The Beano
Now and then a transient gleam of sunshine penetrated the gloom in
which the lives of the philanthropists were passed. The cheerless
monotony was sometimes enlivened with a little innocent merriment.
Every now and then there was a funeral which took Misery and Crass away
for the whole afternoon, and although they always tried to keep the
dates secret, the men generally knew when they were gone.
Sometimes the people in whose houses they were working regaled them
with tea, bread and butter, cake or other light refreshments, and
occasionally even with beer—very different stuff from the petrifying
liquid they bought at the Cricketers for twopence a pint. At other
places, where the people of the house were not so generously disposed,
the servants made up for it, and entertained them in a similar manner
without the knowledge of their masters and mistresses. Even when the
mistresses were too cunning to permit of this, they were seldom able to
prevent the men from embracing the domestics, who for their part were
quite often willing to be embraced; it was an agreeable episode that
helped to vary the monotony of their lives, and there was no harm done.
It was rather hard lines on the philanthropists sometimes when they
happened to be working in inhabited houses of the better sort. They
always had to go in and out by the back way, generally through the
kitchen, and the crackling and hissing of the poultry and the joints of
meat roasting in the ovens, and the odours of fruit pies and tarts, and
plum puddings and sage and onions, were simply maddening. In the
back-yards of these houses there were usually huge stacks of empty
beer, stout and wine bottles, and others that had contained whisky,
brandy or champagne.
The smells of the delicious viands that were being prepared in the
kitchen often penetrated into the dismantled rooms that the
philanthropists were renovating, sometimes just as they were eating
their own wretched fare out of their dinner basket, and washing it down
with draughts of the cold tea or the petrifying liquid they sometimes
brought with them in bottles.
Sometimes, as has been said, the people of the house used to send up
some tea and bread and butter or cakes or other refreshments to the
workmen, but whenever Hunter got to know of it being done he used to
speak to the people about it and request that it be discontinued, as it
caused the men to waste their time.
But the event of the year was the Beano, which took place on the last
Saturday in August, after they had been paying in for about four
months. The cost of the outing was to be five shillings a head, so this
was the amount each man had to pay in, but it was expected that the
total cost—the hire of the brakes and the cost of the dinner—would come
out at a trifle less than the amount stated, and in that case the
surplus would be shared out after the dinner. The amount of the
share-out would be greater or less according to other circumstances,
for it generally happened that apart from the subscriptions of the men,
the Beano fund was swelled by charitable donations from several
quarters, as will be seen later on.
When the eventful day arrived, the hands, instead of working till one,
were paid at twelve o’clock and rushed off home to have a wash and
change.
The brakes were to start from the “Cricketers” at one, but it was
arranged, for the convenience of those who lived at Windley, that they
were to be picked up at the Cross Roads at one-thirty.
There were four brakes altogether—three large ones for the men and one
small one for the accommodation of Mr Rushton and a few of his personal
friends, Didlum, Grinder, Mr Toonarf, an architect and Mr Lettum, a
house and estate Agent. One of the drivers was accompanied by a friend
who carried a long coachman’s horn. This gentleman was not paid to
come, but, being out of work, he thought that the men would be sure to
stand him a few drinks and that they would probably make a collection
for him in return for his services.
Most of the chaps were smoking twopenny cigars, and had one or two
drinks with each other to try to cheer themselves up before they
started, but all the same it was a melancholy procession that wended
its way up the hill to Windley. To judge from the mournful expression
on the long face of Misery, who sat on the box beside the driver of the
first large brake, and the downcast appearance of the majority of the
men, one might have thought that it was a funeral rather than a
pleasure party, or that they were a contingent of lost souls being
conducted to the banks of the Styx. The man who from time to time
sounded the coachman’s horn might have passed as the angel sounding the
last trump, and the fumes of the cigars were typical of the smoke of
their torment, which ascendeth up for ever and ever.
A brief halt was made at the Cross Roads to pick up several of the men,
including Philpot, Harlow, Easton, Ned Dawson, Sawkins, Bill Bates and
the Semi-drunk. The two last-named were now working for Smeariton and
Leavit, but as they had been paying in from the first, they had elected
to go to the Beano rather than have their money back. The Semi-drunk
and one or two other habitual boozers were very shabby and down at
heel, but the majority of the men were decently dressed. Some had taken
their Sunday clothes out of pawn especially for the occasion. Others
were arrayed in new suits which they were going to pay for at the rate
of a shilling a week. Some had bought themselves second-hand suits, one
or two were wearing their working clothes brushed and cleaned up, and
some were wearing Sunday clothes that had not been taken out of pawn
for the simple reason that the pawnbrokers would not take them in.
These garments were in what might be called a transition
stage—old-fashioned and shiny with wear, but yet too good to take for
working in, even if their owners had been in a position to buy some
others to take their place for best. Crass, Slyme and one or two of the
single men, however, were howling swells, sporting stand-up collars and
bowler hats of the latest type, in contradistinction to some of the
others, who were wearing hats of antique patterns, and collars of
various shapes with jagged edges. Harlow had on an old straw hat that
his wife had cleaned up with oxalic acid, and Easton had carefully dyed
the faded binding of his black bowler with ink. Their boots were the
worst part of their attire: without counting Rushton and his friends,
there were thirty-seven men altogether, including Nimrod, and there
were not half a dozen pairs of really good boots amongst the whole
crowd.
When all were seated a fresh start was made. The small brake, with
Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and two or three other members of the Band,
led the way. Next came the largest brake with Misery on the box. Beside
the driver of the third brake was Payne, the foreman carpenter. Crass
occupied a similar position of honour on the fourth brake, on the back
step of which was perched the man with the coachman’s horn.
Crass—who had engaged the brakes—had arranged with the drivers that the
cortege should pass through the street where he and Easton lived, and
as they went by Mrs Crass was standing at the door with the two young
men lodgers, who waved their handkerchiefs and shouted greetings. A
little further on Mrs Linden and Easton’s wife were standing at the
door to see them go by. In fact, the notes of the coachman’s horn
alarmed most of the inhabitants, who crowded to their windows and doors
to gaze upon the dismal procession as it passed.
The mean streets of Windley were soon left far behind and they found
themselves journeying along a sunlit, winding road, bordered with
hedges of hawthorn, holly and briar, past rich, brown fields of
standing corn, shimmering with gleams of gold, past apple-orchards
where bending boughs were heavily loaded with mellow fruits exhaling
fragrant odours, through the cool shades of lofty avenues of venerable
oaks, whose overarched and interlacing branches formed a roof of green,
gilt and illuminated with quivering spots and shafts of sunlight that
filtered through the trembling leaves; over old mossy stone bridges,
spanning limpid streams that duplicated the blue sky and the fleecy
clouds; and then again, stretching away to the horizon on every side
over more fields, some rich with harvest, others filled with drowsing
cattle or with flocks of timid sheep that scampered away at the sound
of the passing carriages. Several times they saw merry little companies
of rabbits frisking gaily in and out of the hedges or in the fields
beside the sheep and cattle. At intervals, away in the distance,
nestling in the hollows or amid sheltering trees, groups of farm
buildings and stacks of hay; and further on, the square ivy-clad tower
of an ancient church, or perhaps a solitary windmill with its revolving
sails alternately flashing and darkening in the rays of the sun. Past
thatched wayside cottages whose inhabitants came out to wave their
hands in friendly greeting. Past groups of sunburnt, golden-haired
children who climbed on fences and five-barred gates, and waved their
hats and cheered, or ran behind the brakes for the pennies the men
threw down to them.
