The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Robert Tressell

was a certain amount of difficulty in procuring it, but it would not be impossible to find some pretext for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small quantities at different shops until one had sufficient. Then he remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the colours he frequently had to use in his work, was one of the most deadly poisons: and there was some other stuff that photographers used, which was very easy to procure. Of course, one would have to be very careful about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a lot of pain. It would be necessary to find out exactly how the stuff acted before using it. It would not be very difficult to do so. Then he remembered that among his books was one that probably contained some information about this subject. He went over to the book-shelf and presently found the volume; it was called The Cyclopedia of Practical Medicine, rather an old book, a little out of date, perhaps, but still it might contain the information he wanted. Opening it, he turned to the table of contents. Many different subjects were mentioned there and presently he found the one he sought:

      Poisons: chemically, physiologically and pathologically considered.

      Corrosive Poisons.

      Narcotic Poisons.

      Slow Poisons.

      Consecutive Poisons.

      Accumulative Poisons.

      He turned to the chapter indicated and, reading it, he was astonished to find what a number of poisons there were within easy reach of whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied upon to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. Why, it was not even necessary to buy them: one could gather them from the hedges by the road side and in the fields.

      The more he thought of it the stranger it seemed that such a clumsy method as a razor should be so popular. Why almost any other way would be better and easier than that. Strangulation or even hanging, though the latter method could scarcely be adopted in that house, because there were no beams or rafters or anything from which it would be possible to suspend a cord. Still, he could drive some large nails or hooks into one of the walls. For that matter, there were already some clothes-hooks on some of the doors. He began to think that this would be an even more excellent way than poison or charcoal; he could easily pretend to Frankie that he was going to show him some new kind of play.

      He could arrange the cord on the hook on one of the doors and then under pretence of play, it would be done. The boy would offer no resistance, and in a few minutes it would all be over.

      He threw down the book and pressed his hands over his ears: he fancied he could hear the boy’s hands and feet beating against the panels of the door as he struggled in his death agony.

      Then, as his arms fell nervelessly by his side again, he thought that he heard Frankie’s voice calling.

      Dad! Dad!’

      Owen hastily opened the door.

      ‘Are you calling, Frankie?’

      ‘Yes. I’ve been calling you quite a long time.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘I want you to come here. I want to tell you something.’

      ‘Well, what is it, dear? I thought you were asleep a long time ago,’ said Owen as he came into the room.

      ‘That’s just what I want to speak to you about: the kitten’s gone to sleep all right, but I can’t go. I’ve tried all different ways, counting and all, but it’s no use, so I thought I’d ask you if you’d mind coming and staying with me, and letting me hold your hand for a little while and then p’raps I could go.’

      The boy twined his arms round Owen’s neck and hugged him very tightly.

      ‘Oh. Dad, I love you so much!’ he said. ‘I love you so much, I could squeeze you to death.’

      ‘I’m afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tightly as that.’

      The boy laughed softly as he relaxed his hold. ‘That would be a funny way of showing you how much I loved you, wouldn’t it, Dad? Squeezing you to death!’

      ‘Yes, I suppose it would,’ replied Owen huskily, as he tucked the bedclothes round the child’s shoulders. ‘But don’t talk any more, dear; just hold my hand and try to sleep.’

      ‘All right,’ said Frankie.

      Lying there very quietly, holding his father’s hand and occasionally kissing it, the child presently fell asleep. Then Owen got up very gently and, having taken the kitten out of the bed again and arranged the bedclothes, he softly kissed the boy’s forehead and returned to the other room.

      Looking about for a suitable place for the kitten to sleep in, he noticed Frankie’s toy box, and having emptied the toys on to the floor in a corner of the room, he made a bed in the box with some rags and placed it on its side on the hearthrug, facing the fire, and with some difficulty persuaded the kitten to lie in it. Then, having placed the chairs on which his clothes were drying at a safe distance from the fire, he went into the bedroom. Nora was still awake.

      ‘Are you feeling any better, dear?’ he said.

      ‘Yes. I’m ever so much better since I’ve been in bed, but I can’t help worrying about your clothes. I’m afraid they’ll never be dry enough for you to put on the first thing in the morning. Couldn’t you stay at home till after breakfast, just for once?’

      ‘No; I mustn’t do that. If I did Hunter would probably tell me to stay away altogether. I believe he would be glad of an excuse to get rid of another full-price man just now.’

      ‘But if it’s raining like this in the morning, you’ll be wet through before you get there.’

      ‘It’s no good worrying about that, dear: besides, I can wear this old coat that I have on now, over the other.’

      ‘And if you wrap your old shoes in some paper, and take them with you, you can take off your wet boots as soon as you get to the place.’

      ‘Yes, all right,’ responded Owen. ‘Besides,’ he added, reassuringly, even if I do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you know.’

      ‘Well, I hope the weather will be a little better than this in the morning,’ said Nora, isn’t it a dreadful night! I keep feeling afraid that the house is going to be blown down.’

      Long after Nora was asleep, Owen lay listening to the howling of the wind and the noise of the rain as it poured heavily on the roof…

       7 The Exterminating Machines

      ‘Come on, Saturday!’ shouted Philpot, just after seven o’clock one Monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work.

      It was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by the flickering light of two candles which Crass had lighted and stuck on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men.

      ‘Yes, it do seem a ‘ell of a long week, don’t it?’ remarked Harlow as he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and blouse. ‘I’ve ‘ad bloody near enough of it already.’

      ‘Wish to Christ it was breakfast-time,’ growled the more easily satisfied Easton.

      Extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their work: they did not ‘love’ it. They had no conception of that lofty ideal of ‘work for work’s sake’, which is so popular with the people who do nothing. On the contrary, when the workers arrived in the morning they wished it was breakfast-time. When they resumed work after breakfast they wished it was dinner-time. After dinner they wished it was one o’clock on Saturday.

      So they went on, day after day, year after year, wishing their time was over and, without realizing it, really wishing that they were dead.

      How