The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  ‘I shall be all right now that I’ve got the range,’ observed the Semi-drunk as he made way for his opponent.

  ‘You’ll see something now,’ whispered Philpot to Easton. ‘This bloke is a dandy!’

  The Besotted Wretch took up his position and with an affectation of carelessness began throwing the rings. It was really a remarkable exhibition, for notwithstanding the fact that his hand trembled like the proverbial aspen leaf, he succeeded in striking the board almost in the centre every time; but somehow or other most of them failed to catch on the hooks and fell into the net. When he finished his innings, he had only scored 4, two of the rings having caught on the No. 2 hook.

  ‘’Ard lines,’ remarked Bundy as he finished his beer and put the glass down on the counter.

  ‘Drink up and ’ave another,’ said Easton as he drained his own glass.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ replied Crass, pouring what remained of the pint down his throat.

  Philpot’s glass had been empty for some time.

  ‘Same again,’ said Easton, addressing the Old Dear and putting six pennies on the counter.

  By this time the Semi-drunk had again opened fire on the board, but he seemed to have lost the range, for none of the rings scored. They flew all over the place, and he finished his innings without increasing his total.

  The Besotted Wretch now sailed in and speedily piled up 37. Then the Semi-drunk had another go, and succeeded in getting 8. His case appeared hopeless, but his opponent in his next innings seemed to go all to pieces. Twice he missed the board altogether, and when he did hit it he failed to score, until the very last throw, when he made 1. Then the Semi-drunk went in again and got 10.

  The scores were now:

  Besotted Wretch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

  Semi-drunk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

  So far it was impossible to foresee the end. It was anybody’s game. Crass became so excited that he absentmindedly opened his mouth and shot his second pint down into his stomach with a single gulp, and Bundy also drained his glass and called upon Philpot and Easton to drink up and have another, which they accordingly did.

  While the Semi-drunk was having his next innings, the Besotted Wretch placed a penny on the counter and called for a half a pint, which he drank in the hope of steadying his nerves for a great effort. His opponent meanwhile threw the rings at the board and missed it every time, but all the same he scored, for one ring, after striking the partion about a foot above the board, fell down and caught on the hook.

  The other man now began his innings, playing very carefully, and nearly every ring scored. As he played, the others uttered exclamations of admiration and called out the result of every throw.

  ‘One!’

  ‘One again!’

  ‘Miss! No! Got ’im! Two!’

  ‘Miss!’

  ‘Miss!’

  ‘Four!’

  The Semi-drunk accepted his defeat with a good grace, and after explaining that he was a bit out of practice, placed a shilling on the counter and invited the company to give their orders. Everyone asked for ‘the same again,’ but the landlord served Easton, Bundy and the Besotted Wretch with pints instead of half-pints as before, so there was no change out of the shilling.

  ‘You know, there’s a great deal in not bein’ used to the board,’ said the Semi-drunk.

  ‘There’s no disgrace in bein’ beat by a man like ’im, mate,’ said Philpot. ‘’E’s a champion!’

  ‘Yes, there’s no mistake about it. ’E throws a splendid ring!’ said Bundy.

  This was the general verdict. The Semi-drunk, though beaten, was not disgraced: and he was so affected by the good feeling manifested by the company that he presently produced a sixpence and insisted on paying for another half-pint all round.

  Crass had gone outside during this conversation, but he returned in a few minutes. ‘I feel a bit easier now,’ he remarked with a laugh as he took the half-pint glass that the Semi-drunk passed to him with a shaking hand. One after the other, within a few minutes, the rest followed Crass’s example, going outside and returning almost immediately: and as Bundy, who was the last to return, came back he exclaimed:

  ‘Let’s ’ave a game of shove-’a’penny.’

  ‘All right,’ said Easton, who was beginning to feel reckless. ‘But drink up first, and let’s ’ave another.’

  He had only sevenpence left, just enough to pay for another pint for Crass and half a pint for everyone else.

  The shove-ha’penny table was a planed mahogany board with a number of parallel lines scored across it. The game is played by placing the coin at the end of the board – the rim slightly overhanging the edge – and striking it with the back part of the palm of the hand, regulating the force of the blow according to the distance it is desired to drive the coin.

  ‘What’s become of Alf tonight?’ inquired Philpot of the landlord whilst Easton and Bundy were playing. Alf was the barman.

  ‘’E’s doing a bit of a job down in the cellar; some of the valves gone a bit wrong. But the missus is comin’ down to lend me a hand presently. ’Ere she is now.’

  The landlady – who at this moment entered through the door at the back of the bar – was a large woman with a highly-coloured countenance and a tremendous bust, incased in a black dress with a shot silk blouse. She had several jewelled gold rings on the fingers of each fat white hand, and a long gold watch guard hung round her fat neck. She greeted Crass and Philpot with condescension, smiling affably upon them.