From time to time the men in the brakes made half-hearted attempts at
singing, but it never came to much, because most of them were too
hungry and miserable. They had not had time to take any dinner and
would not have taken any even if they had the time, for they wished to
reserve their appetites for the banquet at the Queen Elizabeth, which
they expected to reach about half past three. However, they cheered up
a little after the first halt—at the Blue Lion, where most of them got
down and had a drink. Some of them, including the Semi-drunk, Ned
Dawson, Bill Bates and Joe Philpot—had two or three drinks, and felt so
much happier for them that, shortly after they started off again,
sounds of melody were heard from the brake the three first named rode
in—the one presided over by Crass—but it was not very successful, and
even after the second halt—about five miles further on—at the Warrior’s
Head, they found it impossible to sing with any heartiness. Fitful
bursts of song arose from time to time from each of the brakes in turn,
only to die mournfully away. It is not easy to sing on an empty stomach
even if one has got a little beer in it; and so it was with most of
them. They were not in a mood to sing, or to properly appreciate the
scenes through which they were passing. They wanted their dinners, and
that was the reason why this long ride, instead of being a pleasure,
became after a while, a weary journey that seemed as if it were never
coming to an end.
The next stop was at the Bird in Hand, a wayside public house that
stood all by itself in a lonely hollow. The landlord was a fat,
jolly-looking man, and there were several customers in the bar—men who
looked like farm-labourers, but there were no other houses to be seen
anywhere. This extraordinary circumstance exercised the minds of our
travellers and formed the principal topic of conversation until they
arrived at the Dew Drop Inn, about half an hour afterwards. The first
brake, containing Rushton and his friends, passed on without stopping
here. The occupants of the second brake, which was only a little way
behind the first, were divided in opinion whether to stop or go on.
Some shouted out to the driver to pull up, others ordered him to
proceed, and more were undecided which course to pursue—a state of mind
that was not shared by the coachman, who, knowing that if they stopped
somebody or other would be sure to stand him a drink, had no difficulty
whatever in coming to a decision, but drew rein at the inn, an example
that was followed by both the other carriages as they drove up.
It was a very brief halt, not more than half the men getting down at
all, and those who remained in the brakes grumbled so much at the delay
that the others drank their beer as quickly as possible and the journey
was resumed once more, almost in silence. No attempts at singing, no
noisy laughter; they scarcely spoke to each other, but sat gloomily
gazing out over the surrounding country.
Instructions had been given to the drivers not to stop again till they
reached the Queen Elizabeth, and they therefore drove past the World
Turned Upside Down without stopping, much to the chagrin of the
landlord of that house, who stood at the door with a sickly smile upon
his face. Some of those who knew him shouted out that they would give
him a call on their way back, and with this he had to be content.
They reached the long-desired Queen Elizabeth at twenty minutes to
four, and were immediately ushered into a large room where a round
table and two long ones were set for dinner—and they were set in a
manner worthy of the reputation of the house.
The cloths that covered the tables and the serviettes, arranged fanwise
in the drinking glasses, were literally as white as snow, and about a
dozen knives and forks and spoons were laid for each person. Down the
centre of the table glasses of delicious yellow custard and cut-glass
dishes of glistening red and golden jelly alternated with vases of
sweet-smelling flowers.
The floor of the dining-room was covered with oilcloth—red flowers on a
pale yellow ground; the pattern was worn off in places, but it was all
very clean and shining. Whether one looked at the walls with the
old-fashioned varnished oak paper, or at the glossy piano standing
across the corner near the white-curtained window, at the shining oak
chairs or through the open casement doors that led into the shady
garden beyond, the dominating impression one received was that
everything was exquisitely clean.
The landlord announced that dinner would be served in ten minutes, and
while they were waiting some of them indulged in a drink at the
bar—just as an appetizer—whilst the others strolled in the garden or,
by the landlord’s invitation, looked over the house. Amongst other
places, they glanced into the kitchen, where the landlady was
superintending the preparation of the feast, and in this place, with
its whitewashed walls and red-tiled floor, as in every other part of
the house, the same absolute cleanliness reigned supreme.
“It’s a bit differint from the Royal Caff, where we got the sack, ain’t
it?” remarked the Semi-drunk to Bill Bates as they made their way to
the dining-room in response to the announcement that dinner was ready.
“Not arf!” replied Bill.
Rushton, with Didlum and Grinder and his other friends, sat at the
round table near the piano. Hunter took the head of the longer of the
other two tables and Crass the foot, and on either side of Crass were
Bundy and Slyme, who had acted with him as the Committee who had
arranged the Beano. Payne, the foreman carpenter, occupied the head of
the other table.
The dinner was all that could be desired; it was almost as good as the
kind of dinner that is enjoyed every day by those persons who are too
lazy to work but are cunning enough to make others work for them.
There was soup, several entrees, roast beef, boiled mutton, roast
turkey, roast goose, ham, cabbage, peas, beans and sweets galore, plum
pudding, custard, jelly, fruit tarts, bread and cheese and as much beer
or lemonade as they liked to pay for, the drinks being an extra; and
afterwards the waiters brought in cups of coffee for those who desired
it. Everything was up to the knocker, and although they were somewhat
bewildered by the multitude of knives and forks, they all, with one or
two exceptions, rose to the occasion and enjoyed themselves famously.
The excellent decorum observed being marred only by one or two
regrettable incidents. The first of these occurred almost as soon as
they sat down, when Ned Dawson who, although a big strong fellow, was
not able to stand much beer, not being used to it, was taken ill and
had to be escorted from the room by his mate Bundy and another man.
They left him somewhere outside and he came back again about ten
minutes afterwards, much better but looking rather pale, and took his
seat with the others.
The turkeys, the roast beef and the boiled mutton, the peas and beans
and the cabbage, disappeared with astonishing rapidity, which was not
to be wondered at, for they were all very hungry from the long drive,
and nearly everyone made a point of having at least one helping of
everything there was to be had. Some of them went in for two lots of
soup. Then for the next course, boiled mutton and ham or turkey: then
some roast beef and goose. Then a little more boiled mutton with a
little roast beef. Each of the three boys devoured several times his
own weight of everything, to say nothing of numerous bottles of
lemonade and champagne ginger beer.
Crass frequently paused to mop the perspiration from his face and neck
with his serviette. In fact everybody had a good time. There was enough
and to spare of everything to eat, the beer was of the best, and all
the time, amid the rattle of the crockery and the knives and forks, the
proceedings were enlivened by many jests and flashes of wit that
continuously kept the table in a roar.
“Chuck us over another dollop of that there white stuff, Bob,” shouted
the Semi-drunk to Crass, indicating the blancmange.
Crass reached out his hand and took hold of the dish containing the
“white stuff”, but instead of passing it to the Semi-drunk, he
proceeded to demolish it himself, gobbling it up quickly directly from
the dish with a spoon.
