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Mingled with the crowd were about twenty rough-looking men strangers to the town who wore huge green rosettes and loudly applauded the speakers. They also distributed Sweater literature and cards with lists of the different meetings that were to be held during the election. These men were bullies hired by Sweater's agent.
By way of variety they sang several other things, including: 'We'll hang ole Closeland On a sour apple tree, and 'Rally, Rally, men of Windley For Sweater's sure to win. As they passed the big church in Quality Street, the clock began to strike. It was one of those that strike four chimes at each quarter of the hour. It was now ten o'clock so there were sixteen musical chimes: Ding, dong!
He made a great pretence of deferring to Sweater's opinion, and assured him that he did not care how much trouble he took as long as he Sweater was pleased. In fact, it was no trouble at all: it was a pleasure. As the work neared completion, Crass began to speculate upon the probable amount of the donation he would receive as the reward of nine weeks of cringing, fawning, abject servility.
'I've got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve. 'Oh, that's nothing, sir, cried Philpot, secretly delighted. 'I'll get that orf for yer in no time. You wait just 'arf a mo! He had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and there was a can of turps in the room. Moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint from Sweater's sleeve.
That very morning at breakfast-time, the man on the pail had announced that he had heard on the very best authority that Mr Sweater had sold all his interest in the great business that bore his name and was about to retire into private life, and that he intended to buy up all the house property in the neighbourhood of 'The Cave'. Another individual one of the new hands said that he had heard someone else in a public house say that Rushton was about to marry one of Sweater's daughters, and that Sweater intended to give the couple a house to live in, as a wedding present: but the fact that Rushton was already married and the father of four children, rather knocked the bottom out of this story, so it was regretfully dismissed.
In the foul slum, in the haunt of shame, in the abode of crime and wretchedness, in the places where children are robbed of their birthright before they know what things mean; in the sweater's den, in the heartless side of business competition, in the drink hells, in frivolous pursuits and brainless amusements, in the insolence of wealth, and the sullenness of poverty in every place or thing where despite is done to the Divine Humanity.
It being now what is usually called the festive season possibly because at this period of the year a greater number of people are suffering from hunger and cold than at any other time the reader will not be surprised at being invited to another little party which took place on the day after the one we have just left. The scene was Mr Sweater's office.
Of course, none of those women were COMPELLED to engage in that glorious cause. No one is compelled to accept any particular set of conditions in a free country like this. Mr Trafaim the manager of Sweater's Homework Department always put the matter before them in the plainest, fairest possible way. There was the work: that was the figure! And those who didn't like it could leave it.
What wrong of his had not been, in some phase or other, a wrong of theirs? How many of them had lost children well beloved, had known starvation and the sweater's block? Such sympathy as they had to give was rather the cold systematical pity of their order which ever made the individual's cause its own. This unknown Maxim Gogol, if he were indeed in London so much the worse for him.
After a few minutes the names were again slid into view, this time with Sweater's name on top, and the figures appeared immediately afterwards: Sweater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,221 D'Encloseland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,200 It was several seconds before the Liberals could believe their eyes; it was too good to be true.
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