# Ragged Trousered Philanthropists/Chapter 35

CHAPTER XXXV
The Widow's Son
While painting the conservatory in Sweater's house in bitterly cold weather Owen caught such a severe chill that he was obliged to take his overcoat out of pawn. Although he had been luckier than most of his mates in getting odd jobs at Rushton's, he had never been able to save any money. All through the summer most of his wages had gone to pay off arrears of rent and other debts, and now that the winter was upon them and work was very scarce his Saturday pay amounted to half a sovereign, seven-and-six, five shillings, or even less.
One morning he did not get to the yard till ten o'clock and felt so ill that he would not have gone at all if they had not been in sore need of all the money he could earn. The least exertion brought on a violent fit of coughing, and it was only by an almost superhuman effort of will that he managed to get through his work. When he arrived at the yard he found Bert White cleaning out the dirty pots in the paint shop. The noise he made with the scraping knife prevented him hearing Owen's approach, and the latter stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. The stone floor of the paint shop was damp and slimy and the whole place as chilly as a tomb. The boy was trembling with cold, and he looked pitifully undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old apron girt about him. Although it was so cold he had turned back the sleeves of his jacket to keep them clean, or to prevent them getting any dirtier, for like the rest of his attire they were thickly encrusted with dried paint of many colours.
He was wearing a man's coat and a pair of skimpy, boy's trousers, and his thin legs appearing under the big jacket gave him a grotesque appearance. There were smears of paint on his face, and his hands and finger nails were grimed with it. But most pitiful of all were his dreadful hob-nailed boots, the ​uppers of which were an eighth of an inch thick and very stiff. Across the front of the boot the leather had warped into ridges and valleys which chafed his chilblained feet and made them bleed. The soles were five-eigths of an inch thick, hard and inflexible, and almost as heavy as iron, and studded with hob nails.
As he watched the poor boy bending over his task Owen thought of Frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would ever be in a similar plight.
When Bert saw Owen he left off working and wished him good morning, remarking that it was very cold.
'Why don't you light a fire? There's lots of wood lying about the yard,' said Owen.
'No,' replied Bert, shaking his head. 'That would never do! Misery wouldn't 'arf ramp if 'e caught me at it. I used to 'ave a fire 'ere last winter till Rushton found out, and 'e kicked up an orful row and told me to move meself and get some work done and then I wouldn't feel the cold.'
'Oh, he said that, did he?' said Owen, his pale face becoming suddenly suffused with blood. 'We'll see about that.'
He went out into the yard and crossing over to where, under a shed, there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of places where Rushton and Company had made alterations, he gathered an armful of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins, who was clearing the place up, accosted him.
'You musn't go burnin' any of that, you know! That's all got to be saved and took up to the bloke's house. Misery spoke about it only this mornin'.'
Owen did not answer. He carried the wood into the shop and after throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and applying a match produced a roaring fire. Then he brought in several more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop. Bert took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of them because he was afraid there would be trouble when Misery came, but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the benefit of the heat.
Owen waited for about half-an-hour to see if Hunter would return, but as he did not appear, he decided not to wait any longer. Before leaving he gave Bert some instructions:
​'Keep up the fire with all the old paint that you can scrape off those things and any other old paint or rubbish that's here, and whenever it grows dull put more wood on. There's a lot of stuff here that's of no use except to be thrown away or burnt. Burn it all. If Hunter says anything, tell him that I lit the fire, and that I told you to keep it burning. If you want more wood, go out and take it.'
'All right,' replied Bert.
On his way out Owen spoke to Sawkins. His manner was so menacing, his face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the latter thought of the talk there had often been about Owen being mad, and felt half afraid of him.
'I am going to the office to see Rushton. If Hunter comes here you say I told you to tell him that if I find the boy in that shop again without a fire I'll report it to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. And as for you, if the boy comes out here to get more wood, don't you attempt to interefere with him.'
'I don't want to interefere with the bloody kid,' grunted Sawkins. 'It seems to me as if he's gorn orf 'is bloody crumpet,' he added, as he watched Owen walking rapidly down the street. 'I can't understand why people can't mind their own business. Anyone would think the boy belonged to 'im.'
That was just how the matter presented itself to Owen. The idea that it was his own child who was to be treated in this way possessed and infuriated him as he strode savagely along. In the vicinity of the Grand Parade he passed, without seeing them, several groups of unemployed artizans whom he knew. Some of them were offended and remarked that he was getting stuck up, but others, observing how strange he looked, repeated the old prophecy that one of these days Owen would go out of his mind.
As he drew near to his destination large flakes of snow began to fall. He walked so rapidly and was in such a fury that by the time he reached the shop he was scarcely able to speak.
'Is—Hunter—or Rushton—here?' he demanded of the shopman.
'Hunter isn't, but the guvner is. What was it you wanted?'
'He'll soon—know—that,' panted Owen as he strode up to the office door, and without troubling to knock, flung it violently open and entered.
