_A small room on the first floor, awkwardly overcrowded with the entire
furniture of a cottage, a pile of which is stacked in the left corner
and covered with a sheet; the plain iron bed is right, the window coming
between its foot and the pile of furniture; table centre; three plain
upright chairs and one wicker armchair before the fire; fireplace left;
opposite it right a kitchen dresser well stocked with crockery; pans and
kettle about the fireplace. For all the uncomfortable crowding the
room is bright and well kept. Door right. It is 7 p.m. on a September
evening, and the approach of dusk is noticed gradually._
_Jim Pilling, a gardener, has finished tea and sits in his shirt-sleeves
before the débris of the meal facing spectator lighting a briar pipe.
Jim is thirty, clean looking, dressed in his rough working clothes
without coat or his combined collar and "dicky" and red tie, which hangs
with the coat behind the door. Sally Pilling is transferring the last
of the table utensils to a tray which she puts on the bed; then removing
the white cloth and shaking crumbs into the fire; a red cloth is
underneath. Sally is of the pale complexion usual to a country girl
living in a town; she dresses neatly and has an apron on; Dick, a thin
boy of eight, in a blue sailor suit, gets off his chair at the table._
[Illustration: 0091]
Dick. Can I go out and play now, mother?
(_Jim rises and crosses l. with chair._)
Sally. Yes. (_She crosses to door and takes down from a hook his sailor
hat._) Here's your hat. (_Dick comes to her; she secures it on his head
with an elastic band._) Don't go far from the door, Dick. I'll shout you
when it's bedtime.
Jim. And don't get playing in the road--keep on the footpath.
Dick. Yes, dad. (_He runs out as Sally opens: the door._)
Sally. Don't get run over now.
Jim. The young _'_un misses the country. (_Sits in armchair above
fire._)
Sally (_closing door_). We all do that, Jim.
Jim. Aye. Streets are no sort of playground for a growing child. Did you
get out while he was at school this afternoon?
Sally (_gathering up tea-things_). Oh, yes. There's not the cleaning to
do in a single room to keep me in it all day.
Jim. No; better for you to get out a bit.
Sally (_dully_). It's no pleasure walking in the streets.
Jim. Not when there's shops to look at?
Sally. You can get tired of shops. (_Tea-things on tray._)
Jim. You're no true woman.
Sally. I'm no town's woman. (_Crosses to Jim._) I miss the flowers and
the green. I'm pining for the country, Jim.
Jim. And I'm same way, only I do get the smell of the earth in Mr.
Vining's garden and it's not so bad for me.
Sally (_wistfully standing above his chair_). I'd dearly love to see
that garden, Jim.
Jim. I know you would; but they're that strict about the Polygon. No
getting in unless you've business.
Sally. It does seem hard when there's not a park nor so much as a blade
of grass in the whole blessed town except the Polygon. (_Puts tray on
bed._)
Jim. The old days were the best, Sally, on the estate where we were
born.
Sally. We didn't know it, either, till Sir Charles began to sack his
men.
Jim. No; many a time I've grumbled at the work there and the pay. It's a
judgment on me.
Sally. You weren't sacked for grumbling. (_Shaking cloth in fire._)
Jim (_bitterly_). No. I was sacked because Sir Charles lost so much
money on the turf he couldn't keep six gardeners any longer--and me the
one to go because we'd only our Dick and t'others had more childer.
Sally (_mildly surprised at his tone_). Gentlemen will have their sport,
Jim. It might be worse. You dropped lucky into a job. (_Folds cloth and
puts in dresser drawer._)
Jim. Aye, the job's all right, and Mr. Vining's a good gentleman to work
for--pay's better than the country an' all, though I can't get stuff
to thrive in Mr. Vining's garden as I'd wish. (_Rises._) Town air kills
'em. Yes, we'd do all right, Sally, if (_looking round as if caged_)--if
there was room to live. That's what we want--room to live. We've
our sticks for a proper house eating their heads off in yon corner
(_indicating the pile_), and I've wages enough to pay rent for a house
and no one 'ull take it from me. There's not a house to let in all
Carrington, nor like to be but what there's plenty waiting for it before
our turn come, and we've waited three years now.
Sally (_consoling him_). Never mind, Jim. We've got our privacy. We've a
room to ourselves.
(_She crosses to cupboard, gets work out and puts on table._)
Jim (_hotly_). A room! One room! (_Cooling._) Aye, but you're right.
Let's be thankful for small mercies. (_Sits._) I mind it looked like we
shouldn't even find a room when we came seeking. But it's hard to live
decent in here, and it's harder on Dick than us. Eat and sleep an all in
one room's not a Christian way of life.
