Sweater, looking at Rushton with a cunning leer. 'I don't see why I should have to pay for the connecting pipe. The Corporation ought to pay for that. What do you say?'

Rushton laughed. 'I don't see why not,' he replied.

'I think we could arrange it all right, don't you?' Sweater went on. 'Anyhow, the work will have to be done, so you'd better let 'em get on with it. £55 covers both jobs, you say?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, all right, you get on with it and we'll see what can be done with the Corporation later on.'

'I don't suppose we'll find 'em very difficult to deal with,' said Rushton with a grin, and Sweater smiled agreement.

As they were passing through the hall they met Hunter, who had just arrived. He was rather surprised to see them, as he knew nothing of their appointment. He wished them 'Good morning' in an awkward, hesitating undertone as if he were doubtful how his greeting would be received. Sweater nodded slightly, but Rushton ignored him altogether, and Nimrod passed on looking and feeling like a disreputable cur that had just been kicked.

As Sweater and Rushton walked together about the house, Hunter hovered about them at a respectful distance, hoping that presently some notice might be taken of him. His dismal countenance became even longer than usual when he observed that they were about to leave the house without appearing to know that he was there. However, just as they were going out, Rushton paused on the threshold and called him:

'Mr Hunter!'

'Yes, sir.'

Nimrod ran to him like a dog taken notice of by his master. If he had possessed a tail it is probable that he would have wagged it. Rushton gave him the plans with an intimation that the work was to be proceeded with.

For some time after they were gone Hunter crawled silently about the house, in and out of the rooms, up and down the corridors and the staircases. After a while he went into the room where Newman was and stood quietly watching him for about ten minutes as he worked. The man was painting the skirting, and just then he came to a part that was split in several places, so he took his knife and began to fill the cracks with putty. He was so nervous under Hunter's scrutiny that his hand trembled to such an extent that it took him about twice as long as it should have done, and Hunter told him so with brutal directness.

'Never mind about puttying up such little cracks as them!' he shouted. 'Fill 'em up with the paint. We can't afford to pay you for messing about like that!'

Newman made no reply.

Misery found no excuse for bullying anyone else, because they were all tearing into it for all they were worth. He sneaked into the drawing-room and after standing with a malignant expression, silently watching Owen and Easton, he came out again without having uttered a word.

Although he frequently acted in this manner, yet somehow to-day the circumstance worried Owen considerably. He wondered uneasily what it meant, and began to feel vaguely apprehensive. Hunter's silence seemed more menacing than his speech.