There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions on the subjects mentioned.
The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox opinions. If anyone [did not think in accordance with these he soon discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small class of people were] possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very great number – in fact, the majority of the people – lived on the verge of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a period to their misery. And strangest of all – in his opinion – he saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done.
It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably something wrong with his mind.
When all the members [of the syndicate] had handed over their contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection. Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who, having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back into his dinner basket and having closed and placed it on the mantelshelf above, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence.
Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough. This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman’s, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter’s labourer at the usual wages – fivepence per hour.
He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and unconscious of his surroundings.
Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation ensued.
‘Is the gent what’s bought this ’ouse any relation to Sweater the draper?’ asked Payne, the carpenter’s foreman.
‘It’s the same bloke,’ replied Crass.
‘Didn’t he used to be on the Town Council or something?’
‘’E’s bin on the Council for years,’ returned Crass. ‘’E’s on it now. ’E’s mayor this year. ’E’s bin mayor several times before.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Payne, reflectively, ‘’e married old Grinder’s sister, didn’t ’e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.’
‘Yes, I believe he did,’ said Crass.
‘It wasn’t Grinder’s sister,’ chimed in old Jack Linden. ‘It was ’is niece. I know, because I remember working in their ’ouse just after they was married, about ten year ago.’
‘Oh yes, I remember now,’ said Payne. ‘She used to manage one of Grinder’s branch shops, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ replied Linden. ‘I remember it very well because there was a lot of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used to be a regler ’ot un: no one never thought as he’d ever git married at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work for him.’
This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.
‘Funny name to call a ’ouse, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘“The Cave.” I wonder what made ’em give it a name like that.’
‘They calls ’em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,’ said old Jack Linden.
‘There’s generally some sort of meaning to it, though,’ observed Payne. ‘For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, ’e might call ’is ’ouse, “Epsom Lodge” or “Newmarket Villa”.’
‘Or sometimes there’s a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,’ said another man; ‘then they calls it “Hoak Lodge” or “Cherry Cottage”.’
‘Well, there’s a cave up at the end of this garden,’ said Harlow with a grin, ‘you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the ’ouse runs into; praps they called it after that.’
‘Talking about the drains,’ said old Jack Linden when the laughter produced by this elegant joke had ceased. ‘Talking about the drains, I wonder what they’re going to do about them; the ’ouse aint fit to live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done away with.’
‘So it is going to be,’ replied Crass. ‘There’s going to be a new set of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with the main.’
Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.
‘That’s goin’ to cost a good bit,’ said Linden.
‘Yes, I suppose it will,’ replied Crass, ‘but money ain’t no object to old Sweater. ’E’s got tons of it; you know ’e’s got a large wholesale business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one ’e’s got ’ere.’
Easton was still reading the Obscurer: he was not about to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at – probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand – but he was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult