During my first visit there was a perpetual series of--the only word is rows, between them and him.Up to the age of fifteen or thereabouts, he had maintamed his ascendancy over them by simple old-fashioned physical chastisement.Then after an interlude of a year it had dawned upon them that power had mysteriously departed from him.He had tried stopping their pocket money, but they found their mother financially amenable; besides which it was fundamental to my uncle's attitude that he should give them money freely.Not to do so would seem like admitting a difficulty in making it.So that after he had stopped their allowances for the fourth time Sybil and Gertrude were prepared to face beggary without a qualm.It had been his pride to give them the largest allowance of any girls at the school, not even excepting the granddaughter of Fladden the Borax King, and his soul recoiled from this discipline as it had never recoiled from the ruder method of the earlier phase.Both girls had developed to a high pitch in their mutual recriminations a gift for damaging retort, and he found it an altogether deadlier thing than the power of the raised voice that had always cowed my aunt.Whenever he became heated with them, they frowned as if involuntarily, drew in their breath sharply, said: "Daddy, you really must not say --" and corrected his pronunciation.Then, at a great advantage, they resumed the discussion....
My uncle's views about Cambridge, however, were perfectly clear and definite.It was waste of time and money.It was all damned foolery.Did they make a man a better business man? Not a bit of it.He gave instances.It spoilt a man for business by giving him "false ideas." Some men said that at college a man formed useful friendships.What use were friendships to a business man? He might get to know lords, but, as my uncle pointed out, a lord's requirements in his line of faience were little greater than a common man's.If college introduced him to hotel proprietors there might be something in it.Perhaps it helped a man into Parliament, Parliament still being a confused retrogressive corner in the world where lawyers and suchlike sheltered themselves from the onslaughts of common-sense behind a fog of Latin and Greek and twaddle and tosh; but I wasn't the sort to go into Parliament, unless I meant to be a lawyer.Did I mean to be a lawyer? It cost no end of money, and was full of uncertainties, and there were no judges nor great solicitors among my relations."Young chaps think they get on by themselves," said my uncle.It isn't so.Not unless they take their coats off.I took mine off before I was your age by nigh a year."We were at cross purposes from the outset, because I did not think men lived to make money; and I was obtuse to the hints he was throwing out at the possibilities of his own potbank, not willfully obtuse, but just failing to penetrate his meaning.Whatever City Merchants had or had not done for me, Flack, Topham and old Gates had certainly barred my mistaking the profitable production and sale of lavatory basins and bathroom fittings for the highest good.It was only upon reflection that it dawned upon me that the splendid chance for a young fellow with my uncle, "me, having no son of my own," was anything but an illustration for comparison with my own chosen career.
I still remember very distinctly my uncle's talk,--he loved to speak "reet Staffordshire"--his rather flabby face with the mottled complexion that told of crude ill-regulated appetites, his clumsy gestures--he kept emphasising his points by prodding at me with his finger--the ill-worn, costly, grey tweed clothes, the watch chain of plain solid gold, and soft felt hat thrust back from his head.He tackled me first in the garden after lunch, and then tried to raise me to enthusiasm by taking me to his potbank and showing me its organisation, from the dusty grinding mills in which whitened men worked and coughed, through the highly ventilated glazing room in which strangely masked girls looked ashamed of themselves,--"They'll risk death, the fools, to show their faces to a man," said my uncle, quite audibly--to the firing kilns and the glazing kilns, and so round the whole place to the railway siding and the gratifying spectacle of three trucks laden with executed orders.
Then we went up a creaking outside staircase to his little office, and he showed off before me for a while, with one or two subordinates and the telephone.
"None of your Gas," he said, "all this.It's Real every bit of it.
Hard cash and hard glaze."
"Yes," I said, with memories of a carelessly read pamphlet in my mind, and without any satirical intention, "I suppose you MUST use lead in your glazes?"Whereupon I found I had tapped the ruling grievance of my uncle's life.He hated leadless glazes more than he hated anything, except the benevolent people who had organised the agitation for their use.
"Leadless glazes ain't only fit for buns," he said."Let me tell you, my boy--"He began in a voice of bland persuasiveness that presently warmed to anger, to explain the whole matter.I hadn't the rights of the matter at all.Firstly, there was practically no such thing as lead poisoning.Secondly, not everyone was liable to lead poisoning, and it would be quite easy to pick out the susceptible types--as soon as they had it--and put them to other work.Thirdly, the evil effects of lead poisoning were much exaggerated.Fourthly, and this was in a particularly confidential undertone, many of the people liked to get lead poisoning, especially the women, because it caused abortion.I might not believe it, but he knew it for a fact.
Fifthly, the work-people simply would not learn the gravity of the danger, and would eat with unwashed hands, and incur all sorts of risks, so that as my uncle put it: "the fools deserve what they get." Sixthly, he and several associated firms had organised a simple and generous insurance scheme against lead-poisoning risks.
