“Well, you know, I don’t want you to start on the job and not be able to finish it. Can you do it or not?”
Rushton felt sure that Owen could do it, and was very desirous that he should undertake it, but he did not want him to know that. He wished to convey the impression that he was almost indifferent whether Owen did the work or not. In fact, he wished to seem to be conferring a favour upon him by procuring him such a nice job as this.
“I’ll tell you what I CAN do,” Owen replied. “I can make you a watercolour sketch—a design—and if you think it good enough, of course, I can reproduce it on the ceiling and the walls, and I can let you know, within a little, how long it will take.”
Rushton appeared to reflect. Owen stood examining the photograph and began to feel an intense desire to do the work.
Rushton shook his head dubiously.
“If I let you spend a lot of time over the sketches and then Mr Sweater does not approve of your design, where do I come in?”
“Well, suppose we put it like this: I’ll draw the design at home in the evenings—in my own time. If it’s accepted, I’ll charge you for the time I’ve spent upon it. If it’s not suitable, I won’t charge the time at all.”
Rushton brightened up considerably. “All right. You can do so,” he said with an affectation of good nature, “but you mustn’t pile it on too thick, in any case, you know, because, as I said before, ’e don’t want to spend too much money on it. In fact, if it’s going to cost a great deal ’e simply won’t ’ave it done at all.”
Rushton knew Owen well enough to be sure that no consideration of time or pains would prevent him from putting the very best that was in him into this work. He knew that if the man did the room at all there was no likelihood of his scamping it for the sake of getting it done quickly; and for that matter Rushton did not wish him to hurry over it. All that he wanted to do was to impress upon Owen from the very first that he must not charge too much time. Any profit that it was possible to make out of the work, Rushton meant to secure for himself. He was a smart man, this Rushton, he possessed the ideal character: the kind of character that is necessary for any man who wishes to succeed in business—to get on in life. In other words, his disposition was very similar to that of a pig—he was intensely selfish.
No one had any right to condemn him for this, because all who live under the present system practise selfishness, more or less. We must be selfish: the System demands it. We must be selfish or we shall be hungry and ragged and finally die in the gutter. The more selfish we are the better off we shall be. In the “Battle of Life” only the selfish and cunning are able to survive: all others are beaten down and trampled under foot. No one can justly be blamed for acting selfishly—it is a matter of self-preservation—we must either injure or be injured. It is the system that deserves to be blamed. What those who wish to perpetuate the system deserve is another question.