​The atmosphere of this place was very different from that of the damp cellar where Bert was working. An asbestos gas fire threw out a genial warmth, and the air was fragrant with the cigar that Rushton was smoking, as he looked through his letters.
Owen stood panting and quivering in the middle of the office and pointed a trembling finger at his employer:
'I've—come here—to tell—you—that—if I find young—Bert White—working—down in that shop—without—a fire—I'll have you—prosecuted. The place is not good enough for a stable—if you owned a valuable dog—you wouldn't keep it there—. I give you fair warning—I know—enough—about you—to put you—where you deserve to be—if you don't treat him better—I'll have you punished—I'll show you up.'
Rushton continued to stare at him in mingled confusion, fear and perplexity. He did not yet comprehend exactly what it was all about. The fact that he was guiltily conscious of having done so many things which he might be shown up or prosecuted for if they were known helped to reduce him to a condition approaching terror.
'If the boy has been there without a fire I haven't known anything about it,' he stammered at last. 'Mr 'Uunter has charge of all those matters.'
'You—yourself—forbade him—to make a fire last winter—and anyhow—you know about it now—. You obtained money from his mother under the pretence—that you were going to teach him a trade—but for the last twelve months—you have been using him—as if he were—a beast of burden. I advise you to see to it—or I shall—find—means—to make you—sorry.'
With this Owen turned and went out, leaving the door open and Rushton in a state of mind compounded of fear, amazement and anger.
As he walked homewards through the snow storm, Owen began to realise that Rushton would not give him any more work after this, and as he reflected on all it would mean to those at home for a moment he doubted whether he had done right. But when he told Nora what had happened she said cheerfully that there were plenty of other firms in the town who would employ him, when they had the work. He had done without Rushton before and could do so again; for her part, ​whatever the consequences might be, she was glad that he had acted as he did.
'We'll get through somehow, I suppose,' said Owen, wearily. 'There's not much chance of getting a job anywhere else just now, but I shall try to get some work on my own account. I shall do some samples of show cards the same as I did last winter and try to get orders from some of the shops—they usually want something extra at this time. But I'm afraid it is rather too late: most of them already have all they want.'
'I shouldn't go out again to-day if I were you,' said Nora, noticing how ill he looked, 'You should stay at home and read, or write up those minutes.'
The minutes referred to were those of the last meeting of the local branch of the Painters' Society of which Owen was the secretary, and as the snow continued to fall, he occupied himself after dinner in the manner his wife suggested, until four o'clock, when Frankie returned from school bringing with him a large snowball, and crying out as a piece of good news that the snow was still falling heavily, and that he believed it was freezing!
They went to bed very early that night for it was necessary to economise the coal, and because, as the rooms were so near the roof, it was not possible to keep the place warm however much coal was used. The fire seemed, if anything, to make the place colder, for it caused the outer air to pour in through the joints of the ill fitting doors and windows.
Owen lay awake for the greater part of the night. The terror of the future made rest or sleep impossible. He got up very early the next morning, long before it was light, and after lighting the fire, set about preparing the samples he had mentioned to Nora, but found that it would not be possible to do much in this direction without buying more cardboard.
They breakfasted on bread and butter and tea. Frankie had his in bed, and it was decided to keep him away from school until after dinner because the weather was so very cold and his only pair of boots were so saturated from having been out in the snow the previous day.
'I shall make a few enquiries to see if there's any other work to be had before I buy the cardboard,' said Owen, 'although I'm afraid it's not much use.'
​When he was preparing to go out, the front door bell rang, and as he was going down to answer it he saw Bert White coming upstairs. The boy was carrying a flat brown paper parcel under his arm.
'A corfin plate,' he explained as he arrived at the door. 'Wanted at once—Misery ses you can do it at 'ome, an' I've got to wait for it.'
Owen and his wife looked at each other with intense relief. So he was not to be dismissed after all. It was almost too good to be true.
'There's a piece of paper inside the parcel with the name of the party what's dead,' continued Bert, 'and here's a little bottle of brunswick black for you to do the inscription with.'
'Did he send any other message?'
'Yes: 'e told me to tell you there's a job to be started Monday morning—a couple of rooms to be done out somewhere. Got to be finished by Thursday. And there's another job 'e wants you to do this afternoon after dinner, so you've got to come to the yard at one o'clock. 'E told me to tell you 'e meant to leave a message for you yesterday morning but 'e forgot.'
'What did he say to you about the fire—anything?'
'Yes: they both of 'em came about an hour after you went away, Misery and the Bloke too, but they didn't kick up a row. I wasn't arf frightened I can tell you when I saw 'em both coming, but they was quite nice. The Bloke ses to me: "Ah, that's right, my boy," 'e ses, "keep up a good fire, I'm going to send you some coke," 'e ses. And then they 'ad a look round and 'e told Sawkins to put some new panes of glass where the winder was broken, and—you know that great big packing case what was under the truck shed?'
'Yes.'