(_A knock at the door. Sally opens it. Walter Montgomery stands
without. He is a curate, twenty-eight years old, athletic in build,
clean-shaven, with a bright manner and a strong jaw._)
Walter. May I come in? Good evening, Mrs. Pilling.
Sally. Surely, sir.
(_Enter Walter. Sally closes the door, adroitly taking her apron off as
she does so and hanging it up. Jim makes for his coat._)
Walter. Good evening, Mr. Pilling. (_Seeing his objective._) You're all
right as you are.
Jim. Shirt-sleeves don't seem respectful, sir. Walter (_genially_)..
Rubbish. It's a pity if you can't be cool in your own room.
Jim (_apologetically_). The fire does make it hot in here.
Sally. And we must have a fire to boil the kettle, sir.
(_Walter looks at the closed window, but, having experience, makes no
suggestion. Jim knocks his pipe out on the fire-bar._)
Walter (_seeing him, but too late to stop him_). Oh, don't do
that--here, try a pipe of mine. (_Delving in his coat tails for pouch
and offering it._)
Jim (_shyly_). Well, sir----
Walter. Go on, man. (_Jim accepts and fills his pouch; Sally dusts a
chair with the corner of the table cloth._) Now you know that chair
didn't need dusting, Mrs. Pilling. (_He sits._) Well, how's the garden,
Mr. Pilling?
Jim. Oh, nicely, sir, nicely.
Walter. Yes. So I thought when I had a look at it over the hedge.
(_Turning to Sally._) I live next door to Mr. Vining, you know, Mrs.
Pilling.
Sally. Oh, but he can't get the garden to suit him, sir. (_Sits R. of
table._)
Walter. Oh! How's that?
Jim. Thanks. (_Returning pouch. Walter fills a pipe and lights up._)
This air's ruination to a garden, sir.
Walter. You put up a jolly good fight against it, then. My father's
garden looks pretty mean compared with yours.
Jim (_shyly_). Well, sir, you see, your father will try and look after
his himself.
Walter. Yes. He's awfully attached to his garden.
Jim (_with a touch of patronage_). And he doesn't do it badly--for an
amateur, as you might say, but--well, he makes mistakes.
Sally (_protestingly_). Jim!
Walter. Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Pilling. Dick keeping well?
Sally (_formally_). Oh, yes, thank you, sir.
Walter. I saw him outside as I came in. I fancied the little chap looked
pale.
Jim (_gravely_). He does look pale.
Walter. Anything the matter?
Jim. No, sir, no... only this.
Walter (_vaguely_). This?
Jim. This room--living in one room and nothing but streets to run about
in.
Sally. You can't keep a child inside, sir. 'Tisn't natural. The streets
if it's fine and the stairs when it's wet out.
Walter. None too safe, Mrs. Pilling, either of 'em.
Sally. But what are you to do?
Walter (_hopelessly_). Nothing, I suppose.
Jim. Folks can't thrive cramped up the way we are. If garden stuff won't
go in the air, it can't be good for humans.
(_A knock at the door. Without waiting for Sally, who starts towards
door, Stephen Verity enters. He is fifty, iron grey, with a good deal of
iron in his composition, though just now concerned more with the velvet
glove than the mailed fist. A selfmade man, he is cynical, domineering,
dryly humorous at times, an ugly customer if crossed, with a strong jaw
and tightly closed lips. Dressed in morning coat and grey trousers with
very square toed boots, turned down collar, black tie. His coat is good
solid broadcloth, but the cut is palpably local._)
Stephen (_off_). Are ye in, Pilling? (_He enters and sees Walter.
Sally and Walter rise--grimacing at Walter._) Oh! (_He stops short in
doorway._)
Jim (_with deference nicely regulated some degrees lower than that he
showed Walter_). Come in, Mr. Verity.
Walter (_holding out hand_). How do you do, Mr. Verity?
Ste. (_shaking hands and speaking with laboured politeness_). How do you
do, Mr. Montgomery? (_Dropping his hand--sneeringly._)
[_He appropriates the wicker chair. Walter sits edgeways on the table._
I didn't expect to find you here. What are you doing? Looking after
their souls?
Walter (_pleasantly_). I dropped in for a chat and a smoke, before going
on to keep my appointment at your house. What are you doing? (_Sits l.
of table._)
Ste. I'm looking after their bodies, only some of them won't see it.
Pilling's a tough nut to crack.
Walter. Not gathered him in yet?
