第23章

The Placard Frank Owen was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of consumption when the boy was only five years old.After that his mother earned a scanty living as a needle-woman.When Frank was thirteen he went to work for a master decorator who was a man of a type that has now almost disappeared, being not merely an employer but a craftsman of a high order.

He was an old man when Frank Owen went to work for him.At one time he had had a good business in the town, and used to boast that he had always done good work, had found pleasure in doing it and had been well paid for it.But of late years the number of his customers had dwindled considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which cared nothing about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness and profit.From this man and by laborious study and practice in his spare time, aided by a certain measure of natural ability, the boy acquired a knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining and signwriting.

Frank's mother died when he was twenty-four, and a year afterwards he married the daughter of a fellow workman.In those days trade was fairly good and although there was not much demand for the more artistic kinds of work, still the fact that he was capable of doing them, if required, made it comparatively easy for him to obtain employment.Owen and his wife were very happy.They had one child -a boy - and for some years all went well.But gradually this state of things altered: broadly speaking, the change came slowly and imperceptibly, although there were occasional sudden fluctuations.

Even in summer he could not always find work: and in winter it was almost impossible to get a job of any sort.At last, about twelve months before the date that this story opens, he determined to leave his wife and child at home and go to try his fortune in London.When he got employment he would send for them.

It was a vain hope.He found London, if anything, worse than his native town.Wherever he went he was confronted with the legend: `No hands wanted'.He walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold all his clothes save those he stood in, and stayed in London for six months, sometimes starving and only occasionally obtaining a few days or weeks work.

At the end of that time he was forced to give in.The privations he had endured, the strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the city combined to defeat him.Symptoms of the disease that had killed his father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of his former self.

That was six months ago, and since then he had worked for Rushton & Co.

Occasionally when they had no work in hand, he was `stood off' until something came in.

Ever since his return from London, Owen had been gradually abandoning himself to hopelessness.Every day he felt that the disease he suffered from was obtaining a stronger grip on him.The doctor told him to `take plenty of nourishing food', and prescribed costly medicines which Owen had not the money to buy.

Then there was his wife.Naturally delicate, she needed many things that he was unable to procure for her.And the boy - what hope was there for him? Often as Owen moodily thought of their circumstances and prospects he told himself that it would be far better if they could all three die now, together.

He was tired of suffering himself, tired of impotently watching the sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought of what was in store for the child.

Of this nature were his reflections as he walked homewards on the evening of the day when old Linden was dismissed.There was no reason to believe or hope that the existing state of things would be altered for a long time to come.

Thousands of people like himself dragged out a wretched existence on the very verge of starvation, and for the greater number of people life was one long struggle against poverty.Yet practically none of these people knew or even troubled themselves to inquire why they were in that condition; and for anyone else to try to explain to them was a ridiculous waste of time, for they did not want to know.

The remedy was so simple, the evil so great and so glaringly evident that the only possible explanation of its continued existence was that the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of reasoning.If these people were not mentally deficient they would of their own accord have swept this silly system away long ago.It would not have been necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong.

Why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that they would not eventually die of want.In every workhouse might be found people who had at one time occupied good positions; and their downfall was not in every case their own fault.