“Why, you’re eating it all yerself, yer bleeder,” cried the Semi-drunk
indignantly, as soon as he realized what was happening.
“That’s all right, matey,” replied Crass affably as he deposited the
empty dish on the table. “It don’t matter, there’s plenty more where it
come from. Tell the landlord to bring in another lot.”
Upon being applied to, the landlord, who was assisted by his daughter,
two other young women and two young men, brought in several more lots
and so the Semi-drunk was appeased.
As for the plum-pudding—it was a fair knock-out; just like Christmas:
but as Ned Dawson and Bill Bates had drunk all the sauce before the
pudding was served, they all had to have their first helping without
any. However, as the landlord brought in another lot shortly
afterwards, that didn’t matter either.
As soon as dinner was over, Crass rose to make his statement as
secretary. Thirty-seven men had paid five shillings each: that made
nine pounds five shillings. The committee had decided that the three
boys—the painters’ boy, the carpenters’ boy and the front shop
boy—should be allowed to come half-price: that made it nine pounds
twelve and six. In addition to paying the ordinary five-shilling
subscription, Mr Rushton had given one pound ten towards the expenses.
(Loud cheers.) And several other gentlemen had also given something
towards it. Mr Sweater, of the Cave, one pound. (Applause.) Mr Grinder,
ten shillings in addition to the five-shilling subscription.
(Applause.) Mr Lettum, ten shillings, as well as the five-shilling
subscription. (Applause.) Mr Didlum, ten shillings in addition to the
five shillings. (Cheers.) Mr Toonarf, ten shillings as well as the
five-shilling subscription. They had also written to some of the
manufacturers who supplied the firm with materials, and asked them to
give something: some of ’em had sent half a crown, some five shillings,
some hadn’t answered at all, and two of ’em had written back to say
that as things is cut so fine nowadays, they didn’t hardly get no
profit on their stuff, so they couldn’t afford to give nothing; but out
of all the firms they wrote to they managed to get thirty-two and
sixpence altogether, making a grand total of seventeen pounds.
As for the expenses, the dinner was two and six a head, and there was
forty-five of them there, so that came to five pounds twelve and six.
Then there was the hire of the brakes, also two and six a head, five
pound twelve and six, which left a surplus of five pound fifteen to be
shared out (applause), which came to three shillings each for the
thirty-seven men, and one and fourpence for each of the boys. (Loud and
prolonged cheers.)
Crass, Slyme and Bundy now walked round the tables distributing the
share-out, which was very welcome to everybody, especially those who
had spent nearly all their money during the journey from Mugsborough,
and when this ceremony was completed, Philpot moved a hearty vote of
thanks to the committee for the manner in which they had carried out
their duties, which was agreed to with acclamation. Then they made a
collection for the waiters, and the three waitresses, which amounted to
eleven shillings, for which the host returned thanks on behalf of the
recipients, who were all smiles.
Then Mr Rushton requested the landlord to serve drinks and cigars all
round. Some had cigarettes and the teetotallers had lemonade or ginger
beer. Those who did not smoke themselves took the cigar all the same
and gave it to someone else who did. When all were supplied there
suddenly arose loud cries of “Order!” and it was seen that Hunter was
upon his feet.
As soon as silence was obtained, Misery said that he believed that
everyone there present would agree with him, when he said that they
should not let the occasion pass without drinking the ’ealth of their
esteemed and respected employer, Mr Rushton. (Hear, hear.) Some of them
had worked for Mr Rushton on and off for many years, and as far as THEY
was concerned it was not necessary for him (Hunter) to say much in
praise of Mr Rushton. (Hear, hear.) They knew Mr Rushton as well as he
did himself and to know him was to esteem him. (Cheers.) As for the new
hands, although they did not know Mr Rushton as well as the old hands
did, he felt sure that they would agree that as no one could wish for a
better master. (Loud applause.) He had much pleasure in asking them to
drink Mr Rushton’s health. Everyone rose.
“Musical honours, chaps,” shouted Crass, waving his glass and leading
off the singing which was immediately joined in with great enthusiasm
by most of the men, the Semi-drunk conducting the music with a table
knife:
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fel-ell-O,
And so say all of us,
So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!
So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For ’e’s a jolly good fellow
For ’e’s a jolly good fel-ell-O,
And so say all of us.
“Now three cheers!” shouted Crass, leading off.
Hip, hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hip, hooray!
Everyone present drank Rushton’s health, or at any rate went through
the motions of doing so, but during the roar of cheering and singing
that preceded it several of the men stood with expressions of contempt
or uneasiness upon their faces, silently watching the enthusiasts or
looking at the ceiling or on the floor.
“I will say this much,” remarked the Semi-drunk as they all resumed
their seats—he had had several drinks during dinner, besides those he
had taken on the journey—“I will say this much, although I did have a
little misunderstanding with Mr Hunter when I was workin’ at the Royal
Caff, I must admit that this is the best firm that’s ever worked under
me.”
This statement caused a shout of laughter, which, however, died away as
Mr Rushton rose to acknowledge the toast to his health. He said that he
had now been in business for nearly sixteen years and this was—he
believed—the eleventh outing he had had the pleasure of attending.
During all that time the business had steadily progressed and had
increased in volume from year to year, and he hoped and believed that
the progress made in the past would be continued in the future. (Hear,
hear.) Of course, he realized that the success of the business depended
very largely upon the men as well as upon himself; he did his best in
trying to get work for them, and it was necessary—if the business was
to go on and prosper—that they should also do their best to get the
work done when he had secured it for them. (Hear, hear.) The masters
could not do without the men, and the men could not live without the
masters. (Hear, hear.) It was a matter of division of labour: the men
worked with their hands and the masters worked with their brains, and
one was no use without the other. He hoped the good feeling which had
hitherto existed between himself and his workmen would always continue,
and he thanked them for the way in which they had responded to the
toast of his health.
Loud cheers greeted the conclusion of this speech, and then Crass stood
up and said that he begged to propose the health of Mr ’Unter. (Hear,
hear.) He wasn’t going to make a long speech as he wasn’t much of a
speaker. (Cries of “You’re all right,” “Go on,” etc.) But he felt sure
as they would all hagree with him when he said that—next to Mr
Rushton—there wasn’t no one the men had more respect and liking for
than Mr ’Unter. (Cheers.) A few weeks ago when Mr ’Unter was laid up,
many of them began to be afraid as they was going to lose ’im. He was
sure that all the ’ands was glad to ’ave this hoppertunity of
congratulating him on his recovery (Hear, hear) and of wishing him the
best of ’ealth in the future and hoping as he would be spared to come
to a good many more Beanos.
Loud applause greeted the conclusion of Crass’s remarks, and once more
the meeting burst into song:
For he’s a jolly good fellow
For he’s a jolly good fellow.
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
And so say all of us.
So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!
So ’ip, ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!
When they had done cheering, Nimrod rose. His voice trembled a little
as he thanked them for their kindness, and said that he hoped he
deserved their goodwill. He could only say that as he was sure as he
always tried to be fair and considerate to everyone. (Cheers.) He would
now request the landlord to replenish their glasses. (Hear, hear.)