'Well, 'e told Sawkins to saw it up and cover over the stone floor of the paint shop with it. It ain't 'arf all right there now. I've cleared out all the muck from under the benches and we've got two sacks of coke sent from the gas works, and the Bloke told me when that's all used up I've got to get a order orf Miss Wade at the office for another lot.'
At one o'clock Owen was at the yard, where he saw Misery, who instructed him to go to the front shop and paint some numbers on the racks where the wall papers were stored. ​Whilst he was doing this work Rushton came in and greeted him in a very friendly way.
'I'm very glad you let me know about the boy working in that paint shop,' he observed after a few preliminary remarks; 'I can assure you as I don't want the lad to be uncomfortable, but you know I can't attend to heverything myself. I'm much obliged to you for telling me about it. I think you did quite right; I should have done the same myself.'
Owen did not know what to reply, but Rushton walked off without waiting for one.
For many weeks past Hunter, who had been looking more worried and miserable than ever, was occupied every day in supervising what work was being done and in running about seeking for more. Nearly every night he remained at the office until a late hour, poring over specifications and making out estimates. The police had become so accustomed to seeing the light in the office that as a rule they took no notice of it, but one Thursday night—exactly one week after the scene between Owen and Rushton about the boy—the constable on the beat observed the light there much later than usual. At first he paid no particular attention to the fact, but when night merged into morning and the light still remained, his curiosity was aroused.
He knocked at the door, but no one came in answer, and no sound disturbed the deathlike stillness that reigned within. The door was locked, but he was not able to tell whether it had been closed from the inside or outside because it had a spring latch. The office window was low down, but it was not possible to see in because the back of the glass had been painted.
The constable thought that the most probable explanation of the mystery was that whoever had been there earlier in the evening had forgotten to turn out the light when they went away. It was not likely that thieves or anyone who had no business to be there would advertise their presence by lighting the gas.
He made a note of the incident in his pocket book and was about to resume his beat when he was joined by his inspector. The latter agreed that the conclusion arrived at by the constable was probably the right one, and they were about to pass on when the inspector noticed a speck of light shining through the lower part of the painted window, where a small piece of the paint, had either been scratched or had ​shelled off the glass. He knelt down and found that it was possible to get a view of the interior of the office, and as he peered through he gave a low exclamation. When he made way for his subordinate to look in his turn, the constable was with some difficulty able to distinguish the figure of a man lying prone upon the floor.
It was an easy task for the burly policeman to force open the office door. A single push of his shoulder wrenched it from its fastenings, and as it flew back the socket of the lock fell with a splash into a great pool of blood that had accumulated against the threshold, flowing from the place where Hunter was lying on his back, his arms extended and his head nearly severed from his body. On the floor, close to his right hand, was an open razor. An overturned chair lay on the floor by the side of the table where he usually worked, the table itself being littered with papers and drenched with blood.
During the next few days Crass resumed the role he had played when Hunter was ill during the summer, taking charge of the work and generally doing his best to fill the dead man's place, although—as he confided to certain of his cronies in the bar of the 'Cricketer's'—he had no intention of allowing Rushton to drive him to do the same as Hunter had done. One of his first jobs, on the morning after the discovery of the body, was to go with Mr Rushton to look over a house where some work was to be done for which an estimate had to be given. It was the estimate that Hunter had been trying to make out the previous evening in the office, for they found that the papers on his table were covered with figures and writing relating to this work. These papers justified the subsequent verdict of the coroner's jury that Hunter committed suicide in a fit of temporary insanity, for they were covered with a lot of meaningless scribbling, the words having no intelligible connection with each other. There was one sum he had evidently tried to do repeatedly but which came wrong in a different way every time. The fact that he had the razor in his possession seemed to point to his having premeditated the act, but this was accounted for at the inquest by the evidence of the last person who saw him alive, a hairdresser, who stated that Hunter had left the razor with him to be sharpened a few days previously and that he had called for it on the evening of the tragedy. He had ground the razor for Mr Hunter several times before.
​Crass took charge of all the arrangements for the funeral. He bought a new second-hand pair of black trousers at a cast-off clothing shop in honour of the occasion, and discarded his own low-crowned silk hat—which was getting rather shabby—in favour of Hunter's tall one which he found in the office and annexed without hesitation or scruple. It was rather large for him, but he put some folded strips of paper inside the leather lining. Crass was a proud man as he walked in Hunter's place at the head of the procession, trying to look solemn, but with a half smile on his fat, pasty face, which was destitute of colour except one spot on his chin near his under lip, where there was a small patch of inflammation about the size of a threepenny piece. This spot had been there for a very long time. At first, as well as he could remember, it was only a small pimple, but it had grown larger, with something the appearance of scurvy. Crass attributed its persistency to the cold having 'got into it last winter,' but this was rather strange, because he generally took care of himself in cold weather, always wearing the warm wrap that had formerly belonged to the old lady who died of cancer. However, Crass did not worry much about this little sore place, he just put some zinc ointment on it occasionally and had no doubt that it would get well in time.