The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
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 was married just thirty years ago. Presently, when they reached the top of the hill, he would be able to look across the valley to the spire of the other church, the one in the graveyard, where wife and children, all those who were dear to him, had been laid to rest, one by one. 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 again.
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 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,' 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.
Whilst they were resting another two-legged donkey passed by pushing another cart, or rather, holding it back, for he was going slowly down the hill; another Heir of all the Ages, another Imperialist, a degraded, brutalised 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, old coats and trousers,
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