GINGER. Do you know, Mrs. Chinn, that once upon a time there was only
one sex? (_She spreads herself_.) Hus!
MRS. CHINN. You ain’t thinking of going back to it, are you?
GINGER. Not if the men be’ave themselves.
MRS. CHINN. Perhaps they’re doing their best, poor things! It don’t do
to be too impatient with them.
GINGER. Was talking to old Dot-and-carry-one the other d’y. You know
who I mean—chap with the wooden leg as ’as ’is pitch outside the
“George.” “Wot do you wimmen want worrying yourselves about things
outside the ’ome?” ’e says to me. “You’ve got the children,” ’e says.
“Oh,” I says, “and whose fault’s that, I’d like to know? You wait till
we’ve got the vote,” I says, “we’ll soon show you—”
(SIGSBY _enters_. SIGSBY _is a dapper little man_, _very brisk and
bustling—hirsute—looks as if he wanted dusting_, _cleaning up
generally_.)
SIGSBY. That young blackguard come back yet?
GINGER. (_At sound of_ SIGSBY’S _voice she springs up_. _At first is
about to offer excuses for being found seated_, _but recollects
herself_.)
MRS. CHINN. Which one, sir?
SIGSBY. Young Jawbones—what’s he call himself?—Gordon.
MRS. CHINN. Not yet, sir.
SIGSBY. (_Grunts_.) My chop ready?
MRS. CHINN. I expect it’s about done. I’ll see.
(_She goes out_.)
SIGSBY. (_He turns to_ GINGER.) What can _I_ do for you?
GINGER. (_She produces a letter_.) I was to wait for an answer.
SIGSBY. (_He opens and reads it_.) What do they expect me to do?
GINGER. ’Er ladyship thought as perhaps you would consult Mr. Chilvers
’imself on the subject.
SIGSBY. Look here. What I want to know is this: am I being asked to
regard Lady Mogton as my opponent’s election agent, or as my principal’s
mother-in-law? That point’s got to be settled. (_His vehemence
deepens_.) Look at all these posters. Not to be used, for fear the
other side mayn’t like them. Now Lady Mogton writes me that my
candidate’s supporters are not to employ a certain argument she
disapproves of: because, if they do, she’ll tell his wife. Is this an
election, or is it a family jar?
(JAWBONES _enters_. JAWBONES—_otherwise_ WILLIAM GORDON—_is a
clean-shaven young hooligan_. _He wears a bicycle cap on the back of
his head_, _allowing a picturesque tuft of hair to fall over his
forehead_. _Evidently he is suffering from controlled indignation_.)
SIGSBY. (_Seeing him_.) Oh, so you’ve come back, have you?
JAWBONES. I ’ave, wot’s left of me.
SIGSBY. What have you been doing?
JAWBONES. Clinging to a roof for the last three hours.
SIGSBY. Clinging to a roof! What for?
JAWBONES. (_He boils over_.) Wot for? ’Cos I didn’t want to fall off!
Wot do you think: ’cos I was fond of it?