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The Widow's Son The next morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o'clock Hunter told them that there was nothing to do, but that they had better come on Monday in case some work came in.They accordingly went on the Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday, but as nothing `came in' of course they did not do any work.On Thursday morning the weather was dark and bitterly cold.The sky presented an unbroken expanse of dull grey and a keen north wind swept through the cheerless streets.Owen - who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of the conservatory at Sweater's house the previous week - did not get to the yard until ten o'clock.He felt so ill that he would not have gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be able to earn if there was anything to do.Strange though it may appear to the advocates of thrift, although he had been so fortunate as to be in employment when so many others were idle, they had not saved any money.On the contrary, during all the summer they had not been able to afford to have proper food or clothing.Every week most of the money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even whilst he was at work they had often to go without some of the necessaries of life.They had broken boots, shabby, insufficient clothing, and barely enough to eat.

The weather had become so bitterly cold that, fearing he would be laid up if he went without it any longer, he took his overcoat out of pawn, and that week they had to almost starve.Not that it was much better other weeks, for lately he had only been making six and a half hours a day - from eight-thirty in the morning till four o'clock in the evening, and on Saturday only four and a half hours - from half past eight till one.This made his wages - at sevenpence an hour -twenty-one shillings and sevenpence a week - that is, when there was work to do every day, which was not always.Sometimes they had to stand idle three days out of six.The wages of those who got sixpence halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence - when they worked every day - and as for those who - like Sawkins - received only fivepence, their week's wages amounted to fifteen and sixpence.

When they were only employed for two or three days or perhaps only a few hours, their `Saturday night' sometimes amounted to half a sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less.Then most of them said that it was better than nothing at all.

Many of them were married men, so, in order to make existence possible, their wives went out charing or worked in laundries.They had children whom they had to bring up for the most part on `skim'

milk, bread, margarine, and adulterated tea.Many of these children -little mites of eight or nine years - went to work for two or three hours in the morning before going to school; the same in the evening after school, and all day on Saturday, carrying butchers' trays loaded with meat, baskets of groceries and vegetables, cans of paraffin oil, selling or delivering newspapers, and carrying milk.As soon as they were old enough they got Half Time certificates and directly they were fourteen they left school altogether and went to work all the day.

When they were old enough some of them tried to join the Army or Navy, but were found physically unfit.

It is not much to be wondered at that when they became a little older they were so degenerate intellectually that they imagined that the surest way to obtain better conditions would be to elect gangs of Liberal and Tory land-grabbers, sweaters, swindlers and lawyers to rule over them.

When Owen arrived at the yard he found Bert White cleaning out the dirty pots in the paint-shop.The noise he made with the scraping knife prevented him from hearing Owen's approach and the latter stood watching him for some minutes without speaking.The stone floor of the paint shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a tomb.The boy was trembling with cold and he looked pitifully undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old apron girt about him.Because it was so cold he was wearing his jacket with the ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them clean, or to prevent them getting any dirtier, for they were already in the same condition as the rest of his attire, which was thickly encrusted with dried paint of many colours, and his hands and fingernails were grimed with it.

As he watched the poor boy bending over his task, Owen thought of Frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would ever be in a similar plight.

When he saw Owen, the boy left off working and wished him good morning, remarking that it was very cold.

`Why don't you light a fire? There's lots of wood lying about the yard.'

`No,' said Bert shaking his head.`That would never do! Misery wouldn't 'arf ramp if 'e caught me at it.I used to 'ave a fire 'ere last winter till Rushton found out, and 'e kicked up an orful row and told me to move meself and get some work done and then I wouldn't feel the cold.'

`Oh, he said that, did he?' said Owen, his pale face becoming suddenly suffused with blood.`We'll see about that.'

He went out into the yard and crossing over to where - under a shed -there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of places where Rushton & Co.had made alterations, he gathered an armful of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins accosted him.

`You mustn't go burnin' any of that, you know! That's all got to be saved and took up to the bloke's house.Misery spoke about it only this mornin'.'

Owen did not answer him.He carried the wood into the shop and after throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and, applying a match, produced a roaring fire.Then he brought in several more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop.Bert took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of them because he was afraid there would be trouble when Misery came, but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the benefit of the heat.