*THE
WORKER*
Brisbane,
March 2, 1895.
“A
Bit Off !”
[Those
who do not believe in old-age pensions are invited to read this
story, which originally appeared in an English paper.]
We
met a man the other day who was growing old. He had been a journeyman
for nearly, forty years, and had been discharged because – Well, we
really could not understand why any more than the man himself. He was
a sober man, punctual, respectful,quick at his work, and not paid
more than he was worth. He had never been absent on the score of ill
health, and he never took a holiday. Yet he was discharged.
Now,
“firstly,” as our parson says, why was he going about the streets
unable to get work, though quite able to do it? Had he stayed too
long in one place? Changes had been frequent, but he went on with his
work unheeding whose name was in the imprint. At every week end he
was paid his wages,
all
that was due to him, and he wrought his best, week in, week out.
Younger men grew up and passed him. He did not seek promotion: he
merely wanted to be left alone to go on in his patient, persevering
style. The younger men who passed him were his fiends. He was not in
their way, and they were not in his.
Year
after year he toiled in that firm, from the first day of his
apprenticeship to the last day of his service, a period of forty
years.
One
day he got the sack!
For
forty years he had been in that office every day barring Sundays.
Through sunshine and through rain he strode along to business, and at
night – all hours of the night – he went home to his family when
his work was done. The forty years he saw those shops being opened
and the windows cleaned. For forty Good Fridays as he went to work he
saw those shop-shutters being washed with buckets of water and a
broom. The boys he used to nod at became men, and some became men
nearly as old as himself. Some died, some dropped out and were
forgotten, but still he went on the same side of the way, treading on
the same stones, or on those which replaced them, imperceptibly
getting older himself, but going to the same work the same way for
forty years.
How
many times with an aching heart?
Wife
or child ill, or dying; himself worn and feverish with
night-watching, yet he trudged along. Work must be done. If he did
not do it someone else would, and he could not afford that.
The
little bit of looking-glass which he nailed against the wall many
years ago shows him a different face to the one he had then. That was
full, and round, and bright. This is not so round, and has lines
about it which years of care have brought, and which will never go
away any more. His hair is not so much trouble as it used to be when
he could not keep it out of his eyes. He can keep it out of his eyes
now, and it is not so dark as it was; and his beard if anything is
whiter, so he shaves it off, and every crop he submits to the razer
seems whiter than the last.
Always
steadily at work, his surroundings have come to be a part of himself,
and he has grown to fit them. He has spent many more hours of his
life in the office than he has at home, and it has become his habit
to long for the familiar surroundings of the grimy place. Used to the
requirements of that office he does his work suitably well. No
complaints at all, but one day he got the sack.
His
apprentice master was gone to the far away land from whence no
traveller returns; his successor grew rich, and retired; the new
proprietor wanted to know about “that old chap over there,” and
somebody told him. “H'm. Been here nearly forty years, has he? A
bit old-fashion, not up to date, is he? Eh! Well, well, let him
alone!”
The
new overseer says he is “slow and dull and not worth his salt.”
He explains to the new master that he can do nothing with him, that
he is “a trouble and an annoyance.” Perhaps not. Most likely the
old fellow is doing all he knows to keep his job, and is nervous for
fear he may give offence to the new master and his new overseer. He
does not want him now?
The
new master does not know him, and the new overseer does not
understand him. One day there is a tiff, and the old servant gets
vexed. So does the new overseer. If this worthy had not somehow
fallen foul of the sore points the old man has they might have got
along together very well, but it was not to be.
There
was no quarrel, only a parting. The man was hurt, the overseer was
sorry. The man was too full of a sense of injury and injustice to beg
to be kept on; he even refused the kind offers of his friends to that
end, and the overseer was not going to ask him to stop, not likely,
so the two parted.
Our
friend was outside, with a feeling like a lump in his throat, and
tears in his voice as well as in his eyes. He did not realise it for
some time. He out of work! It seemed extraordinary, and he did not
know its meaning at first. It was like seven Sundays a week, with no
Saturday night. But where were his friends? They were all gone to
work, so it could not be Sunday. And why was not he gone to work? He
was well and strong and capable, but he had no work to go to, after
forty years of good service; he got up in the morning and had no
need to hurry – no need to scald his throat with hot tea, nor
choke himself with that last huge bit of bread and butter.
He
had nowhere to go! What was he to do with his time?
Such
leisure as this is all very well for people who can afford it, but
when the bread-winner is idle, where does the bread come from?
From
morning to night he goes about seeking further employment, but
everybody is full up, and needs no other hands, and some of them do
not say “No” pleasantly. They growl it out, and the seeker goes
away with this doubtin his mind: “Are these men? And will their
hair go thin and white, and will they have a tiff with somebody when
they have been printing for forty years, and get outside, as I am? I
wonder; and I wonder, too, if they will suffer as I do when a busy
man blurts out 'No!” as though he would sat 'Go!' and I come away
no nearer the end I seek.”
Nothing
to do! What a volume there is in those few words. Hard labour in a
prison is a prison is a punishment for a man who has done something
wrong, but No Labour, in Perfect Liberty, is as great a punishment
to a man for no other crime than having grey hair, and working
faithfully and honestly for forty years.
From
this point he begins to sink. He gets to look older; he grows shabby;
any little show of approaching age he may have is accentuated; he is
poor and sad at heart; he feels humbled; he does not mix on the old
terms with the men he used to know; he is ashamed, as though he had
done wrong; he has to get night work if anybody will give it to him,
and he gets older and more careworn, and loses his health. In fact,
he goes to the bad. Some day you say, “Where is old Tommy (or Bill,
or Ben)?” And the reply is, “Oh, he's dead and buried!” You are
surprised and sorry, and you say so. “He was very queer for a long
time,” your friend tells you, “and one day he caught a cold and
died. He was only ill a week. He never got over being sent away from
that firm. I don't see that anybody could help it, although they
might have let him down gently after all that time. However, poor
cove, he's gone now, so it does not matter much to him. I suppose
this same hard luck is waiting for us when we get to it?”
It
may be so. Of the great army of toilers he was one of the rank and
file, but it does seem “a bit off.” J.G.
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