  Meantime the game of shove-ha’penny proceeded merrily, the Semi-drunk taking a great interest in it and tendering advice to both players impartially. Bundy was badly beaten, and then Easton suggested that it was time to think of going home. This proposal – slightly modified – met with general approval, the modification being suggested by Philpot, who insisted on standing one final round of drinks before they went.

  While they were pouring this down their throats, Crass took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the slot of the polyphone. The landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up and it began to play ‘The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.’ The Semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song, and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet and with many fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice:

  ‘They may build their ships, my lads,

  And try to play the game,

  But they can’t build the boys of the Bulldog breed,

  Wot made ole Hingland’s –’

  ‘’Ere! Stop that, will yer?’ cried the Old Dear, fiercely. ‘I told you once before that I don’t allow that sort of thing in my ’ouse!’

  The Semi-drunk stopped in confusion.

  ‘I don’t mean no ’arm,’ he said unsteadily, appealing to the company.

  ‘I don’t want no chin from you!’ said the Old Dear with a ferocious scowl. ‘If you want to make that row you can go some wheres else, and the sooner you goes the better. You’ve been ’ere long enough.’

  This was true. The man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been possessed of when he first came: he had no money left now, a fact that the observant and experienced landlord had divined some time ago. He therefore wished to get rid of the fellow before the drink affected him further and made him helplessly drunk. The Semi-drunk listened with indignation and wrath to the landlord’s insulting words.

  ‘I shall go when the bloody ’ell I like!’ he shouted. ‘I shan’t ask you nor nobody else! Who the bloody ’ell are you? You’re nobody! See? Nobody! It’s orf the likes of me that you gets your bloody livin’! I shall stop ’ere as long as I bloody well like, and if you don’t like it you can go to ’ell!’

  ‘Oh! Yer will, will yer?’ said the Old Dear. ‘We’ll soon see about that.’ And, opening the door at the back of the bar, he roared out:

  ‘Alf!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied a voice, evidently from the basement.


  ‘Just come up ’ere.’

  ‘All right,’ replied the voice, and footsteps were heard ascending some stairs.

  ‘You’ll see some fun in a minute,’ gleefully remarked Crass to Easton.

  The polyphone continued to play ‘The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.’

  Philpot crossed over to the Semi-drunk. ‘Look ’ere, old man,’ he whispered, ‘take my tip and go ’ome quietly. You’ll only git the worse of it, you know.’

  ‘Not me, mate,’ replied the other, shaking his head doggedly. ‘’Ere I am, and ’ere I’m goin’ to bloody well stop.’

  ‘No, you ain’t,’ replied Philpot coaxingly. ‘Look ’ere. I’ll tell you wot we’ll do. You ’ave just one more ’arf-pint along of me, and then we’ll both go ’ome together. I’ll see you safe ’ome.’

  ‘See me safe ’ome! Wotcher mean?’ indignantly demanded the other. ‘Do you think I’m drunk or wot?’

  ‘No. Certainly not,’ replied Philpot, hastily. ‘You’re all right, as right as I am myself. But you know wot I mean. Let’s go ’ome. You don’t want to stop ’ere all night, do you?’

  By this time Alf had arrived at the door of the back of the bar. He was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age.

  ‘Put it outside,’ growled the landlord, indicating the culprit.

  The barman instantly vaulted over the counter, and, having opened wide the door leading into the street, he turned to the half-drunken man and, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door, said:

  ‘Are yer goin’?’

  ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave ’arf a pint along of this genelman first –’

  ‘Yes. It’s all right,’ said Philpot to the landlord. ‘Let’s ’ave two ’arf-pints, and say no more about it.’

  ‘You mind your own business,’ shouted the landlord, turning savagely on him. ‘’E’ll get no more ’ere! I don’t want no drunken men in my ’ouse. Who asked you to interfere?’

  ‘Now then!’ exclaimed the barman to the cause of the trouble, ‘Outside!’

  ‘Not me!’ said the Semi-drunk firmly. ‘Not before I’ve ’ad my ’arf –’

  But before he could conclude, the barman had clutched him by the collar, dragged him violently to the door and shot him into the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a brewer’s dray that happened to be passing. This accomplished, Alf shut the door and retired behind the counter again.

  ‘Serve ’im bloody well right,’ said Crass.

  ‘I couldn’t ’elp laughin’ when I seen ’im go flyin’ through the bloody door,’ said Bundy.

  ‘You oughter ’ave more sense than to go interferin’ like that,’ said Crass to Philpot. ‘It was nothing to do with you.’

  Philpot made no reply. He was standing with his back to the others, peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. Then he opened the door and went out into the street. Crass and the others – through the window – watched him assist the Semi-drunk to his feet and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm.

  Crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished drinks.

  ‘Why, old Joe ain’t drunk ’ardly ’arf of ’is!’ cried Easton, seeing Philpot’s porter on the counter. ‘Fancy going away like that!’

