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.
No matter how prosperous a man might be, he could not be certain that
his children would never want for bread. There were thousands living
in misery on starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people.
As Owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled with these thoughts, he
was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet through to the
skin. He was without an overcoat, it was pawned in London, and he had
not yet been able to redeem it. His boots were leaky and sodden with
mud and rain.
He was nearly home now. At the corner of the street in which he lived
there was a newsagent’s shop and on a board outside the door was
displayed a placard:
TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
DOUBLE MURDER AND SUICIDE
He went in to buy a copy of the paper. He was a frequent customer
here, and as he entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name.
`Dreadful weather,’ he remarked as he handed Owen the paper. `It
makes things pretty bad in your line, I suppose?’
`Yes,’ responded Owen, `there’s a lot of men idle, but fortunately I
happen to be working inside.’
`You’re one of the lucky ones, then,’ said the other. `You know,
there’ll be a job here for some of ‘em as soon as the weather gets a
little better. All the outside of this block is going to be done up.
That’s a pretty big job, isn’t it?’
`Yes,’ returned Owen. `Who’s going to do it?’
`Makehaste and Sloggit. You know, they’ve got a place over at
Windley.’
`Yes, I know the firm,’ said Owen, grimly. He had worked for them
once or twice himself.
`The foreman was in here today,’ the shopkeeper went on. `He said
they’re going to make a start Monday morning if it’s fine.’
`Well, I hope it will be,’ said Owen, `because things are very quiet
just now.’
Wishing the other `Good nigh’, Owen again proceeded homewards.
Half-way down the street he paused irresolutely: he was thinking of
the news he had just heard and of Jack Linden.
As soon as it became generally known that this work was about to be
started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it would be a case of
first come, first served. If he saw Jack tonight the old man might be
in time to secure a job.
Owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a long way to Linden’s
place, nearly twenty minutes’ walk. Still, he would like to let him
know, because unless he was one of the first to apply, Linden would
not stand such a good chance as a younger man. Owen said to himself
that if he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching cold.
Standing about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one
kept moving it was all right.
He turned back and set off in the direction of Linden’s house:
although he was but a few yards from his own home, he decided not to
go in because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go
out again.
As he hurried along he presently noticed a small dark object on the
doorstep of an untenanted house. He stopped to examine it more
closely and perceived that it was a small black kitten. The tiny
creature came towards him and began walking about his feet, looking
into his face and crying piteously. He stooped down and stroked it,
shuddering as his hands came in contact with its emaciated body. Its
fur was saturated with rain and every joint of its backbone was
distinctly perceptible to the touch. As he caressed it, the starving
creature mewed pathetically.
Owen decided to take it home to the boy, and as he picked it up and
put it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr.
This incident served to turn his thoughts into another channel. If,
as so many people pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving
God, how was it that this helpless creature that He had made was
condemned to suffer? It had never done any harm, and was in no sense
responsible for the fact that it existed. Was God unaware of the
miseries of His creatures? If so, then He was not all-knowing. Was
God aware of their sufferings, but unable to help them? Then He was
not all-powerful. Had He the power but not the will to make His
creatures happy? Then He was not good. No; it was impossible to
believe in the existence of an individual, infinite God.. In fact, no
one did so believe; and least of all those who pretended for various
reasons to be the disciples and followers of Christ. The anti-Christs
who went about singing hymns, making long prayers and crying Lord,
Lord, but never doing the things which He said, who were known by
their words to be unbelievers and infidels, unfaithful to the Master
they pretended to serve, their lives being passed in deliberate and
systematic disregard of His teachings and Commandments. It was not
necessary to call in the evidence of science, or to refer to the
supposed inconsistencies, impossibilities, contradictions and
absurdities contained in the Bible, in order to prove there was no
truth in the Christian religion. All that was necessary was to look
at the conduct of the individuals who were its votaries.
