the ragged trousered philanthropists-第30部分

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Barrington；　who　seldom　spoke　and　was　an　ideal　listener；　was　appropriated　by　several　men　in　succession；　who　each　told　him　a　different　yarn。　　There　was　one　man　sitting　on　an　up…ended　pail　in　the　far　corner　of　the　room　and　it　was　evident　from　the　movements　of　his　lips　that　he　also　was　relating　a　story；　although　nobody　knew　what　it　was　about　or　heard　a　single　word　of　it；　for　no　one　took　the　slightest　notice　of　him。。。

When　the　uproar　had　subsided　Harlow　remembered　the　case　of　a　family　whose　house　got　into　such　a　condition　that　the　landlord　had　given　them　notice　and　the　father　had　committed　suicide　because　the　painters　had　come　to　turn　'em　out　of　house　and　home。　　There　were　a　man；　his　wife　and　daughter　…　a　girl　about　seventeen　…　living　in　the　house；　and　all　three　of　'em　used　to　drink　like　hell。　　As　for　the　woman；　she　COULD　shift　it　and　no　mistake！　　Several　times　a　day　she　used　to　send　the　girl　with　a　jug　to　the　pub　at　the　corner。　　When　the　old　man　was　out；　one　could　have　anything　one　liked　to　ask　for　from　either　of　'em　for　half　a　pint　of　beer；　but　for　his　part；　said　Harlow；　he　could　never　fancy　it。　　They　were　both　too　ugly。

The　finale　of　this　tale　was　received　with　a　burst　of　incredulous　laughter　by　those　who　heard　it。

‘Do　you　'ear　what　Harlow　says；　Bob？'　Easton　shouted　to　Crass。

‘No。　　What　was　it？'

‘'E　ses　'e　once　'ad　a　chance　to　'ave　something　but　'e　wouldn't　take　it　on　because　it　was　too　ugly！'

‘If　it　'ad　bin　me；　I　should　'ave　shut　me　bly　eyes；'　cried　Sawkins。　‘I　wouldn't　pass　it　for　a　trifle　like　that。'

‘No；'　said　Crass　amid　laughter；　‘and　you　can　bet　your　life　'e　didn't　lose　it　neither；　although　'e　tries　to　make　'imself　out　to　be　so　innocent。'

‘I　always　though　old　Harlow　was　a　bly　liar；'　remarked　Bundy；　‘but　now　we　knows　'e　is。'

Although　everyone　pretended　to　disbelieve　him；　Harlow　stuck　to　his　version　of　the　story。

‘It's　not　their　face　you　want；　you　know；'　added　Bundy　as　he　helped　himself　to　some　more　tea。

‘I　know　it　wasn't　my　old　woman's　face　that　I　was　after　last　night；'　observed　Crass；　and　then　he　proceeded　amid　roars　of　laughter　to　give　a　minutely　detailed　account　of　what　had　taken　place　between　himself　and　his　wife　after　they　had　retired　for　the　night。

This　story　reminded　the　man　on　the　pail　of　a　very　strange　dream　he　had　had　a　few　weeks　previously：　‘I　dreamt　I　was　walkin'　along　the　top　of　a　'igh　cliff　or　some　sich　place；　and　all　of　a　sudden　the　ground　give　way　under　me　feet　and　I　began　to　slip　down　and　down　and　to　save　meself　from　going　over　I　made　a　grab　at　a　tuft　of　grass　as　was　growin'　just　within　reach　of　me　'and。　　And　then　I　thought　that　some　feller　was　'ittin　me　on　the　'ead　with　a　bly　great　stick；　and　tryin'　to　make　me　let　go　of　the　tuft　of　grass。　　And　then　I　woke　up　to　find　my　old　woman　shouting　out　and　punchin'　me　with　'er　fists。　　She　said　I　was　pullin'　'er　'air！'

While　the　room　was　in　an　uproar　with　the　merriment　induced　by　these　stories；　Crass　rose　from　his　seat　and　crossed　over　to　where　his　overcoat　was　hanging　on　a　nail　in　the　wall；　and　took　from　the　pocket　a　piece　of　card　about　eight　inches　by　about　four　inches。　　One　side　of　it　was　covered　with　printing；　and　as　he　returned　to　his　seat　Crass　called　upon　the　others　to　listen　while　he　read　it　aloud。　　He　said　it　was　one　of　the　best　things　he　had　ever　seen：　it　had　been　given　to　him　by　a　bloke　in　the　Cricketers　the　other　night。

