It would not be reasonable to blame Misery or Rushton for not wishing to do good, honest work - there was no incentive.When they secured a contract, if they had thought first of making the very best possible job of it, they would not have made so much profit.The incentive was not to do the work as well as possible, but to do as little as possible.The incentive was not to make good work, but to make good profit.
The same rule applied to the workers.They could not justly be blamed for not doing good work - there was no incentive.To do good work requires time and pains.Most of them would have liked to take time and pains, because all those who are capable of doing good work find pleasure and happiness in doing it, and have pride in it when done:
but there was no incentive, unless the certainty of getting the sack could be called an incentive, for it was a moral certainty that any man who was caught taking time and pains with his work would be promptly presented with the order of the boot.But there was plenty of incentive to hurry and scamp and slobber and botch.
There was another job at a lodging-house - two rooms to be painted and papered.The landlord paid for the work, but the tenant had the privilege of choosing the paper.She could have any pattern she liked so long as the cost did not exceed one shilling per roll, Rushton's estimate being for paper of that price.Misery sent her several patterns of sixpenny papers, marked at a shilling, to choose from, but she did not fancy any of them, and said that she would come to the shop to make her selection.So Hunter tore round to the shop in a great hurry to get there before her.In his haste to dismount, he fell off his bicycle into the muddy road, and nearly smashed the plate-glass window with the handle-bar of the machine as he placed it against the shop front before going in.
Without waiting to clean the mud off his clothes, he ordered Budd, the pimply-faced shopman, to get out rolls of all the sixpenny papers they had, and then they both set to work and altered the price marked upon them from sixpence to a shilling.Then they got out a number of shilling papers and altered the price marked upon them, changing it from a shilling to one and six.
When the unfortunate woman arrived, Misery was waiting for her with a benign smile upon his long visage.He showed her all the sixpenny ones, but she did not like any of them, so after a while Nimrod suggested that perhaps she would like a paper of a little better quality, and she could pay the trifling difference out of her own pocket.Then he showed her the shilling papers that he had marked up to one and sixpence, and eventually the lady selected one of these and paid the extra sixpence per roll herself, as Nimrod suggested.There were fifteen rolls of paper altogether - seven for one room and eight for the other - so that in addition to the ordinary profit on the sale of the paper - about two hundred and seventy-five per cent.- the firm made seven and sixpence on this transaction.They might have done better out of the job itself if Slyme had not been hanging the paper piece-work, for, the two rooms being of the same pattern, he could easily have managed to do them with fourteen rolls; in fact, that was all he did use, but he cut up and partly destroyed the one that was over so that he could charge for hanging it.
Owen was working there at the same time, for the painting of the rooms was not done before Slyme papered them; the finishing coat was put on after the paper was hung.He noticed Slyme destroying the paper and, guessing the reason, asked him how he could reconcile such conduct as that with his profession of religion.
Slyme replied that the fact that he was a Christian did not imply that he never did anything wrong: if he committed a sin, he was a Christian all the same, and it would be forgiven him for the sake of the Blood.
As for this affair of the paper, it was a matter between himself and God, and Owen had no right to set himself up as a Judge.
In addition to all this work, there were a number of funerals.Crass and Slyme did very well out of it all, working all day white-washing or painting, and sometimes part of the night painting venetian blinds or polishing coffins and taking them home, to say nothing of the lifting in of the corpses and afterwards acting as bearers.
As time went on, the number of small jobs increased, and as the days grew longer the men were allowed to put in a greater number of hours.
Most of the firms had some work, but there was never enough to keep all the men in the town employed at the same time.It worked like this: Every firm had a certain number of men who were regarded as the regular hands.When there was any work to do, they got the preference over strangers or outsiders.When things were busy, outsiders were taken on temporarily.When the work fell off, these casual hands were the first to be `stood still'.If it continued to fall off, the old hands were also stood still in order of seniority, the older hands being preferred to strangers - so long, of course, as they were not old in the sense of being aged or inefficient.
This kind of thing usually continued all through the spring and summer.In good years the men of all trades, carpenters, bricklayers, plasterers, painters and so on, were able to keep almost regularly at work, except in wet weather.
The difference between a good and bad spring and summer is that in good years it is sometimes possible to make a little overtime, and the periods of unemployment are shorter and less frequent than in bad years.It is rare even in good years for one of the casual hands to be employed by one firm for more than one, two or three months without a break.It is usual for them to put in a month with one firm, then a fortnight with another, then perhaps six weeks somewhere else, and often between there are two or three days or even weeks of enforced idleness.This sort of thing goes on all through spring, summer and autumn.