*THE
WORKER*
BRISBANE, MAY
11, 1895.
One
of a Number.
A
group of men were standing at the street corner listening to a man
who stood in their midst. None of the men were too well dressed,
neither did they look very cheerful; they were men who were out of
work, and most of them had been out for some time. The man in the
centre seemed to be expounding some theory of his own.
“Yes
mates!” he was saying. “Humanity is a queer puzzle altogether. A
man is worth nothing now-a-days. You can go and get a blooming big
giraffe that's got four legs and a long neck, and people will give it
food and attention and call it a curiosity, while they will let a
dozen men, who ought to be worth far more than that beast, starve.
Men are too plentiful; there ought to be a big earthquake, or war, or
something, to kill off three parts of the people, then there might be
a little show for the rest.”
“Things
would be better if we could get enough good Labour members into
Parliament,” said a man on the outside of the group.
“IF
we could,” said the first speaker, “but the misfortune is most
workers are so infernally jealous they've no confidence in one
another, and rather than vote for Labour men they vote for the old
Liberal and Conservative politician who don't care a twopenny toss
whether the wage-slave is starved or hung. It seems to me it's every
man for himself everywhere, in Parliament, business or religion. Each
man tries to cut the other out. Look at your lovely parsons. They
stand up on Sunday and give you the same old hash that has been
served up for the past hundred years, and then take up a collection,
and when they get a good one, smile and say, 'Thank'ee, brethren; now
I'll pray for ye.' No one cares anything about what YOU do, whether
you live or die. So long as they are out of Queer-street themselves,
it's no matter who is in.”
*
* *
For
a little while longer they thus talked in the language of despair,
and then one by one they went away, till at last there were only two
men left-the one who had done most of the speaking and an old
gray-haired fellow. The speaker went up to the old man, and his face
lost some of its set expression, and he said kindly enough, “ well,
dad, how are you jogging along now; things looking up at all?”
“No,”
said the poor old man, mournfully. “God only knows what will become
of me; I have tried, aye, and tried hard, to get work, to turn an
honest penny somehow, but it seems impossible. Oh, that I could die
and end it all.”
The
other was silent for a minute, then, “I wish I could do something
for you, dad, but I'm stumped myself; you can come home with me,
though; the missus will find you a shake down somewhere, and and you
can share a crust with us so long as we have one.”
The
old man shook his head. “No, Ben. You're a good fellow, but I won't
go with you,” and the other was forced to go home without him.
*
* *
When
he was left quite alone, the old man stood thinking a few minutes,
then said to himself, “I'll try Scott; its quite time he paid me
for that job,” and he turned and walked slowly down the street till
he came to an architect's office. He went in and asked for Mr. Scott.
Mr.
Scott was busy just then but would attend to him presently; so he
waited in the outer office till Mr. Scott was at liberty. Presently
he was told that the architect was free and was shown into his room.
Mr. Scott was a big, burly man, well-fed, well-dressed and well-liked
by well-to-do people, held a prominent position in the church, and
gave away large sums of money to be used for charitable purposes.
Some time ago he had given this poor old man a job, “Just for
charity, you know, “which, being interpreted, means “Just for
cheapness,” for he made him do it at far less wages than he would
have paid anyone else, and now the job had been finished for some
week's yet he had not attempted to pay for it.
“Oh,
it's you,” he said, when he saw who was shown in. What do you want?
Oh, that money. I really haven't time to bother about it now, besides
I'm not altogether satisfied with the work; call again next week,
I'll have more time then.”
“No,”
as the old man attempted to speak, “I can't bother now. Here
Briggs,” calling the clerk, “show this man out,” and he was
shown out.
*
* *
For
some minutes he stood in the street, dazed, then turned slowly away
and walked to the boarding house where he lodged. He reached it at
last, but as he went into the hall he met the landlady.
“Mr.
Jones,” she said in her harsh voice, “I shall be exceedingly glad
if you can let me have some money. The water rates are due to-morrow
and I must have some money to pay them with.” “I'm sorry, but I
haven't any. I cannot get paid for my work.”
“Oh,
well, I shall want your room to-morrow; I can't have boarders here
who don't pay,” and she marched off.
She
was not a bad sort of woman. If anyone had come begging she would
have given them a good meal and possibly a little money as well, but
she could not afford to be too sentimental, and if her boarders
couldn't pay, well, they must leave.
*
* *
The
old man went off to his room – a small one off the back verandah,
furnished meagrely enough. He threw himself down on his stretcher and
tried to think what he could do. No money; no friends; no help
anywhere. And now old memories came crowding into his mind –
memories of his happy cottage home in England, of a loving wife now
long since dead, of a tall, manly boy who had left old England and
come to Queensland to make money for his father, who, when he heard
of his mother's death, sent for that father to come to him, and had
been drowned while his father was on the voyage out. These and many
other things came to him as he lay, but they all led up to one thing
– they served to remind him of his helpless, hopeless condition.
What SHOULD he do? He was old, over seventy. He had worked so hard
all his life. Must he starve now? And to-morrow he would be turned
out of his room. Where should he go? Was there a God, he wondered.
Would He help him? The afternoon changed to evening, the evening
to-night. Still he lay there. Night passed. The morning dawned
beautiful and bright. The golden sun shone on many bright things that
day – shone on happy faces of little children, shone on beautiful
flowers, and also shone into the low-roofed verandah room where an
old man lay with hands clasped in mute supplication, praying for the
help that had come at last.
*
* *
The
Man was dead. CLARK, Brisbane.
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