  ‘More fool ’im,’ growled Crass. ‘There was no need for it: the man’s all right.’

  The Besotted Wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on Philpot’s glass. He had just finished his own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter when Philpot unexpectedly reappeared.

  ‘Hullo! What ’ave you done with ’im?’ inquired Crass.

  ‘I think ’e’ll be all right,’ replied Philpot. ‘He wouldn’t let me go no further with ’im: said if I didn’t go away, ’e’d go for me! But I believe ’e’ll be all right. I think the fall sobered ’im a bit.’

  ‘Oh, ’e’s all right,’ said Crass offhandedly. ‘There’s nothing the matter with ’im.’

  Philpot now drank his porter, and bidding ‘good night’ to the Old Dear, the landlady and the Besotted Wretch, they all set out for home.

  As they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the hill to Windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field. Just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in front of them. It seemed to be a large animal of some kind and was coming slowly and stealthily towards them.

  They stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness. The animal continued to approach. Bundy stooped down to the ground, groping about in search of a stone, and – with the exception of Crass, who was too frightened to move – the others followed his example. They found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature – whatever it was – to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at it. They were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its side and moaned as if in pain. Observing this, the four men advanced cautiously towards it. Bundy struck a match and held it over the prostrate figure. It was the Semi-drunk.

  After parting from Philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all right for some distance. As Philpot had remarked, the fall had to some extent sobered him; but he had not gone very far before the drink he had taken began to affect him again and he had fallen down. Finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong direction. Even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he would probably have been run over if they had not found him. They raised him up, and Philpot, exhorting him to ‘pull himself together’ inquired where he lived. The man had sense enough left to be able to tell them his address, which was fortunately at Windley, where they all resided.

  Bundy and Philpot took him home, separating from Crass and Easton at the corner of the street where both the latter lived.

  Crass felt very full and satisfied with himself. He had had six and a half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections on the polyphone at a total cost of one penny.

  Easton had but a few yards to go before reaching his own house after parting from Crass, but he paused directly he heard the latter’s door close, and leaning against a street lamp yielded to the feeling of giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way home. All the inanimate objects around him seemed to be in motion. The lights of the distant street lamps appeared to be floating about the pavement and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a troubled sea. He searched his pockets for his handkerchief and having found it wiped his mouth, inwardly congratulating himself that Crass was not there to see him. Resuming his walk, after a few minutes he reached his own home. As he passed through, the gate closed of itself after him, clanging loudly. He went rather unsteadily up the narrow path that led to his front door and entered.

  The baby was asleep in the cradle. Slyme had gone up to his own room, and Ruth was sitting sewing by the fireside. The table was still set for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea.

  Easton lurched in noisily. ‘’Ello, old girl!’ he cried, throwing his dinner basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality and resting his hands on the table to support himself. ‘I’ve come at last, you see.’

  Ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands fall into her lap, sat looking at him. She had never seen him like this before. His face was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips tremulous and moist, and the ends of the hair of his fair moustache, stuck together with saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily round his mouth in damp clusters.

  Perceiving that she did not speak or smile, Easton concluded that she was angry and became grave himself.

  ‘I’ve come at last, you see, my dear; better late than never.’

  H
e found it very difficult to speak plainly, for his lips trembled and refused to form the words.

  ‘I don’t know so much about that,’ said Ruth, inclined to cry and trying not to let him see the pity she could not help feeling for him. ‘A nice state you’re in. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  Easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. ‘Don’t be angry, Ruth. It’s no good, you know.’

  He walked clumsily towards her, still leaning on the table to steady himself.

  ‘Don’t be angry,’ he mumbled as he stooped over her, putting his arm round her neck and his face close to hers. ‘It’s no good being angry, you know, dear.’

  She shrank away, shuddering with involuntary disgust as he pressed his wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. His fetid breath, foul with the smell of tobacco and beer, and the odour of the stale tobacco smoke that exuded from his clothes filled her with loathing. He kissed her repeatedly and when at last he released her she hastily wiped her face with her handkerchief and shivered.

  Easton said he did not want any tea, and went upstairs to bed almost immediately. Ruth did not want any tea either now, although she had been very hungry before he came home. She sat up very late, sewing, and when at length she did go upstairs she found him lying on his back, partly undressed on the outside of the bedclothes, with his mouth wide open, breathing stertorously.

  20

  The Forty Thieves.

  The Battle: Brigands versus Bandits

  This is an even more unusually dull and uninteresting chapter, and introduces several matters that may appear to have nothing to do with the case. The reader is nevertheless entreated to peruse it, because it contains certain information necessary to an understanding of this history.

  The town of Mugsborough was governed by a set of individuals called the Municipal Council. Most of these ‘representatives of the people’ were well-to-do or retired tradesmen. In the opinion of the inhabitants of Mugsborough, the fact that a man had succeeded in accumulating money in business was a clear demonstration of his fitness to be entrusted with the business of the town.