Ste. No, but I shall. He's one of your flock. It takes time to get hold
of these fellows who come in from the country, (_spitefully_) where
the squire and the parson spell omnipotence. He'll change his tune yet,
though.
Jim (_shaking his head_). I'm not the changing sort.
Ste. (_confidently_). You will be. A year or two more of this room and
you'll be ripe for anything.
Sally (_lifting the tray_). We're ripe now for a change from this.
Ste. Don't go, Mrs. Pilling.
Sally. I can get my turn at the sink for washing up now.
Ste. That can wait. I want to ask you something.
Sally (_replacing the tray_). Yes, sir? (_Sits r. of table._)
Ste. (_after brief pause_). Well, now, Mrs. Pilling, what would you say
we need most in Carrington?
Sally (_promptly_). Fresh air.
Ste. You've hit the nail on the head. Trust a woman to be sensible when
health's at stake. I've a piece of news for you. There's talk of getting
a recreation ground for Carrington.
Walter (_interested--sincerely_). Indeed! I hadn't heard. It's a most
interesting thing.
Jim. And about time too. (_Sits below fire._)
Ste. (_sentimentalizing_). Yes, you'll be able to take Mrs. Pilling
down for a stroll on a summer's evening or a Sunday afternoon and watch
little Dick play about on the soft grass breathing the fresh air and
fancying yourselves back in the country again. No need to have Dick
running about in the streets then.
Jim (_curtly_). When?
Ste. Well, nothing's settled yet, of course. I'm bringing it up at the
next Council meeting and I've a backing on both sides. Alderman Verity's
a power in Carrington, I don't mind telling you.
Jim. I don't know about your power, sir. What I'm wondering is how it
'ull strike my boss.
Walter. It sounds excellent.
Jim (_suspiciously_). And where might your land be, Mr. Verity?
Ste. Ah, that's a secret yet.
Jim. Um. Recreation ground two mile away's no use to my lad and you'll
not find land nearer.
Ste. It'll not be five minutes from your door.
(_Walter turns interestedly from one to the other._)
Jim. Then you'll have to burrow for it or hang it in the air.
Ste. No, we shan't. The land we have in view's built on at present.
Jim. Lots of good that 'ull do--turning people out of house and home to
make a playing field, when houses are so scarce an' all.
Walter. Yes. To my mind it's more housing accommodation that's most
urgent here, Mr. Verity.
Ste. We'll get neither without we're helped. There'll be a lot of
opposition.
Walter. Surely not.
Ste. Oh, yes, there will. We Progressives can't carry anything in the
Council unless there's a big force of public opinion at our backs.
Walter (_confidently_). You won't lack that if you've a practicable
plan.
Ste. (_hotly_). Practicable! Nothing ever is practicable to some folk
that means spending public money and putting up the rates. They're too
shortsighted to see that a healthy town pays best in the end.
Walter (_reasonably_). Still, such things as rates have to be
considered, I suppose.
Ste. (_hotly_). Oh, yes. Consider the purses of the ratepayers and
consider the health of the people and the danger of little children
playing in the street and ask your religion which consideration weighs
heaviest.
Walter (_a little warmly_). Really, Mr. Verity, I needn't consult my
religion. My common sense is sufficient to put me on your side--if you
really are right in believing there can be two sides to such a question.
Ste. Don't you make any doubt about that. There'll be two sides right
enough.
Walter. Well, can _I_ do anything? Will you accept my help?
Ste. Yes, yours--and yours, Pilling, and every man's who'll say a word
for us.
(_A motor horn heard violently below the window--a few masculine curses
and feminine shrieks--which Sally echoes as she leaps to window and puts
it up._)
Sally. Dick's in the street. (_She flies across from window and out at
door._)
Ste. (_with the air of a conjuror_). There you are! Street accident.
(_Jim follows Sally, but is met at the door by a very irate taxi-cabman
carrying Dick in one hand and by the slack of his trousers, followed by
Sally. The Chauffeur is a Cockney, about thirty, clean shaven, with the
usual oily pallid complexion--dark--with black leather leggings and a
bottle green great-coat with red facings. His number is on an enamelled
plate, which is reversed._)
Jim (_with more threat than anxiety_). Have you hurt him?
Chauffeur. 'Urt? Nah. Aw'm a hexpert droiver, aw am.
(_He puts Dick on his feet. Dick seeks refuge behind his mother s skirts
and pulls at them with one hand, curiously watching the Chauffeur all
the time. Pilling takes jug from washstand r. and exit for water._)
Pulled up in foive yard. Bet it ain't no bloomin' fault of 'is 'es not
'urt.