Crass　was　not　a　very　good　reader；　but　he　was　able　to　read　this　all　right　because　he　had　read　it　so　often　that　he　almost　knew　it　by　heart。　It　was　entitled　‘The　Art　of　Flatulence'；　and　it　consisted　of　a　number　of　rules　and　definitions。　　Shouts　of　laughter　greeted　the　reading　of　each　paragraph；　and　when　he　had　ended；　the　piece　of　dirty　card　was　handed　round　for　the　benefit　of　those　who　wished　to　read　it　for　themselves。　　Several　of　the　men；　however；　when　it　was　offered　to　them；　refused　to　take　it；　and　with　evident　disgust　suggested　that　it　should　be　put　into　the　fire。　　This　view　did　not　commend　itself　to　Crass；　who；　after　the　others　had　finished　with　it；　put　it　back　in　the　pocket　of　his　coat。

Meanwhile；　Bundy　stood　up　to　help　himself　to　some　more　tea。　　The　cup　he　was　drinking　from　had　a　large　piece　broken　out　of　one　side　and　did　not　hold　much；　so　he　usually　had　to　have　three　or　four　helpings。

‘Anyone　else　want　any'　he　asked。

Several　cups　and　jars　were　passed　to　him。　　These　vessels　had　been　standing　on　the　floor；　and　the　floor　was　very　dirty　and　covered　with　dust；　so　before　dipping　them　into　the　pail；　Bundy　…　who　had　been　working　at　the　drains　all　morning　…　wiped　the　bottoms　of　the　jars　upon　his　trousers；　on　the　same　place　where　he　was　in　the　habit　of　wiping　his　hands　when　he　happened　to　get　some　dirt　on　them。　　He　filled　the　jars　so　full　that　as　he　held　them　by　the　rims　and　passed　them　to　their　owners　part　of　the　contents　slopped　over　and　trickled　through　his　fingers。　　By　the　time　he　had　finished　the　floor　was　covered　with　little　pools　of　tea。

‘They　say　that　Gord　made　everything　for　some　useful　purpose；'　remarked　Harlow；　reverting　to　the　original　subject；　‘but　I　should　like　to　know　what　the　hell's　the　use　of　sich　things　as　bugs　and　fleas　and　the　like。'

‘To　teach　people　to　keep　theirselves　clean；　of　course；'　said　Slyme。

‘That's　a　funny　subject；　ain't　it？'　continued　Harlow；　ignoring　Slyme's　answer。　　‘They　say　as　all　diseases　is　caused　by　little　insects。　　If　Gord　'adn't　made　no　cancer　germs　or　consumption　microbes　there　wouldn't　be　no　cancer　or　consumption。'

‘That's　one　of　the　proofs　that　there　ISN'T　an　individual　God；'　said　Owen。　　‘If　we　were　to　believe　that　the　universe　and　everything　that　lives　was　deliberately　designed　and　created　by　God；　then　we　must　also　believe　that　He　made　his　disease　germs　you　are　speaking　of　for　the　purpose　of　torturing　His　other　creatures。'

‘You　can't　tell　me　a　bloody　yarn　like　that；'　interposed　Crass；　roughly。　　‘There's　a　Ruler　over　us；　mate；　and　so　you're　likely　to　find　out。'

‘If　Gord　didn't　create　the　world；　'ow　did　it　come　'ere？'　demanded　Slyme。

‘I　know　no　more　about　that　than　you　do；'　replied　Owen。　　‘That　is　…　I　know　nothing。　　The　only　difference　between　us　is　that　you　THINK　you　know。　　You　think　you　know　that　God　made　the　universe；　how　long　it　took　Him　to　do　it；　why　He　made　it；　how　long　it's　been　in　existence　and　how　it　will　finally　pass　away。　　You　also　imagine　you　know　that　we　shall　live　after　we're　dead；　where　we　shall　go；　and　the　kind　of　existence　we　shall　have。　　In　fact；　in　the　excess　of　your　〃humility〃；　you　think　you　know　all　about　it。　　But　really　you　know　no　more　of　these　things　than　any　other　human　being　does；　that　is；　you　know　NOTHING。'

‘That's　only　YOUR　opinion；'　said　Slyme。

‘If　we　care　to　take　the　trouble　to　learn；'　Owen　went　on；　‘we　can　know　a　little　of　how　the　universe　has　grown　and　changed；　but　of　the　beginning　we　know　nothing；'

‘That's　just　my　opinion；　matey；'　observed　Philpot。　　‘It's　just　a　bloody　mystery；　and　that's　all　about　it。'