As soon as the drinks were served, Nimrod again rose and said he wished
to propose the healths of their visitors who had so kindly contributed
to their expenses—Mr Lettum, Mr Didlum, Mr Toonarf and Mr Grinder.
(Cheers.) They were very pleased and proud to see them there (Hear,
hear), and he was sure the men would agree with him when he said that
Messrs Lettum, Didlum, Toonarf and Grinder were jolly good fellows.
To judge from the manner in which they sang the chorus and cheered, it
was quite evident that most of the hands did agree. When they left off,
Grinder rose to reply on behalf of those included in the toast. He said
that it gave them much pleasure to be there and take part in such
pleasant proceedings and they were glad to think that they had been
able to help to bring it about. It was very gratifying to see the good
feeling that existed between Mr Rushton and his workmen, which was as
it should be, because masters and men was really fellow workers—the
masters did the brain work, the men the ’and work. They was both
workers, and their interests was the same. He liked to see men doing
their best for their master and knowing that their master was doing his
best for them, that he was not only a master, but a friend. That was
what he (Grinder) liked to see—master and men pulling together—doing
their best, and realizing that their interests was identical. (Cheers.)
If only all masters and men would do this they would find that
everything would go on all right, there would be more work and less
poverty. Let the men do their best for their masters, and the masters
do their best for their men, and they would find that that was the true
solution of the social problem, and not the silly nonsense that was
talked by people what went about with red flags. (Cheers and laughter.)
Most of those fellows were chaps who was too lazy to work for their
livin’. (Hear, hear.) They could take it from him that, if ever the
Socialists got the upper hand there would just be a few of the hartful
dodgers who would get all the cream, and there would be nothing left
but ’ard work for the rest. (Hear. hear.) That’s wot hall those
hagitators was after: they wanted them (his hearers) to work and keep
’em in idleness. (Hear, hear.) On behalf of Mr Didlum, Mr Toonarf, Mr
Lettum and himself, he thanked them for their good wishes, and hoped to
be with them on a sim’ler occasion in the future.
Loud cheers greeted the termination of his speech, but it was obvious
from some of the men’s faces that they resented Grinder’s remarks.
These men ridiculed Socialism and regularly voted for the continuance
of capitalism, and yet they were disgusted and angry with Grinder!
There was also a small number of Socialists—not more than half a dozen
altogether—who did not join in the applause. These men were all sitting
at the end of the long table presided over by Payne. None of them had
joined in the applause that greeted the speeches, and so far neither
had they made any protest. Some of them turned very red as they
listened to the concluding sentences of Grinder’s oration, and others
laughed, but none of them said anything. They knew before they came
that there was sure to be a lot of “Jolly good fellow” business and
speechmaking, and they had agreed together beforehand to take no part
one way or the other, and to refrain from openly dissenting from
anything that might be said, but they had not anticipated anything
quite so strong as this.
When Grinder sat down some of those who had applauded him began to jeer
at the Socialists.
“What have you got to say to that?” they shouted. “That’s up against
yer!”
“They ain’t got nothing to say now.”
“Why don’t some of you get up and make a speech?”
This last appeared to be a very good idea to those Liberals and Tories
who had not liked Grinder’s observations, so they all began to shout
“Owen!” “Owen!” “Come on ’ere. Get up and make a speech!” “Be a man!”
and so on. Several of those who had been loudest in applauding Grinder
also joined in the demand that Owen should make a speech, because they
were certain that Grinder and the other gentlemen would be able to
dispose of all his arguments; but Owen and the other Socialists made no
response except to laugh, so presently Crass tied a white handkerchief
on a cane walking-stick that belonged to Mr Didlum, and stuck it in the
vase of flowers that stood on the end of the table where the Socialist
group were sitting.
When the noise had in some measure ceased, Grinder again rose. “When I
made the few remarks that I did, I didn’t know as there was any
Socialists ’ere: I could tell from the look of you that most of you had
more sense. At the same time I’m rather glad I said what I did, because
it just shows you what sort of chaps these Socialists are. They’re
pretty artful—they know when to talk and when to keep their mouths
shut. What they like is to get hold of a few ignorant workin’ men in a
workshop or a public house, and then they can talk by the mile—reg’ler
shop lawyers, you know wot I mean—I’m right and everybody else is
wrong. (Laughter.) You know the sort of thing I mean. When they finds
theirselves in the company of edicated people wot knows a little more
than they does theirselves, and who isn’t likely to be misled by a lot
of claptrap, why then, mum’s the word. So next time you hears any of
these shop lawyers’ arguments, you’ll know how much it’s worth.”
Most of the men were delighted with this speech, which was received
with much laughing and knocking on the tables. They remarked to each
other that Grinder was a smart man: he’d got the Socialists weighed up
just about right—to an ounce.
Then, it was seen that Barrington was on his feet facing Grinder and a
sudden, awe-filled silence fell.
“It may or may not be true,” began Barrington, “that Socialists always
know when to speak and when to keep silent, but the present occasion
hardly seemed a suitable one to discuss such subjects.
“We are here today as friends and want to forget our differences and
enjoy ourselves for a few hours. But after what Mr Grinder has said I
am quite ready to reply to him to the best of my ability.
“The fact that I am a Socialist and that I am here today as one of Mr
Rushton’s employees should be an answer to the charge that Socialists
are too lazy to work for their living. And as to taking advantage of
the ignorance and simplicity of working men and trying to mislead them
with nonsensical claptrap, it would have been more to the point if Mr
Grinder had taken some particular Socialist doctrine and had proved it
to be untrue or misleading, instead of adopting the cowardly method of
making vague general charges that he cannot substantiate. He would find
it far more difficult to do that than it would be for a Socialist to
show that most of what Mr Grinder himself has been telling us is
nonsensical claptrap of the most misleading kind. He tells us that the
employers work with their brains and the men with their hands. If it is
true that no brains are required to do manual labour, why put idiots
into imbecile asylums? Why not let them do some of the hand work for
which no brains are required? As they are idiots, they would probably
be willing to work for even less than the ideal ‘living wage’. If Mr
Grinder had ever tried, he would know that manual workers have to
concentrate their minds and their attention on their work or they would
not be able to do it at all. His talk about employers being not only
the masters but the ‘friends’ of their workmen is also mere claptrap
because he knows as well as we do, that no matter how good or
benevolent an employer may be, no matter how much he might desire to
give his men good conditions, it is impossible for him to do so,
because he has to compete against other employers who do not do that.
It is the bad employer—the sweating, slave-driving employer—who sets
the pace and the others have to adopt the same methods—very often
against their inclinations—or they would not be able to compete with
him. If any employer today were to resolve to pay his workmen not less
wages than he would be able to live upon in comfort himself, that he
would not require them to do more work in a day than he himself would
like to perform every day of his own life, Mr Grinder knows as well as
we do that such an employer would be bankrupt in a month; because he
would not be able to get any work except by taking it at the same price
as the sweaters and the slave-drivers.
“He also tells us that the interests of masters and men are identical;
but if an employer has a contract, it is to his interest to get the
work done as soon as possible; the sooner it is done the more profit he
will make; but the more quickly it is done, the sooner will the men be
out of employment. How then can it be true that their interests are
identical?
“Again, let us suppose that an employer is, say, thirty years of age
when he commences business, and that he carries it on for twenty years.
