“Excellent! How long do you reckon it’ll take you to convert this street, Uncle Hilary?”
“About three years.”
“And how are you going to get the money?”
“Win, wangle and scrounge it. In here there are three girls who serve in ‘Fetter and Poplin’s.’ They’re all out, of course. Neat, isn’t it? See their paper bags?”
“I say, Uncle, would you blame a girl for doing anything to get out of a house like this?”
“No,” said the Reverend Hilary, “I would not, and that’s the truth o’ God.”
“That’s why I love you, Uncle Hilary. You restore my faith in the Church.”
“My dear boy,” said Hilary, “the old Reformation was nothing to what’s been going on in the Church lately. You wait and see! Though I confess a little wholesome Disestablishment would do us all no harm. Come and have lunch, and we’ll talk about my slum conversion scheme. We’ll bring James along.”
“You see,” he resumed, when they were seated in the Vicarage dining-room, “there must be any amount of people who would be glad enough to lay out a small proportion of their wealth at two per cent., with the prospect of a rise to four as time went on, if they were certain that it meant the elimination of the slums. We’ve experimented and we find that we can put slum houses into proper living condition for their existing population at a mere fraction over the old rents, and pay two per cent, on our outlay. If we can do that here, it can be done in all slum centres, by private Slum Conversion Societies such as ours, working on the principle of not displacing the existing slum population. But what’s wanted, of course, is money—a General Slum Conversion fund—Bonds at two per cent., with bonuses, repayable in twenty years, from which the Societies could draw funds as they need them for buying and converting slum property.”
“How will you repay the Bonds in twenty years?”
“Oh! Like the Government—by issuing more.”
“But,” said Michael, “the local Authorities have very wide powers, and much more chance of getting the money.”
Hilary shook his head.
“Wide powers, yes; but they’re slow, Michael—the snail is a fast animal compared with them; besides, they only displace, because the rents they charge are too high. Also it’s not in the English character, my dear. Somehow we don’t like being ‘done for’ by officials, or being answerable to them. There’s lots of room, of course, for slum area treatment by Borough Councils, and they do lots of good work, but by themselves, they’ll never scotch the evil. You want the human touch; you want a sense of humour, and faith; and that’s a matter for private effort in every town where there are slums.”
“And who’s going to start this general fund?” asked Michael, gazing at his aunt’s eyebrows, which had begun to twitch.
“Well,” said Hilary, twinkling, “I thought that might be where you came in. That’s why I asked you down today, in fact.”
“The deuce!” said Michael almost leaping above the Irish stew on his plate.
“Exactly!” said his uncle; “but couldn’t you get together a Committee of both Houses to issue an appeal? From the work we’ve done James can give you exact figures. They could see for themselves what’s happened here. Surely, Michael, there must be ten just men who could be got to move in a matter like this—”
“‘Ten Apostles’,” said Michael, faintly.
“Well, but there’s no real need to bring Christ in-nothing remote or sentimental; you could approach them from any angle. Old Sir Timothy Fanfield, for example, would love to have a ‘go’ at slum landlordism. Then we’ve electrified all the kitchens so far, and mean to go on doing it—so you could get old Shropshire on that. Besides, there’s no need to confine the Committee to the two Houses—Sir Thomas Morsell, or, I should think, any of the big doctors, would come in; you could pinch a brace of bankers with Quaker blood in them; and there are always plenty of retired Governor Generals with their tongues out. Then if you could rope in a member of the Royal Family to head it—the trick would be done.”
“Poor Michael!” said his aunt’s soft voice: “Let him finish his stew, Hilary.”
But Michael had dropped his fork for good; he saw another kind of stew before him.
“The General Slum Conversion Fund,” went on Hilary, “affiliating every Slum Conversion Society in being or to be, so long as it conforms to the principle of not displacing the present inhabitant. Don’t you see what a pull that gives us over the inhabitants? – we start them straight, and we jolly well see that they don’t let their houses down again.”
“But can you?” said Michael.
“Ah! you’ve heard stories of baths being used for coal and vegetables, and all that. Take it from me, they’re exaggerated, Michael. Anyway, that’s where we private workers come in with a big advantage over municipal authorities. They have to drive, we try to lead.”
“Let me hot up your stew, dear?” said his aunt.
Michael refused. He perceived that it would need no hotting up! Another crusade! His Uncle Hilary had always fascinated him with his crusading blood—at the time of the Crusades the name had been Keroual, and, now spelt Charwell, was pronounced Cherwell, in accordance with the sound English custom of worrying foreigners.
“I’m not approaching you, Michael, with the inducement that you should make your name at this, because, after all, you’re a gent!”
“Thank you!” murmured Michael; “always glad of a kind word.”
“No. I’m suggesting that you ought to do something, considering your luck in life.”
“I quite agree,” said Michael, humbly. “The question seems to be: Is this the something?”
“It is, undoubtedly,” said his uncle, waving a salt-spoon on which was engraved the Charwell crest. “What else can it be?”
“Did you never hear of Foggartism, Uncle Hilary?”
“No; what’s that?”
“My aunt!” said Michael.
“Some blanc-mange, dear?”
“Not you, Aunt May! But did you really never hear of it, Uncle Hilary?”
“Foggartism? Is it that fog-abating scheme one reads about?”
“It is not,” said Michael. “Of course, you’re sunk in misery and sin here. Still, it’s almost too thick. YOU’VE heard of it, Aunt May?”
His aunt’s eyebrows became intricate again.
“I think,” she said, “I do remember hearing someone say it was balderdash!”
Michael groaned: “And you, Mr. James?”
“It’s to do with the currency, isn’t it?”
“And here,” said Michael, “we have three intelligent, public-spirited persons, who’ve never heard of Foggartism—and I’ve heard of nothing else for over a year.”
“Well,” said Hilary, “had you heard of my slum-conversion scheme?”
“Certainly not.”
“I think,” said his aunt, “it would be an excellent thing if you’d smoke while I make the coffee. Now I do remember, Michaeclass="underline" Your mother did say to me that she wished you would get over it. I’d forgotten the name. It had to do with taking town-children away from their parents.”
“Partly,” said Michael, with gloom.
“You have to remember, dear, that the poorer people are, the more they cling to their children.”
“Vicarious joy in life,” put in Hilary.
“And the poorer children are, the more they cling to their gutters, as I was telling you.”
Michael buried his hands in his pockets.
“There is no good in me,” he said, stonily. “You’ve pitched on a stumer, Uncle Hilary.”
Both Hilary and his wife got up very quickly, and each put a hand on his shoulder.
“My dear boy!” said his aunt.
“God bless you!” said Hilary: “Have a ‘gasper.’”
“All right,” said Michael, grinning, “it’s wholesome.”
Whether or not it was the “gasper” that was wholesome, he took and lighted it from his uncle’s.