‘I　don't　pretend　to　'ave　no　'ead　knowledge；'　said　Slyme；　‘but　'ead　knowledge　won't　save　a　man's　soul：　it's　'EART　knowledge　as　does　that。　I　knows　in　my　'eart　as　my　sins　is　all　hunder　the　Blood；　and　it's　knowin'　that；　wot's　given　'appiness　and　the　peace　which　passes　all　understanding　to　me　ever　since　I've　been　a　Christian。'

‘Glory；　glory；　hallelujah！'　shouted　Bundy；　and　nearly　everyone　laughed。

‘〃Christian〃　is　right；'　sneered　Owen。　　‘You've　got　some　title　to　call　yourself　a　Christian；　haven't　you？　　As　for　the　happiness　that　passes　all　understanding；　it　certainly　passes　MY　understanding　how　you　can　be　happy　when　you　believe　that　millions　of　people　are　being　tortured　in　Hell；　and　it　also　passes　my　understanding　why　you　are　not　ashamed　of　yourself　for　being　happy　under　such　circumstances。'

‘Ah；　well；　you'll　find　it　all　out　when　you　come　to　die；　mate；'　replied　Slyme　in　a　threatening　tone。　　‘You'll　think　and　talk　different　then！'

‘That's　just　wot　gets　over　ME；'　observed　Harlow。　　‘It　don't　　seem　right　that　after　living　in　misery　and　poverty　all　our　bloody　lives；　workin'　and　slavin'　all　the　hours　that　Gord　A'mighty　sends；　that　we're　to　be　bloody　well　set　fire　and　burned　in　'ell　for　all　eternity！　　It　don't　seem　feasible　to　me；　you　know。'

‘It's　my　belief；'　said　Philpot；　profoundly；　‘that　when　you're　dead；　you're　done　for。　　That's　the　end　of　you。'

‘That's　what　*I*　say；'　remarked　Easton。　　‘As　for　all　this　religious　business；　it's　just　a　money…making　dodge。　　It's　the　parson's　trade；　just　the　same　as　painting　is　ours；　only　there's　no　work　attached　to　it　and　the　pay's　a　bloody　sight　better　than　ours　is。'

‘It's　their　livin'；　and　a　bloody　good　livin'　too；　if　you　ask　me；'　said　Bundy。

‘Yes；'　said　Harlow；　‘they　lives　on　the　fat　o'　the　land；　and　wears　the　best　of　everything；　and　they　does　nothing　for　it　but　talk　a　lot　of　twaddle　two　or　three　times　a　week。　　The　rest　of　the　time　they　spend　cadgin'　money　orf　silly　old　women　who　thinks　it's　a　sorter　fire　insurance。'

‘It's　an　old　sayin'　and　a　true　one；'　chimed　in　the　man　on　the　upturned　pail。　　‘Parsons　and　publicans　is　the　worst　enemies　the　workin'　man　ever　'ad。　　There　may　be　SOME　good　'uns；　but　they're　few　and　far　between。'

‘If　I　could　only　get　a　job　like　the　Harchbishop　of　Canterbury；'　said　Philpot；　solemnly；　‘I'd　leave　this　firm。'

‘So　would　I；'　said　Harlow；　‘if　I　was　the　Harchbishop　of　Canterbury；　I'd　take　my　pot　and　brushes　down　the　office　and　shy　'em　through　the　bloody　winder　and　tell　ole　Misery　to　go　to　'ell。'

‘Religion　is　a　thing　that　don't　trouble　ME　much；'　remarked　Newman；　‘and　as　for　what　happens　to　you　after　death；　it's　a　thing　I　believe　in　leavin'　till　you　comes　to　it　…　there's　no　sense　in　meetin'　trouble　'arfway。　　All　the　things　they　tells　us　may　be　true　or　they　may　not；　but　it　takes　me　all　my　time　to　look　after　THIS　world。　　I　don't　believe　I've　been　to　church　more　than　arf　a　dozen　times　since　I've　been　married　…　that's　over　fifteen　years　ago　now　…　and　then　it's　been　when　the　kids　'ave　been　christened。　　The　old　woman　goes　sometimes　and　of　course　the　young　'uns　goes；　you've　got　to　tell　'em　something　or　other；　and　they　might　as　well　learn　what　they　teaches　at　the　Sunday　School　as　anything　else。'

A　general　murmur　of　approval　greeted　this。　　It　seemed　to　be　the　almost　unanimous　opinion；　that；　whether　it　were　true　or　not；　‘religion'　was