|Title||The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists|
Work' for the `working' class! That was their conception of a civilized nation in the twentieth century! For the majority of the people to work like brutes
in order to obtain a `living wage' for themselves and to create luxuries for a small minority of persons who are too lazy to work at all! And although this was all they thought was necessary, they did not know what to do in order to bring even that much to pass! Winter was returning, bringing in its train the usual crop of horrors, and the Liberal and Tory monopolists of wisdom did not know what to do!
Rushton's had so little work in that nearly all the hands expected that they would be slaughtered the next Saturday after the `Beano' and there was one man - Jim Smith he was called - who was not allowed to live even till then: he got the sack before breakfast on the Monday morning after the Beano.
This man was about forty-five years old, but very short for his age, being only a little over five feet in height. The other men used to say that Little Jim was not made right, for while his body was big enough