Let us assume that he employs forty men more or less regularly during
that period and that the average age of these men is also thirty years
at the time the employer commences business. At the end of the twenty
years it usually happens that the employer has made enough money to
enable him to live for the remainder of his life in ease and comfort.
But what about the workman? All through those twenty years they have
earned but a bare living wage and have had to endure such privations
that those who are not already dead are broken in health.
“In the case of the employer there had been twenty years of steady
progress towards ease and leisure and independence. In the case of the
majority of the men there were twenty years of deterioration, twenty
years of steady, continuous and hopeless progress towards physical and
mental inefficiency: towards the scrap-heap, the work-house, and
premature death. What is it but false, misleading, nonsensical claptrap
to say that their interests were identical with those of their
employer?
“Such talk as that is not likely to deceive any but children or fools.
We are not children, but it is very evident that Mr Grinder thinks that
we are fools.
“Occasionally it happens, through one or more of a hundred different
circumstances over which he has no control, or through some error of
judgement, that after many years of laborious mental work an employer
is overtaken by misfortune, and finds himself no better and even worse
off than when he started; but these are exceptional cases, and even if
he becomes absolutely bankrupt he is no worse off than the majority of
the workmen.
“At the same time it is quite true that the real interests of employers
and workmen are the same, but not in the sense that Mr Grinder would
have us believe. Under the existing system of society but a very few
people, no matter how well off they may be, can be certain that they or
their children will not eventually come to want; and even those who
think they are secure themselves, find their happiness diminished by
the knowledge of the poverty and misery that surrounds them on every
side.
“In that sense only is it true that the interests of masters and men
are identical, for it is to the interest of all, both rich and poor, to
help to destroy a system that inflicts suffering upon the many and
allows true happiness to none. It is to the interest of all to try and
find a better way.”
Here Crass jumped up and interrupted, shouting out that they hadn’t
come there to listen to a lot of speechmaking—a remark that was greeted
with unbounded applause by most of those present. Loud cries of “Hear,
hear!” resounded through the room, and the Semi-drunk suggested that
someone should sing a song.
The men who had clamoured for a speech from Owen said nothing, and Mr
Grinder, who had been feeling rather uncomfortable, was secretly very
glad of the interruption.
The Semi-drunk’s suggestion that someone should sing a song was
received with unqualified approbation by everybody, including
Barrington and the other Socialists, who desired nothing better than
that the time should be passed in a manner suitable to the occasion.
The landlord’s daughter, a rosy girl of about twenty years of age, in a
pink print dress, sat down at the piano, and the Semi-drunk, taking his
place at the side of the instrument and facing the audience, sang the
first song with appropriate gestures, the chorus being rendered
enthusiastically by the full strength of the company, including Misery,
who by this time was slightly drunk from drinking gin and ginger beer:
“Come, come, come an’ ’ave a drink with me
Down by the ole Bull and Bush.
Come, come, come an’ shake ’ands with me
Down by the ole Bull and Bush.
Wot cheer me little Germin band!
Fol the diddle di do!
Come an’ take ’old of me ’and
Come, come, come an’ ’ave a drink with me,
Down by the old Bull and Bush,
Bush! Bush!”
Protracted knocking on the tables greeted the end of the song, but as
the Semi-drunk knew no other except odd verses and choruses, he called
upon Crass for the next, and that gentleman accordingly sang “Work,
Boys, Work” to the tune of “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are
marching”. As this song is the Marseillaise of the Tariff Reform Party,
voicing as it does the highest ideals of the Tory workmen of this
country, it was an unqualified success, for most of them were
Conservatives.
“Now I’m not a wealthy man,
But I lives upon a plan
Wot will render me as ’appy as a King;
An’ if you will allow, I’ll sing it to you now,
For time you know is always on the wing.
Work, boys, work and be contented
So long as you’ve enough to buy a meal.
For if you will but try, you’ll be wealthy—bye and bye—
If you’ll only put yer shoulder to the wheel.”
“Altogether, boys,” shouted Grinder, who was a strong Tariff Reformer,
and was delighted to see that most of the men were of the same way of
thinking; and the “boys” roared out the chorus once more:
Work, boys, work and be contented
So long as you’ve enough to buy a meal
For if you will but try, you’ll be wealthy—bye and bye
If you’ll only put your shoulder to the wheel.
As they sang the words of this noble chorus the Tories seemed to become
inspired with lofty enthusiasm. It is of course impossible to say for
certain, but probably as they sang there arose before their exalted
imaginations, a vision of the Past, and looking down the long vista of
the years that were gone, they saw that from their childhood they had
been years of poverty and joyless toil. They saw their fathers and
mothers, weaned and broken with privation and excessive labour, sinking
unhonoured into the welcome oblivion of the grave.
And then, as a change came over the spirit of their dream, they saw the
Future, with their own children travelling along the same weary road to
the same kind of goal.
It is possible that visions of this character were conjured up in their
minds by the singing, for the words of the song gave expression to
their ideal of what human life should be. That was all they wanted—to
be allowed to work like brutes for the benefit of other people. They
did not want to be civilized themselves and they intended to take good
care that the children they had brought into the world should never
enjoy the benefits of civilization either. As they often said:
“Who and what are our children that they shouldn’t be made to work for
their betters? They’re not Gentry’s children, are they? The good things
of life was never meant for the likes of them. Let ’em work! That’s wot
the likes of them was made for, and if we can only get Tariff Reform
for ’em they will always be sure of plenty of it—not only Full Time,
but Overtime! As for edication, travellin’ in furrin’ parts, an’
enjoying life an’ all sich things as that, they was never meant for the
likes of our children—they’re meant for Gentry’s children! Our children
is only like so much dirt compared with Gentry’s children! That’s wot
the likes of us is made for—to Work for Gentry, so as they can ’ave
plenty of time to enjoy theirselves; and the Gentry is made to ’ave a
good time so as the likes of us can ’ave Plenty of Work.”
There were several more verses, and by the time they had sung them all,
the Tories were in a state of wild enthusiasm. Even Ned Dawson, who had
fallen asleep with his head pillowed on his arms on the table, roused
himself up at the end of each verse, and after having joined in the
chorus, went to sleep again.
At the end of the song they gave three cheers for Tariff Reform and
Plenty of Work, and then Crass, who, as the singer of the last song,
had the right to call upon the next man, nominated Philpot, who
received an ovation when he stood up, for he was a general favourite.
He never did no harm to nobody, and he was always wiling to do anyone a
good turn whenever he had the opportunity. Shouts of “Good old Joe”
resounded through the room as he crossed over to the piano, and in
response to numerous requests for “The old song” he began to sing “The
Flower Show”:
“Whilst walkin’ out the other night, not knowing where to go
I saw a bill upon a wall about a Flower Show.
So I thought the flowers I’d go and see to pass away the night.
And when I got into that Show it was a curious sight.
So with your kind intention and a little of your aid,
Tonight some flowers I’ll mention which I hope will never fade.”
Omnes:
To-night some flowers I’ll mention which I hope will never fade.”
There were several more verses, from which it appeared that the
principal flowers in the Show were the Rose, the Thistle and the
Shamrock.
