The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists Part 93

They had been wasting the precious time running about all over the country, begging and praying for a candidate, and overlooking the fact that they had in their midst a gentleman--a fellow townsman, who, he believed, would have a better chance of success than any stranger.

Surely they would all agree--if they could only prevail upon him to stand--that Adam Sweater would be an ideal Liberal Candidate!

While Mr Rushton was speaking the drooping spirits of the Three Hundred were reviving, and at the name of Sweater they all began to clap their hands and stamp their feet. Loud shouts of enthusiastic approval burst forth, and cries of 'Good old Sweater' resounded through the room.

When Sweater rose to reply, the tumult died away as suddenly as it had commenced. He thanked them for the honour they were conferring upon him. There was no time to waste in words or idle compliments; rather than allow the Enemy to have a walk-over, he would accede to their request and contest the seat.

A roar of applause burst from the throats of the delighted Three Hundred.

Outside the hall in which the meeting was being held a large crowd of poverty-stricken Liberal working men, many of them wearing broken boots and other men's cast-off clothing, was waiting to hear the report of the slave-drivers' deputation, and as soon as Sweater had consented to be nominated, Didlum rushed and opened the window overlooking the street and shouted the good news down to the crowd, which joined in the cheering. In response to their demands for a speech, Sweater brought his obese carca.s.s to the window and addressed a few words to them, reminding them of the shortness of the time at their disposal, and intreating them to work hard in order that the Grand old Flag might be carried to victory.

At such times these people forgot all about unemployment and starvation, and became enthusiastic about 'Grand old Flags'. Their devotion to this flag was so great that so long as they were able to carry it to victory, they did not mind being poverty stricken and hungry and ragged; all that mattered was to score off their hated 'enemies' their fellow countrymen the Tories, and carry the grand old flag to victory. The fact that they had carried the flag to victory so often in the past without obtaining any of the spoils, did not seem to damp their ardour in the least. Being philanthropists, they were content--after winning the victory--that their masters should always do the looting.

At the conclusion of Sweater's remarks the philanthropists gave three frantic cheers and then someone in the crowd shouted 'What's the colour?' After a hasty consultation with Rushton, who being a 'master'

decorator, was thought to be an authority on colours--green--gra.s.s green--was decided upon, and the information was shouted down to the crowd, who cheered again. Then a rush was made to Sweater's Emporium and several yards of cheap green ribbon were bought, and divided up into little pieces, which they tied into their b.u.t.tonholes, and thus appropriately decorated, formed themselves into military order, four deep, and marched through all the princ.i.p.al streets, up and down the Grand Parade, round and round the Fountain, and finally over the hill to Windley, singing to the tune of 'Tramp, tramp, tramp, the Boys are marching':

'Vote, Vote, Vote for Adam Sweater!

Hang old Closeland on a tree!

Adam Sweater is our man, And we'll have him if we can, Then we'll always have the biggest loaf for tea.'

The spectacle presented by these men--some of them with grey heads and beards--as they marked time or tramped along singing this childish twaddle, would have been amusing if it had not been disgusting.

By way of variety they sang several other things, including:

'We'll hang ole Closeland On a sour apple tree,'

and

'Rally, Rally, men of Windley For Sweater's sure to win.'

As they pa.s.sed the big church in Quality Street, the clock began to strike. It was one of those that strike four chimes at each quarter of the hour. It was now ten o'clock so there were sixteen musical chimes:

Ding, dong! Ding Dong!

Ding dong! Ding dong!

Ding dong! Ding dong!

Ding dong! Ding dong!

They all chanted A-dam Sweat-er' in time with the striking clock. In the same way the Tories would chant:

'Grab--all Close--land!

Grab--all Close--land!

Grab--all Close--land!

Grab--all Close--land!'

The town was soon deluged with mendacious literature and smothered with huge posters:

'Vote for Adam Sweater!

The Working-man's Friend!'

'Vote for Sweater and Temperance Reform.'

'Vote for Sweater--Free Trade and Cheap Food.'

or

'Vote for D'Encloseland: Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work!'

This beautiful idea--'Plenty of Work'--appealed strongly to the Tory workmen. They seemed to regard themselves and their children as a sort of machines or beasts of burden, created for the purpose of working for the benefit of other people. They did not think it right that they should Live, and enjoy the benefits of civilization. All they desired for themselves and their children was 'Plenty of Work'.

They marched about the streets singing their Ma.r.s.eillaise, 'Work, Boys, Work and be contented', to the tune of 'Tramp, tramp, tramp the Boys are marching', and at intervals as they tramped along, they gave three cheers for Sir Graball, Tariff Reform, and--Plenty of Work.

Both sides imported gangs of hired orators who held forth every night at the corners of the princ.i.p.al streets, and on the open s.p.a.ces from portable platforms, and from motor cars and lorries. The Tories said that the Liberal Party in the House of Commons was composed princ.i.p.ally of scoundrels and fools, the Liberals said that the Tory Party were fools and scoundrels. A host of richly dressed canva.s.sers descended upon Windley in carriages and motor cars, and begged for votes from the poverty-stricken working men who lived there.

