The `Sixty-five'
The next morning after breakfast, Philpot, Sawkins, Harlow and Barrington went to the Yard to get the long ladder - the 65 - so called because it had sixty-five rungs.It was really what is known as a builder's scaffold ladder, and it had been strengthened by several iron bolts or rods which passed through just under some of the rungs.One side of the ladder had an iron band or ribbon twisted and nailed round it spirally.It was not at all suitable for painters'
work, being altogether too heavy and cumbrous.However, as none of the others were long enough to reach the high gable at the Refuge, they managed, with a struggle, to get it down from the hooks and put it on one of the handcarts and soon passed through the streets of mean and dingy houses in the vicinity of the yard, and began the ascent of the long hill.
There had been a lot of rain during the night, and the sky was still overcast with dark grey clouds.The cart went heavily over the muddy road; Sawkins was at the helm, holding the end of the ladder and steering; the others walked a little further ahead, at the sides of the cart.
It was such hard work that by the time they were half-way up the hill they were so exhausted and out of breath that they had to stop for a rest.
`This is a bit of all right, ain't it?' remarked Harlow as he took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.
While they rested they kept a good look out for Rushton or Hunter, who were likely to pass by at any moment.
At first, no one made any reply to Harlow's observation, for they were all out of breath and Philpot's lean fingers trembled violently as he wiped the perspiration from his face.
`Yes, mate,' he said despondently, after a while.`It's one way of gettin' a livin' and there's plenty better ways.'
In addition to the fact that his rheumatism was exceptionally bad, he felt unusually low-spirited this morning; the gloomy weather and the prospect of a long day of ladder work probably had something to do with it.
`A "living" is right,' said Barrington bitterly.He also was exhausted with the struggle up the hill and enraged by the woebegone appearance of poor old Philpot, who was panting and quivering from the exertion.
They relapsed into silence.The unaccountable depression that possessed Philpot deprived him of all his usual jocularity and filled him with melancholy thoughts.He had travelled up and down this hill a great many times before under similar circumstances and he said to himself that if he had half a quid now for every time he had pushed a cart up this road, he wouldn't need to do anyone out of a job all the rest of his life.
The shop where he had been apprenticed used to be just down at the bottom; the place had been pulled down years ago, and the ground was now occupied by more pretentious buildings.Not quite so far down the road - on the other side - he could see the church where he used to attend Sunday School when he was a boy, and where he was married just thirty years ago.Presently - when they reached the top of the hill -he would be able to look across the valley and see the spire of the other church, the one in the graveyard, where all those who were dear to him had been one by one laid to rest.He felt that he would not be sorry when the time came to join them there.Possibly, in the next world - if there were such a place - they might all be together once more.
He was suddenly aroused from these thoughts by an exclamation from Harlow.
`Look out! Here comes Rushton.'
They immediately resumed their journey.Rushton was coming up the hill in his dog-cart with Grinder sitting by his side.They passed so closely that Philpot - who was on that side of the cart - was splashed with mud from the wheels of the trap.
`Them's some of your chaps, ain't they?' remarked Grinder.
`Yes,' replied Rushton.`We're doing a job up this way.'
`I should 'ave thought it would pay you better to use a 'orse for sich work as that,' said Grinder.
`We do use the horses whenever it's necessary for very big loads, you know,' answered Rushton, and added with a laugh: `But the donkeys are quite strong enough for such a job as that.'
The `donkeys' struggled on up the hill for about another hundred yards and then they were forced to halt again.
`We mustn't stop long, you know,' said Harlow.`Most likely he's gone to the job, and he'll wait to see how long it takes us to get there.'
Barrington felt inclined to say that in that case Rushton would have to wait, but he remained silent, for he remembered that although he personally did not care a brass button whether he got the sack or not, the others were not so fortunately circumstanced.
While they were resting, another two-legged donkey passed by pushing another cart - or rather, holding it back, for he was coming slowly down the hill.Another Heir of all the ages - another Imperialist - a degraded, brutalized wretch, clad in filthy, stinking rags, his toes protruding from the rotten broken boots that were tied with bits of string upon his stockingless feet.The ramshackle cart was loaded with empty bottles and putrid rags, heaped loosely in the cart and packed into a large sack.Old coats and trousers, dresses, petticoats, and under-clothing, greasy, mildewed and malodorous.As he crept along with his eyes on the ground, the man gave utterance at intervals to uncouth, inarticulate sounds.
`That's another way of gettin' a livin',' said Sawkins with a laugh as the miserable creature slunk past.
Harlow also laughed, and Barrington regarded them curiously.He thought it strange that they did not seem to realize that they might some day become like this man themselves.
`I've often wondered what they does with all them dirty old rags,'
said Philpot.
`Made into paper,' replied Harlow, briefly.
`Some of them are,' said Barrington, `and some are manufactured into shoddy cloth and made into Sunday clothes for working men.
