There was, of course (and indeed there never had
been), anyone remotely involved with the company whose name had been Mr Grabbe.
Old Snatch had just liked the sound of it and thought that it gave a far better
impression to any potential clients if they were to believe that there was more
than one hand on the tiller to temper the excesses and possible whims of the
other.
He did little, in fact, to dissuade them that this was
the case, making vague references, if pushed, to nonexistent offices abroad,
and business ventures taking place in the colonies and former colonies,
depending upon both his mood and the latest musings of the financial columnists
in the daily newspapers.
However, if we were to try and peel away at the many
layers of his subterfuge we would eventually discover that he was indeed the
sole proprietor of this venture and its many offshoots and enterprises and
that, in many ways, this bitter, lonely little man had been the salvation of many households by employing
breadwinners who might have otherwise been left to starve or serve in the poor-houses or be solely dependant upon the goodwill of the parish.
But before we laud this paragon of the community too
highly, we ought to recall that there are ways and means to justify ends, and
sometimes it is not the fact that you are there to provide employment, but the
manner in which you go about your handing of those in your employ which is how
you are regarded by your fellow man, and Old Mr Snatch was not the kindest or
most generous of employers by any stretch of our already incredulous
imaginings.
High up on the very top floor of the huge factory that
was the burning heart of the Snatch & Grabbe Company, one solitary window
burned late at night by the light of one solitary and rather feeble oil lamp. A
lonely figure could just be made out, hunched over his ledgers, but he might
not, at that exact moment, have seemed all that familiar to his many employees,
as he was in relatively rather high spirits, and his usually rather stern face
was looking slightly more relaxed than was usual, as he was going about the
business of what he enjoyed doing most.
This was, of course, and in the tradition of old
misers everywhere, where Mr Snatch could be found in what essentially was his
Counting House, counting out his ill-gotten gains late into the evening, and
calculating his profit after having been forced to part with a pittance in
wages for each of his ungrateful workforce, whom he very probably considered
ought to be paying him for the privilege of working for such a progressive and
forward-thinking employer such as he considered himself to be.
Did he not give them shelter and warmth throughout the
twelve long hours of their working day? Were they not allowed the very luxury
of the ten minute “tea-break” that his gang-masters had insisted upon after one
or two of the more feeble ones had fainted at their machinery and cost
significant amounts of production to be lost?
Did he not also provide them with the usual unsavoury
amenities with which to deal with the many “calls of nature” and various other
ablutions which seemed to crop up with alarming regularity when the so-called
“workers” were supposed to be working? Was there also not a highly costly
refectory where those very employees could plough their not-so-hard-earned back
into the factory coffers and buy themselves nourishing gruel and some bread at
very reasonable rates which were only ever-so slightly above what they might be
expected to pay beyond the gates if he were to allow them to venture abroad?
He paused over his calculations, the nib of his pen
paused in mid-air, when he remembered that it was also the season of the year
when he was expected to supplement the lavish and decadent lifestyle of this
gang of reprobates, which he was unfortunate enough to have to deal with, by
being expected to pay them for days upon which they did not actually work.
He sighed and glanced out of his window, just in time
to see a ragged looking figure dart into the shadows, having just failed to
have the decency to allow himself to be run down by the coach and four which
had just departed to make the last delivery run of the day.
His face set itself into its more familiar grim
countenance and he sighed another deep sigh before ringing the little bell
which would summon his factory manager to his presence to be informed that
there was an interloper trespassing within the grounds.
Poor Mr Snipe was never allowed to leave the factory
whilst Mr Snatch was still working, and he had to remain in his office, poised
and ready to leap into action, should that hated little bell ring for any
reason whatsoever, and at whatever time it might occur.
And so it was that he wearily rose once again to
respond to another summons and found himself once more in Mr Snatch’s office
waiting to receive another set of instructions of the kind that had made him a
less than welcome neighbour on the rare occasions that he got home in order to
spend some time with his family, and which found him shunned and ignored by his
colleagues and contemporaries whenever he felt the urge for a swift drowning of
his sorrows after he had escaped the confines of the factory, something,
incidentally, which he was finding the need to do with increasing regularity of
late.
It would be a terrible cliché (and not a little
derivative) to put the words “release the hounds” into the mouth of Mr Snatch
at this point, especially if only to make the most of an opportunity for
another of our daily cliffhangers, but, seeing as that is pretty much what he
did whilst innocently seeming to be asking Mr Snipe whether or not the guard
dogs had been let loose yet, we might as well accept that he did at least say
those very words, or something very similar, and Mr Snipe went off to do his bidding.
Meanwhile, Old Mr Snatch stood up briefly to look out
of the window and see if he could catch any movement in the shadows before
sitting down again and returning to his beloved columns of figures, whilst
listening out for the satisfied howls of those not-so-distant hounds as they
regained their freedom for another night.
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