“On the knee, dog !”
A painter of Paddington, having been credited under the unemployment section of the Insurance Act with twenty five weeks contributions, and being entitled to five weeks out-of-work benefit, gave particulars of claim at the Labour Exchange, and commenced to sign the unemployed book at his approved society branch on Jan. 8. Three weeks passed with no pay, nor was it possible to glean any satisfactory explanation. It now occurred to him that on his calling at the Exchange to sign the claim sheet on Jan.7th, it could not be found, and this, in conjunction with the fact that he had been summoned to the Exchange to identify his signature from that of an individual bearing the same name but spelt differently, induced him to conclude that he had been the victim of some bungling official incapacity. He therefore resolved to write to the Central Office of Labour Exchanges, and although this had the effect of a speedy settlement, it was not until after a whole month of troublesome delay that the first payment was made.
Anyone unacquainted with the cold-blooded indifference of a capitalist government, Liberal, Tory, or alleged Labour, toward any member of the working class who dares assert the slightest claim to be treated in any way distinct from a mere beast of burden, would have thought that with the settlement of this man’s claim after so long a delay through no fault of his, some sort of an explanation or apology would have been forthcoming. This luckless painter, however, soon discovered that something very different was in store for him.
Some time after this the painter called at the Exchange for his card, wishing to transfer it to another office. He was told his card would not be given him unless he sacrificed a day’s unemployed pay. It was pointed out to the individual in charge that the Vacant Book had been signed at 9.40 that morning, that it was then 4 in the afternoon, and that the time for men in the trade to cease work was 6 in the evening. It was all to no purpose—the book was refused. It was even contended, upon the request to have the book transferred being proffered, that a workman had no right to transfer his book to another Exchange. When it was pointed out that the man’s next employer would, upon the termination of his service, hand him the book, when he could lodge it where he pleased, the flimsiness of the official’s contention became apparent.
This bumptious specimen of clerical fungus could contain himself no longer. He burst into a torrent of angry words, accusing the painter of being the author of a letter to the Central Office, and threatening what he would do if the workman dared to repeat to his face what he had stated therein. He wanted to meet him outside, and promised to put paid to his account.
It was evident from what passed that the snobs at the Central Office had handed the contents of the letter to the black-coated hooligan in the employ of this liberty-loving, poor man’s government, and as he is in a position to send a form of interrogation to every workman’s last employer, it is easy to foresee other unpleasant developments.
The painter in question is a man a lot over 50, and the typical bully of capitalism a young man of 25, so his bombastic display of courage is easily explained.
But here lies the lesson for working men. When your affairs, or the affairs your masters, with the aid of their hacks, the Labour men, have imposed upon you, are mismanaged and bungled by a set of incapables pitch-forked into office with no other qualification than that of influence, don’t dare to complain. Bear it all with the meekness of spirit so becoming to the working man. Bow down your faces to the dust and lick the boots of your masters’ hirelings, or you shall be handed over to the bullies, to be dealt with as they deal with troublesome opponents at election times, and it shall be even worse for you.
But if you are thoughtful men your place is in the Socialist Party, marching on side by side with your working comrades, beneath that beacon light of Labour, the red banner of Socialism.
F. G. T.