When he had finished, the applause was so deafening and the demands for
an encore so persistent that to satisfy them he sang another old
favourite—“Won’t you buy my pretty flowers?”
“Ever coming, ever going,
Men and women hurry by,
Heedless of the tear-drops gleaming,
In her sad and wistful eye
How her little heart is sighing
Thro’ the cold and dreary hours,
Only listen to her crying,
‘Won’t you buy my pretty flowers?’”
When the last verse of this song had been sung five er six times,
Philpot exercised his right of nominating the next singer, and called
upon Dick Wantley, who with many suggestive gestures and grimaces sang
“Put me amongst the girls”, and afterwards called upon Payne, the
foreman carpenter, who gave “I’m the Marquis of Camberwell Green”.
There was a lot of what music-hall artists call “business” attached to
his song, and as he proceeded, Payne, who was ghastly pale and very
nervous, went through a lot of galvanic motions and gestures, bowing
and scraping and sliding about and flourishing his handkerchief in
imitation of the courtly graces of the Marquis. During this performance
the audience maintained an appalling silence, which so embarrassed
Payne that before he was half-way through the song he had to stop
because he could not remember the rest. However, to make up for this
failure he sang another called “We all must die, like the fire in the
grate”. This also was received in a very lukewarm manner by the crowd,
some of whom laughed and others suggested that if he couldn’t sing any
better than that, the sooner _he_ was dead the better.
This was followed by another Tory ballad, the chorus being as follows:
“His clothes may be ragged, his hands may be soiled.
But where’s the disgrace if for bread he has toiled.
His “art is in the right place, deny it no one can
The backbone of Old England is the honest workin’ man.”
After a few more songs it was decided to adjourn to a field at the rear
of the tavern to have a game of cricket. Sides were formed, Rushton,
Didlum, Grinder, and the other gentlemen taking part just as if they
were only common people, and while the game was in progress the rest
played ring quoits or reclined on the grass watching the players,
whilst the remainder amused themselves drinking beer and playing cards
and shove-ha’penny in the bar parlour, or taking walks around the
village sampling the beer at the other pubs, of which there were three.
The time passed in this manner until seven o’clock, the hour at which
it had been arranged to start on the return journey; but about a
quarter of an hour before they set out an unpleasant incident occurred.
During the time that they were playing cricket a party of glee singers,
consisting of four young girls and five men, three of whom were young
fellows, the other two being rather elderly, possibly the fathers of
some of the younger members of the party, came into the field and sang
several part songs for their entertainment. Towards the close of the
game most of the men had assembled in this field, and during a pause in
the singing the musicians sent one of their number, a shy girl about
eighteen years of age—who seemed as if she would rather that someone
else had the task—amongst the crowd to make a collection. The girl was
very nervous and blushed as she murmured her request, and held out a
straw hat that evidently belonged to one of the male members of the
glee party. A few of the men gave pennies, some refused or pretended
not to see either the girl or the hat, others offered to give her some
money for a kiss, but what caused the trouble was that two or three of
those who had been drinking more than was good for them dropped the
still burning ends of their cigars, all wet with saliva as they were,
into the hat and Dick Wantley spit into it.
The girl hastily returned to her companions, and as she went some of
the men who had witnessed the behaviour of those who had insulted her,
advised them to make themselves scarce, as they stood a good chance of
getting a thrashing from the girl’s friends. They said it would serve
them dam’ well right if they did get a hammering.
Partly sobered by fear, the three culprits sneaked off and hid
themselves, pale and trembling with terror, under the box seats of the
three brakes. They had scarcely left when the men of the glee party
came running up, furiously demanding to see those who had insulted the
girl. As they could get no satisfactory answer, one of their number ran
back and presently returned, bringing the girl with him, the other
young women following a little way behind.
She said she could not see the men they were looking for, so they went
down to the public house to see if they could find them there, some of
Rushton’s men accompanying them and protesting their indignation.
The time passed quickly enough and by half past seven the brakes were
loaded up again and a start made for the return journey.
They called at all the taverns on the road, and by the time they
reached the Blue Lion half of them were three sheets in the wind, and
five or six were very drunk, including the driver of Crass’s brake and
the man with the bugle. The latter was so far gone that they had to let
him lie down in the bottom of the carriage amongst their feet, where he
fell asleep, while the others amused themselves by blowing weird
shrieks out of the horn.
There was an automatic penny-in-the-slot piano at the Blue Lion and as
that was the last house of the road they made a rather long stop there,
playing hooks and rings, shove-ha’penny, drinking, singing, dancing and
finally quarrelling.
Several of them seemed disposed to quarrel with Newman. All sorts of
offensive remarks were made at him in his hearing. Once someone
ostentatiously knocked his glass of lemonade over, and a little later
someone else collided violently with him just as he was in the act of
drinking, causing his lemonade to spill all over his clothes. The worst
of it was that most of these rowdy ones were his fellow passengers in
Crass’s brake, and there was not much chance of getting a seat in
either of the other carriages, for they were overcrowded already.
From the remarks he overheard from time to time, Newman guessed the
reason of their hostility, and as their manner towards him grew more
menacing, he became so nervous that he began to think of quietly
sneaking off and walking the remainder of the way home by himself,
unless he could get somebody in one of the other brakes to change seats
with him.
Whilst these thoughts were agitating his mind, Dick Wantley suddenly
shouted out that he was going to go for the dirty tyke who had offered
to work under price last winter.
It was his fault that they were all working for sixpence halfpenny and
he was going to wipe the floor with him. Some of his friends eagerly
offered to assist, but others interposed, and for a time it looked as
if there was going to be a free fight, the aggressors struggling hard
to get at their inoffensive victim.
Eventually, however, Newman found a seat in Misery’s brake, squatting
on the floor with his back to the horses, thankful enough to be out of
reach of the drunken savages, who were now roaring out ribald songs and
startling the countryside, as they drove along, with unearthly blasts
on the coach horn.
Meantime, although none of them seemed to notice it, the brake was
travelling at a furious rate, and swaying about from side to side in a
very erratic manner. It would have been the last carriage, but things
had got a bit mixed at the Blue Lion and, instead of bringing up the
rear of the procession, it was now second, just behind the small
vehicle containing Rushton and his friends.
Crass several times reminded them that the other carriage was so near
that Rushton must be able to hear every word that was said, and these
repeated admonitions at length enraged the Semi-drunk, who shouted out
that they didn’t care a b—r if he could hear. Who the bloody hell was
he? To hell with him!
“Damn Rushton, and you too!” cried Bill Bates, addressing Crass.
“You’re only a dirty toe-rag! That’s all you are—a bloody rotter!
That’s the only reason you gets put in charge of jobs—’cos you’re a
good nigger-driver! You’re a bloody sight worse than Rushton or Misery
either! Who was it started the one-man, one-room dodge, eh? Why, you,
yer bleeder!”
“Knock ’im orf ’is bleedin’ perch,” suggested Bundy.
Everybody seemed to think this was a very good idea, but when the
Semi-drunk attempted to rise for the purpose of carrying it out, he was
thrown down by a sudden lurch of the carriage on the top of the
prostrate figure of the bugle man and by the time the others had
assisted him back to his seat they had forgotten all about their plan
of getting rid of Crass.
