While the room was in an uproar with the merriment induced by these stories, Crass rose from his seat and crossed over to where his overcoat was hanging on a nail in the wall, and took from the pocket a piece of card about eight inches by about four inches.One side of it was covered with printing, and as he returned to his seat Crass called upon the others to listen while he read it aloud.He said it was one of the best things he had ever seen: it had been given to him by a bloke in the Cricketers the other night.
Crass was not a very good reader, but he was able to read this all right because he had read it so often that he almost knew it by heart.
It was entitled `The Art of Flatulence', and it consisted of a number of rules and definitions.Shouts of laughter greeted the reading of each paragraph, and when he had ended, the piece of dirty card was handed round for the benefit of those who wished to read it for themselves.Several of the men, however, when it was offered to them, refused to take it, and with evident disgust suggested that it should be put into the fire.This view did not commend itself to Crass, who, after the others had finished with it, put it back in the pocket of his coat.
Meanwhile, Bundy stood up to help himself to some more tea.The cup he was drinking from had a large piece broken out of one side and did not hold much, so he usually had to have three or four helpings.
`Anyone else want any' he asked.
Several cups and jars were passed to him.These vessels had been standing on the floor, and the floor was very dirty and covered with dust, so before dipping them into the pail, Bundy - who had been working at the drains all morning - wiped the bottoms of the jars upon his trousers, on the same place where he was in the habit of wiping his hands when he happened to get some dirt on them.He filled the jars so full that as he held them by the rims and passed them to their owners part of the contents slopped over and trickled through his fingers.By the time he had finished the floor was covered with little pools of tea.
`They say that Gord made everything for some useful purpose,' remarked Harlow, reverting to the original subject, `but I should like to know what the hell's the use of sich things as bugs and fleas and the like.'
`To teach people to keep theirselves clean, of course,' said Slyme.
`That's a funny subject, ain't it?' continued Harlow, ignoring Slyme's answer.`They say as all diseases is caused by little insects.If Gord 'adn't made no cancer germs or consumption microbes there wouldn't be no cancer or consumption.'
`That's one of the proofs that there ISN'T an individual God,' said Owen.`If we were to believe that the universe and everything that lives was deliberately designed and created by God, then we must also believe that He made his disease germs you are speaking of for the purpose of torturing His other creatures.'
`You can't tell me a bloody yarn like that,' interposed Crass, roughly.`There's a Ruler over us, mate, and so you're likely to find out.'
`If Gord didn't create the world, 'ow did it come 'ere?' demanded Slyme.
`I know no more about that than you do,' replied Owen.`That is - Iknow nothing.The only difference between us is that you THINK you know.You think you know that God made the universe; how long it took Him to do it; why He made it; how long it's been in existence and how it will finally pass away.You also imagine you know that we shall live after we're dead; where we shall go, and the kind of existence we shall have.In fact, in the excess of your "humility", you think you know all about it.But really you know no more of these things than any other human being does; that is, you know NOTHING.'
`That's only YOUR opinion,' said Slyme.
`If we care to take the trouble to learn,' Owen went on, `we can know a little of how the universe has grown and changed; but of the beginning we know nothing,'
`That's just my opinion, matey,' observed Philpot.`It's just a bloody mystery, and that's all about it.'
`I don't pretend to 'ave no 'ead knowledge,' said Slyme, `but 'ead knowledge won't save a man's soul: it's 'EART knowledge as does that.
I knows in my 'eart as my sins is all hunder the Blood, and it's knowin' that, wot's given 'appiness and the peace which passes all understanding to me ever since I've been a Christian.'
`Glory, glory, hallelujah!' shouted Bundy, and nearly everyone laughed.
`"Christian" is right,' sneered Owen.`You've got some title to call yourself a Christian, haven't you? As for the happiness that passes all understanding, it certainly passes MY understanding how you can be happy when you believe that millions of people are being tortured in Hell; and it also passes my understanding why you are not ashamed of yourself for being happy under such circumstances.'
`Ah, well, you'll find it all out when you come to die, mate,' replied Slyme in a threatening tone.`You'll think and talk different then!'
`That's just wot gets over ME,' observed Harlow.`It don't seem right that after living in misery and poverty all our bloody lives, workin' and slavin' all the hours that Gord A'mighty sends, that we're to be bloody well set fire and burned in 'ell for all eternity! It don't seem feasible to me, you know.'
`It's my belief,' said Philpot, profoundly, `that when you're dead, you're done for.That's the end of you.'
`That's what *I* say,' remarked Easton.`As for all this religious business, it's just a money-making dodge.It's the parson's trade, just the same as painting is ours, only there's no work attached to it and the pay's a bloody sight better than ours is.'
`It's their livin', and a bloody good livin' too, if you ask me,' said Bundy.
`Yes,' said Harlow; `they lives on the fat o' the land, and wears the best of everything, and they does nothing for it but talk a lot of twaddle two or three times a week.The rest of the time they spend cadgin' money orf silly old women who thinks it's a sorter fire insurance.'