One evening a Liberal demonstration was held at the Cross Roads on Windley Hill. Notwithstanding the cold weather, there was a great crowd of shabbily dressed people, many of whom had not had a really good meal for months. It was a clear night. The moon was at the full, and the scene was further illuminated by the fitful glare of several torches, stuck on the end of twelve-foot poles. The platform was a large lorry, and there were several speakers, including Adam Sweater himself and a real live Liberal Peer--Lord Ammenegg. This individual had made a considerable fortune in the grocery and provision line, and had been elevated to the Peerage by the last Liberal Government on account of his services to the Party, and in consideration of other considerations.

Both Sweater and Ammenegg were to speak at two other meetings that night and were not expected at Windley until about eight-thirty, so to keep the ball rolling till they arrived, several other gentlemen, including Rushton--who presided--and Didlum, and one of the five pounds a week orators, addressed the meeting. Mingled with the crowd were about twenty rough-looking men--strangers to the town--who wore huge green rosettes and loudly applauded the speakers. They also distributed Sweater literature and cards with lists of the different meetings that were to be held during the election. These men were bullies hired by Sweater's agent. They came from the neighbourhood of Seven Dials in London and were paid ten s.h.i.+llings a day. One of their duties was to incite the crowd to bash anyone who disturbed the meetings or tried to put awkward questions to the speakers.

The hired orator was a tall, slight man with dark hair, beard and moustache, he might have been called well-looking if it had not been for a ugly scar upon his forehead, which gave him a rather sinister appearance. He was an effective speaker; the audience punctuated his speech with cheers, and when he wound up with an earnest appeal to them--as working men--to vote for Adam Sweater, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.

'I've seen him somewhere before,' remarked Barrington, who was standing in the crowd with Harlow, Owen and Easton.

'So have I,' said Owen, with a puzzled expression. 'But for the life of me, I can't remember where.'

Harlow and Easton also thought they had seen the man before, but their speculations were put an end to by the roar of cheering that heralded the arrival of the motor car, containing Adam Sweater and his friend, Lord Ammenegg. Unfortunately, those who had arranged the meeting had forgotten to provide a pair of steps, so Sweater found it a matter of considerable difficulty to mount the platform. However, while his friends were hoisting and pus.h.i.+ng him up, the meeting beguiled the time by singing:

'Vote, vote, vote for Adam Sweater.'

After a terrible struggle they succeeded in getting him on to the cart, and while he was recovering his wind, Rushton made a few remarks to the crowd. Sweater then advanced to the front, but in consequence of the cheering and singing, he was unable to make himself heard for several minutes.

When at length he was able to proceed, ho made a very clever speech--it had been specially written for him and had cost ten guineas. A large part of it consisted of warnings against the dangers of Socialism.

Sweater had carefully rehea.r.s.ed this speech and he delivered it very effectively. Some of those Socialists, he said, were well-meaning but mistaken people, who did not realize the harm that would result if their extraordinary ideas were ever put into practice. He lowered his voice to a blood-curdling stage whisper as he asked:

'What is this Socialism that we hear so much about, but which so few understand? What is it, and what does it mean?'

Then, raising his voice till it rang through the air and fell upon the ears of the a.s.sembled mult.i.tude like the clanging of a funeral bell, he continued:

'It is madness! Chaos! Anarchy! It means Ruin! Black Ruin for the rich, and consequently, of course, Blacker Ruin still for the poor!'

As Sweater paused, a thrill of horror ran through the meeting. Men wearing broken boots and with patches upon the seats and knees, and ragged fringes round the bottoms of the legs of their trousers, grew pale, and glanced apprehensively at each other. If ever Socialism did come to pa.s.s, they evidently thought it very probable that they would have to walk about in a sort of prehistoric highland costume, without any trousers or boots at all.

Toil-worn women, most of them dressed in other women's shabby cast-off clothing--weary, tired-looking mothers who fed their children for the most part on adulterated tea, tinned skimmed milk and bread and margarine, grew furious as they thought of the wicked Socialists who were trying to bring Ruin upon them.

It never occurred to any of these poor people that they were in a condition of Ruin, Black Ruin, already. But if Sweater had suddenly found himself reduced to the same social condition as the majority of those he addressed, there is not much doubt that he would have thought that he was in a condition of Black Ruin.

The awful silence that had fallen on the panic-stricken crowd, was presently broken by a ragged-trousered Philanthropist, who shouted out:

'We knows wot they are, sir. Most of 'em is chaps wot's got tired of workin' for their livin', so they wants us to keep 'em.'

Encouraged by numerous expressions of approval from the other Philanthropists, the man continued:

'But we ain't such fools as they thinks, and so they'll find out next Monday. Most of 'em wants 'angin', and I wouldn't mind lendin' a 'and with the rope myself.'