The Placard
Frank Owen was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of
consumption when the boy was only five years old. After that his mother
earned a scanty living as a needle-woman. When Frank was thirteen he
went to work for a master decorator who was a man of a type that has
now almost disappeared, being not merely an employer but a craftsman of
a high order.
He was an old man when Frank Owen went to work for him. At one time he
had had a good business in the town, and used to boast that he had
always done good work, had found pleasure in doing it and had been well
paid for it. But of late years the number of his customers had dwindled
considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which cared nothing
about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness and profit.
From this man and by laborious study and practice in his spare time,
aided by a certain measure of natural ability, the boy acquired a
knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining and
signwriting.
Frank’s mother died when he was twenty-four, and a year afterwards he
married the daughter of a fellow workman. In those days trade was
fairly good and although there was not much demand for the more
artistic kinds of work, still the fact that he was capable of doing
them, if required, made it comparatively easy for him to obtain
employment. Owen and his wife were very happy. They had one child—a
boy—and for some years all went well. But gradually this state of
things altered: broadly speaking, the change came slowly and
imperceptibly, although there were occasional sudden fluctuations.
Even in summer he could not always find work: and in winter it was
almost impossible to get a job of any sort. At last, about twelve
months before the date that this story opens, he determined to leave
his wife and child at home and go to try his fortune in London. When he
got employment he would send for them.
It was a vain hope. He found London, if anything, worse than his native
town. Wherever he went he was confronted with the legend: “No hands
wanted”. He walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold all his
clothes save those he stood in, and stayed in London for six months,
sometimes starving and only occasionally obtaining a few days or weeks
work.
At the end of that time he was forced to give in. The privations he had
endured, the strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the city
combined to defeat him. Symptoms of the disease that had killed his
father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated
entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of
his former self.
That was six months ago, and since then he had worked for Rushton & Co.
Occasionally when they had no work in hand, he was “stood off” until
something came in.
Ever since his return from London, Owen had been gradually abandoning
himself to hopelessness. Every day he felt that the disease he suffered
from was obtaining a stronger grip on him. The doctor told him to “take
plenty of nourishing food”, and prescribed costly medicines which Owen
had not the money to buy.
Then there was his wife. Naturally delicate, she needed many things
that he was unable to procure for her. And the boy—what hope was there
for him? Often as Owen moodily thought of their circumstances and
prospects he told himself that it would be far better if they could all
three die now, together.
He was tired of suffering himself, tired of impotently watching the
sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought of what was in
store for the child.
Of this nature were his reflections as he walked homewards on the
evening of the day when old Linden was dismissed. There was no reason
to believe or hope that the existing state of things would be altered
for a long time to come.
Thousands of people like himself dragged out a wretched existence on
the very verge of starvation, and for the greater number of people life
was one long struggle against poverty. Yet practically none of these
people knew or even troubled themselves to inquire why they were in
that condition; and for anyone else to try to explain to them was a
ridiculous waste of time, for they did not want to know.
The remedy was so simple, the evil so great and so glaringly evident
that the only possible explanation of its continued existence was that
the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of
reasoning. If these people were not mentally deficient they would of
their own accord have swept this silly system away long ago. It would
not have been necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong.
Why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that
they would not eventually die of want. In every workhouse might be
found people who had at one time occupied good positions; and their
downfall was not in every case their own fault.
No matter how prosperous a man might be, he could not be certain that
his children would never want for bread. There were thousands living in
misery on starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people.
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 was 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 today,” 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.
Half-way down the street he paused irresolutely: he was thinking of the
news he had just heard and of Jack Linden.
As soon as it became generally known that this work was about to be
started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it would be a case of
first come, first served. If he saw Jack tonight the old man might be
in time to secure a job.
Owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a long way to Linden’s
place, nearly twenty minutes’ walk. Still, he would like to let him
know, because unless he was one of the first to apply, Linden would not
stand such a good chance as a younger man. Owen said to himself that if
he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching cold. Standing
about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one kept moving
it was all right.
He turned back and set off in the direction of Linden’s house: although
he was but a few yards from his own home, he decided not to go in
because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go out
again.
As he hurried along he presently noticed a small dark object on the
doorstep of an untenanted house. He stopped to examine it more closely
and perceived that it was a small black kitten. The tiny creature came
towards him and began walking about his feet, looking into his face and
crying piteously. He stooped down and stroked it, shuddering as his
hands came in contact with its emaciated body. Its fur was saturated
with rain and every joint of its backbone was distinctly perceptible to
the touch. As he caressed it, the starving creature mewed pathetically.
Owen decided to take it home to the boy, and as he picked it up and put
it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr.
This incident served to turn his thoughts into another channel. If, as
so many people pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving
God, how was it that this helpless creature that He had made was
condemned to suffer? It had never done any harm, and was in no sense
responsible for the fact that it existed. Was God unaware of the
miseries of His creatures? If so, then He was not all-knowing. Was God
aware of their sufferings, but unable to help them? Then He was not
all-powerful. Had He the power but not the will to make His creatures
happy? Then He was not good. No; it was impossible to believe in the
existence of an individual, infinite God. In fact, no one did so
believe; and least of all those who pretended for various reasons to be
the disciples and followers of Christ. The anti-Christs who went about
singing hymns, making long prayers and crying Lord, Lord, but never
doing the things which He said, who were known by their words to be
unbelievers and infidels, unfaithful to the Master they pretended to
serve, their lives being passed in deliberate and systematic disregard
of His teachings and Commandments. It was not necessary to call in the
evidence of science, or to refer to the supposed inconsistencies,
impossibilities, contradictions and absurdities contained in the Bible,
in order to prove there was no truth in the Christian religion. All
that was necessary was to look at the conduct of the individuals who
were its votaries.