Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches

by George Manville Fenn

I want to talk about “paying your footing;” for there was a paragraph in a paper only a few days ago that brought up a good many old thoughts on old subjects. Now, this paragraph gave an account of a poor chap—at Sheffield, I think—being ill-used by his fellow-workmen for not paying his footing.

Now, I’ll just ask any decent, honest, hard-working man, whether he can imagine anything that comes nearer to dead robbery than making a poor fellow, just took on at any trade, pull out perhaps his last coin to find beer for a pack of thoughtless fellows who don’t want it, and who would be better without it. I’ve opened my mouth on this subject before, but it will bear touching again; for I think it a disgrace to the British workman to keep up such dirty, mean old practices. I’m not preaching total abstinence or anything of the kind; let every man take his own road. I for one love a good glass of ale at proper time and place; but sooner than drink at the expense of a poor, hard-up fellow-worker, I’d drink water to the death.

I’ve seen it all again and again—in busy London, and in the sweet country, where you can draw a hearty breath laden with vigour between every stroke of hammer, or trowel, or brush—and I say that the sooner the custom is kicked out of the workshop the better. If it must be kept up, and men won’t turn it out, why, then, let them put the boot on the other foot, and treat the new comer.

Nice young fellow comes into our shop once, fresh out of the country. Times had been very flat, and he looked terribly seedy. He’d come out of one of your little offices where a man’s printer, and bookbinder, and all; and he was one of your fellows as would take a book, paste end leaves on, and then leather away with a twelve-pound hammer at the beating stone till the impression was all gone, and it was solid as a board, take and nip it in the press, then sew the back, fit up his bands in the sewing frame, and stitch the whole book; end leaves again, and a bit o’ paste in your first section; then glue your back, round him, ravel out your bands, lace on your boards, and then sharpen up the plough-knife, and cut all the edges smooth as glass; sprinkle or marble, red edge or gilt and burnish—what you will; and then, how’s it to be, cloth? Well, then, cut out, and glue on. Half-calf? Cut up your leather, pare and trim your corners and back bit; and then, when the open cartridge paper back is dry, and the head bands firm, pop on your leather, then again your marble paper; paste down the end leaves; nip the book in the plough press, and there you are, ready for gilding the back and lettering to taste; or you may paste down your end leaves when you’ve done.

But that ain’t our way in town; ours is mostly cheap publication work, done in fancy cloth; and a country hand might well feel strange to see gals doing all the folding and stitching; one set of men at the glue-pot, another set trimming edges with a great carving-knife, another set rounding backs, another set cutting millboards, others making the fancy cloth covers, others lettering and gilding with a machine, and so on—division of labour, you know—when there the books are, stacks of them—big stacks too; while if it wasn’t for this scheming and working the oracle the binding would never be done.

Well, this young fellow was working aside me; and he was put on at the trimming—which is the cutting the edges of new books to be bound in cloth; for if they were pressed too hard the ink would set off on to the opposite sides; while this being considered as only the first binding till they get thoroughly dry, only the front and bottom of the book is cut. You do the rest with your paper-knives. Well, we’re paid piecework—fair money, you know—so much a dozen or score, so that a man has what he earns; and with my hands all corny and hard, I was letting go at a good rate, while my poor mate aside me was fresh at that work, and doing precious little good beyond blistering his hands and making his fingers sore; and I could see with half an eye as his bill would only be a small one o’ Saturday.

Now, the rule in most shops in London is, take care of yourself, and let others look out o’ their own side; but I never found myself any the worse off for helping a lame dog over a stile: so I kept on giving my mate a lift in the shape of a word here or there, so that he got on a little better, but very slowly; for a man can’t fall into the knack of it all at once. But he’d a good heart, and that “will do it” sorter stuff that makes men get on in the world and rise above their fellows; and he stuck at it till I saw him tear a strip off his handkerchief and bind it round his chafed finger, so that the blood shouldn’t soil the books; and though he didn’t say much, I could see by his looks as he thanked me.

Towards afternoon, while the foreman was out of the way, one of the men comes up for this new chap’s footing; and being a big shop, where good wages were made, it was five shillings. I didn’t take much notice, for it warn’t my business; but I saw the young fellow colour up and hesitate, and stammer, as he says,—

“You must let me off till wages are paid;” but my gentleman begins to bluster, and he says,—

“That comes o’ working aside Tom Hodson, a scaly humbug as never paid his own footings; but we ain’t a-going to stand any more o’ that sort o’ thing; and if you can’t come the reg’lar, you’ll soon find the place too hot to hold you.”