Meantime the speed of the vehicle had increased to a fearful rate.
Rushton and the other occupants of the little wagonette in front had
been for some time shouting to them to moderate the pace of their
horses, but as the driver of Crass’s brake was too drunk to understand
what they said he took no notice, and they had no alternative but to
increase their own speed to avoid being run down. The drunken driver
now began to imagine that they were trying to race him, and became
fired with the determination to pass them. It was a very narrow road,
but there was just about room to do it, and he had sufficient
confidence in his own skill with the ribbons to believe that he could
get past in safety.
The terrified gesticulations and the shouts of Rushton’s party only
served to infuriate him, because he imagined that they were jeering at
him for not being able to overtake them. He stood up on the footboard
and lashed the horses till they almost flew over the ground, while the
carriage swayed and skidded in a fearful manner.
In front, the horses of Rushton’s conveyance were also galloping at top
speed, the vehicle bounding and reeling from one side of the road to
the other, whilst its terrified occupants, whose faces were blanched
with apprehension, sat clinging to their seats and to each other, their
eyes projecting from the sockets as they gazed back with terror at
their pursuers, some of whom were encouraging the drunken driver with
promises of quarts of beer, and urging on the horses with curses and
yells.
Crass’s fat face was pallid with fear as he clung trembling to his
seat. Another man, very drunk and oblivious of everything, was leaning
over the side of the brake, spewing into the road, while the remainder,
taking no interest in the race, amused themselves by singing—conducted
by the Semi-drunk—as loud as they could roar:
“Has anyone seen a Germin band,
Germin Band, Germin Band?
I’ve been lookin’ about,
Pom—Pom, Pom, Pom, Pom!
“I’ve searched every pub, both near and far,
Near and far, near and far,
I want my Fritz,
What plays tiddley bits
On the big trombone!”
The other two brakes had fallen far behind. The one presided over by
Hunter contained a mournful crew. Nimrod himself, from the effects of
numerous drinks of ginger beer with secret dashes of gin in it, had
become at length crying drunk, and sat weeping in gloomy silence beside
the driver, a picture of lachrymose misery and but dimly conscious of
his surroundings, and Slyme, who rode with Hunter because he was a
fellow member of the Shining Light Chapel. Then there was another
paperhanger—an unhappy wretch who was afflicted with religious mania;
he had brought a lot of tracts with him which he had distributed to the
other men, to the villagers of Tubberton and to anybody else who would
take them.
Most of the other men who rode in Nimrod’s brake were of the
“religious” working man type. Ignorant, shallow-pated dolts, without as
much intellectuality as an average cat. Attendants at various PSAs and
“Church Mission Halls” who went every Sunday afternoon to be lectured
on their duty to their betters and to have their minds—save the
mark!—addled and stultified by such persons as Rushton, Sweater, Didlum
and Grinder, not to mention such mental specialists as the holy
reverend Belchers and Boshers, and such persons as John Starr.
At these meetings none of the “respectable” working men were allowed to
ask any questions, or to object to, or find fault with anything that
was said, or to argue, or discuss, or criticize. They had to sit there
like a lot of children while they were lectured and preached at and
patronized. Even as sheep before their shearers are dumb, so they were
not permitted to open their mouths. For that matter they did not wish
to be allowed to ask any questions, or to discuss anything. They would
not have been able to. They sat there and listened to what was said,
but they had but a very hazy conception of what it was all about.
Most of them belonged to these PSAs merely for the sake of the loaves
and fishes. Every now and then they were awarded prizes—Self-help by
Smiles, and other books suitable for perusal by persons suffering from
almost complete obliteration of the mental faculties. Besides other
benefits there was usually a Christmas Club attached to the “PSA” or
“Mission” and the things were sold to the members slightly below cost
as a reward for their servility.
They were for the most part tame, broken-spirited, poor wretches who
contentedly resigned themselves to a life of miserable toil and
poverty, and with callous indifference abandoned their offspring to the
same fate. Compared with such as these, the savages of New Guinea or
the Red Indians are immensely higher in the scale of manhood. They are
free! They call no man master; and if they do not enjoy the benefits of
science and civilization, neither do they toil to create those things
for the benefit of others. And as for their children—most of those
savages would rather knock them on the head with a tomahawk than allow
them to grow up to be half-starved drudges for other men.
But these were not free: their servile lives were spent in grovelling
and cringing and toiling and running about like little dogs at the
behest of their numerous masters. And as for the benefits of science
and civilization, their only share was to work and help to make them,
and then to watch other men enjoy them. And all the time they were tame
and quiet and content and said, “The likes of us can’t expect to ’ave
nothing better, and as for our children wot’s been good enough for us
is good enough for the likes of them.”
But although they were so religious and respectable and so contented to
be robbed on a large scale, yet in small matters, in the commonplace
and petty affairs of their everyday existence, most of these men were
acutely alive to what their enfeebled minds conceived to be their own
selfish interests, and they possessed a large share of that singular
cunning which characterizes this form of dementia.
That was why they had chosen to ride in Nimrod’s brake—because they
wished to chum up with him as much as possible, in order to increase
their chances of being kept on in preference to others who were not so
respectable.
Some of these poor creatures had very large heads, but a close
examination would have shown that the size was due to the extraordinary
thickness of the bones. The cavity of the skull was not so large as the
outward appearance of the head would have led a casual observer to
suppose, and even in those instances where the brain was of a fair
size, it was of inferior quality, being coarse in texture and to a
great extent composed of fat.
Although most of them were regular attendants at some place of
so-called worship, they were not all teetotallers, and some of them
were now in different stages of intoxication, not because they had had
a great deal to drink, but because—being usually abstemious—it did not
take very much to make them drunk.
From time to time this miserable crew tried to enliven the journey by
singing, but as most of them only knew odd choruses it did not come to
much. As for the few who did happen to know all the words of a song,
they either had no voices or were not inclined to sing. The most
successful contribution was that of the religious maniac, who sang
several hymns, the choruses being joined in by everybody, both drunk
and sober.
The strains of these hymns, wafted back through the balmy air to the
last coach, were the cause of much hilarity to its occupants who also
sang the choruses. As they had all been brought up under “Christian”
influences and educated in “Christian” schools, they all knew the
words: “Work, for the night is coming”, “Turn poor Sinner and escape
Eternal Fire”, “Pull for the Shore” and “Where is my Wandering Boy?”
The last reminded Harlow of a song he knew nearly all the words of,
“Take the news to Mother”, the singing of which was much appreciated by
all present and when it was finished they sang it all over again,
Philpot being so affected that he actually shed tears; and Easton
confided to Owen that there was no getting away from the fact that a
boy’s best friend is his mother.
In this last carriage, as in the other two, there were several men who
were more or less intoxicated and for the same reason—because not being
used to taking much liquor, the few extra glasses they had drunk had
got into their heads. They were as sober a lot of fellows as need be at
ordinary times, and they had flocked together in this brake because
they were all of about the same character—not tame, contented imbeciles
like most of those in Misery’s carnage, but men something like Harlow,
who, although dissatisfied with their condition, doggedly continued the
hopeless, weary struggle against their fate.
They were not teetotallers and they never went to either church or
chapel, but they spent little in drink or on any form of enjoyment—an
occasional glass of beer or a still rarer visit to a music-hall and now
and then an outing more or less similar to this being the sum total of
their pleasures.
These four brakes might fitly be regarded as so many travelling lunatic
asylums, the inmates of each exhibiting different degrees and forms of
mental disorder.
The occupants of the first—Rushton, Didlum and Co.—might be classed as
criminal lunatics who injured others as well as themselves. In a
properly constituted system of society such men as these would be
regarded as a danger to the community, and would be placed under such
restraint as would effectually prevent them from harming themselves or
others. These wretches had abandoned every thought and thing that tends
to the elevation of humanity. They had given up everything that makes
life good and beautiful, in order to carry on a mad struggle to acquire
money which they would never be sufficiently cultured to properly
enjoy. Deaf and blind to every other consideration, to this end they
had degraded their intellects by concentrating them upon the minutest
details of expense and profit, and for their reward they raked in their
harvest of muck and lucre along with the hatred and curses of those
they injured in the process. They knew that the money they accumulated
was foul with the sweat of their brother men, and wet with the tears of
little children, but they were deaf and blind and callous to the
consequences of their greed. Devoid of every ennobling thought or
aspiration, they grovelled on the filthy ground, tearing up the flowers
to get at the worms.
In the coach presided over by Crass, Bill Bates, the Semi-drunk and the
other two or three habitual boozers were all men who had been driven
mad by their environment. At one time most of them had been fellows
like Harlow, working early and late whenever they got the chance, only
to see their earnings swallowed up in a few minutes every Saturday by
the landlord and all the other host of harpies and profitmongers, who
were waiting to demand it as soon as it was earned. In the years that
were gone, most of these men used to take all their money home
religiously every Saturday and give it to the “old girl” for the house,
and then, lo and behold, in a moment, yea, even in the twinkling of an
eye, it was all gone! Melted away like snow in the sun! and nothing to
show for it except an insufficiency of the bare necessaries of life!
But after a time they had become heartbroken and sick and tired of that
sort of thing. They hankered after a little pleasure, a little
excitement, a little fun, and they found that it was possible to buy
something like those in quart pots at the pub. They knew they were not
the genuine articles, but they were better than nothing at all, and so
they gave up the practice of giving all their money to the old girl to
give to the landlord and the other harpies, and bought beer with some
of it instead; and after a time their minds became so disordered from
drinking so much of this beer, that they cared nothing whether the rent
was paid or not. They cared but little whether the old girl and the
children had food or clothes. They said, “To hell with everything and
everyone,” and they cared for nothing so long as they could get plenty
of beer.
The occupants of Nimrod’s coach have already been described and most of
them may correctly be classed as being similar to cretin idiots of the
third degree—very cunning and selfish, and able to read and write, but
with very little understanding of what they read except on the most
common topics.
As for those who rode with Harlow in the last coach, most of them, as
has been already intimated, were men of similar character to himself.
The greater number of them fairly good workmen and—unlike the boozers
in Crass’s coach—not yet quite heartbroken, but still continuing the
hopeless struggle against poverty. These differed from Nimrod’s lot
inasmuch as they were not content. They were always complaining of
their wretched circumstances, and found a certain kind of pleasure in
listening to the tirades of the Socialists against the existing social
conditions, and professing their concurrence with many of the
sentiments expressed, and a desire to bring about a better state of
affairs.
Most of them appeared to be quite sane, being able to converse
intelligently on any ordinary subject without discovering any symptoms
of mental disorder, and it was not until the topic of Parliamentary
elections was mentioned that evidence of their insanity was
forthcoming. It then almost invariably appeared that they were subject
to the most extraordinary hallucinations and extravagant delusions, the
commonest being that the best thing that the working people could do to
bring about an improvement in their condition, was to continue to elect
their Liberal and Tory employers to make laws for and to rule over
them! At such times, if anyone ventured to point out to them that that
was what they had been doing all their lives, and referred them to the
manifold evidences that met them wherever they turned their eyes of its
folly and futility, they were generally immediately seized with a
paroxysm of the most furious mania, and were with difficulty prevented
from savagely assaulting those who differed from them.
They were usually found in a similar condition of maniacal excitement
for some time preceding and during a Parliamentary election, but
afterwards they usually manifested that modification of insanity which
is called melancholia. In fact they alternated between these two forms
of the disease. During elections, the highest state of exalted mania;
and at ordinary times—presumably as a result of reading about the
proceedings in Parliament of the persons whom they had elected—in a
state of melancholic depression, in their case an instance of hope
deferred making the heart sick.
This condition occasionally proved to be the stage of transition into
yet another modification of the disease—that known as dipsomania, the
phase exhibited by Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk.
Yet another form of insanity was that shown by the Socialists. Like
most of their fellow passengers in the last coach, the majority of
these individuals appeared to be of perfectly sound mind. Upon entering
into conversation with them one found that they reasoned correctly and
even brilliantly. They had divided their favourite subject into three
parts. First; an exact definition of the condition known as Poverty.
Secondly; a knowledge of the causes of Poverty; and thirdly, a rational
plan for the cure of Poverty. Those who were opposed to them always
failed to refute their arguments, and feared, and nearly always
refused, to meet them in fair fight—in open debate—preferring to use
the cowardly and despicable weapons of slander and misrepresentation.
The fact that these Socialists never encountered their opponents except
to defeat them, was a powerful testimony to the accuracy of their
reasonings and the correctness of their conclusions—and yet they were
undoubtedly mad. One might converse with them for an indefinite time on
the three divisions of their subject without eliciting any proofs of
insanity, but directly one inquired what means they proposed to employ
in order to bring about the adoption of their plan, they replied that
they hoped to do so by reasoning with the others!
Although they had sense enough to understand the real causes of
poverty, and the only cure for poverty, they were nevertheless so
foolish that they entertained the delusion that it is possible to
reason with demented persons, whereas every sane person knows that to
reason with a maniac is not only fruitless, but rather tends to fix
more deeply the erroneous impressions of his disordered mind.
The wagonette containing Rushton and his friends continued to fly over
the road, pursued by the one in which rode Crass, Bill Bates, and the
Semi-drunk; but notwithstanding all the efforts of the drunken driver,
they were unable to overtake or pass the smaller vehicle, and when they
reached the foot of the hill that led up to Windley the distance
between the two carriages rapidly increased, and the race was
reluctantly abandoned.
When they reached the top of the hill Rushton and his friends did not
wait for the others, but drove off towards Mugsborough as fast as they
could.
Crass’s brake was the next to arrive at the summit, and they halted
there to wait for the other two conveyances and when they came up all
those who lived nearby got out, and some of them sang “God Save the
King”, and then with shouts of “Good Night”, and cries of “Don’t forget
six o’clock Monday morning”, they dispersed to their homes and the
carriages moved off once more.
At intervals as they passed through Windley brief stoppages were made
in order to enable others to get out, and by the time they reached the
top of the long incline that led down into Mugsborough it was nearly
twelve o’clock and the brakes were almost empty, the only passengers
being Owen and four or five others who lived down town. By ones and
twos these also departed, disappearing into the obscurity of the night,
until there was none left, and the Beano was an event of the past.