Sally (_threateningly_). If you'd killed my boy I'd have----
Chauff. (_interrupting_). Cheese it, missus. 'E's only froightened.
Dick. I'm not hurt, mother.
Chauff. No, bet yer would be if yer got what yer bloomin' well arsked
for. Yer came as near to it as bone is to flesh.
(_Sally sits on stool r, with Dick, examining his bruised knee._)
Ste. (_stepping forward pompously_). Now then, my man----
Chauff. Aw'm not yer man. (_To Sally._) Nah aw' give yer warning,
missus, to look after 'im.
(_Jim returns with water, which he puts by Sally r. She washes the
knee._).
Walter (_quietly_). Isn't it your business to look after the safety of
pedestrians?
Chauff. (_acknowledging the Church by a quieter reply_). What roight 'ad
'e to-be in the middle of the rowd? Ain't the poivement woide enough for
'im to ply 'opscotch? (_He addresses Walter._)
Jim (_r_). Look here, that's my kid, and if you've anything to say you
can say it to me.
Chauff. Aw've this to sy. Yer tell 'im to keep to the poivements. 'E
moight 'ave bin in 'eaven nah if aw wasn't a hexpert droiver. There's
more kids to the square foot in this tahn than any place aw've struck.
People moike a fair 'obby of it.
Ste. (_importantly_). You'd better be careful what you say. You don't
know who you're talking to.
Chauff. (_with infinite scorn_). Fat lot aw care. Yer nothing but a
crowd of dead-aloive provincials. Don't suppose yer ever saw a taxi-keb
till me and my mate come dahn from London. A 'ackney keb is news to yer
in these parts. (_Up to Stephen._)
Ste. (_boiling over_). I'm an alderman of this town and if you don't
talk to me respectfully I'll have your license cancelled. You're not fit
to have one.
Chauff. Ho! Blimey, not fit to 'ave a license, ain't aw? Aw've druv a
dook in my keb. And yer a tahn councillor, are yer? Yus. Yer bloomin'
well look it and aw can't say wuss than that.
Ste. I'll pay you out for this. I'll report you to your employer.
Chauff. (_indignantly_). Employer be blowed. Aw'm my own boss. Bought
my keb, aw did. Thet's enterprise. Don't know what enterprise means dahn
here, do yer?
Ste, What's your number? I'll report you to the police. (_Goes to window
and looks out._)
Chauff. Yus, yer do. Aw'll tell yer where 'e is. On the 'Igh Street with
a stopwatch in his fat hand, trying to cop me exceedin' the limit, and
aw've never druv above ten moile for fear of the kids.
(_Jim goes up to door._)
Ste. I demand to know your number.
Chauff. (_making sure that it is reversed_). Never you moind my number.
My name's Walker. Fair fed up with this tahn, aw am. Aw'm used to
drivin' gentlemen. Aw druv a bally commercial abart all yesterday and
the blighter tipped me tuppence.
(_Jim indicates door._)
Yes. Aw'm going. My keb 'ull carry me to London now (_moves a bit
towards door_), and yer rowds reek of kids. Aw've killed none yet and
aw don't want to. Aw reckon 'oss kebs are good enough for Carrington.
P'raps they train 'em to step loightly on the kids or else they're
funeral 'osses in their spare toime and never learn to go faster.
Ste. (_almost frenzied_). You... insolent... Cockney... cad.
Chauff. (_crossing back to Stephen_). Foine language from a tahn
alderman with the Church lookin' on an' all. Aw am among the nobs. Abart
toime aw cleared when a tahn 'as a bally hobject the loikes of you for
an alderman. Aw wouldn't be seen droiv-ing yer not for a quid a moile
and disinfectin' free.
(_Stephen looks pugnacious. Walter steps between them._)
Walter. If you're going to London, Mr. Walker--I think you said
Walker--hadn't you better go?
Chauff. (_at door_). Yus, and aw'll droive quick for once through
Carrington and charnce it. The kids 'ad better look aloive. (_Looking
back at Stephen._) Aw'll tell 'em when aw droive into the old garage
in the Westminster Rowd abaht meetin' a real loive alderman. They'll be
sending rand from Fleet Street to interview me abaht it.
(_Exit Chauffeur, leaving door open._)
Jim (_closing door--to Walter_). I'm sorry you've been spoken to like
that in my room, sir. Civil tongues don't cost nothing.
Walter (_smiling_). That's a type of modern progress. The new man, Mr.
Pilling.
Jim. Then I'd as lief have the old.
Ste. That's where you're wrong, Jim Pilling. This fellow's up-to-date.
He'd never be content to let his children play in the streets. He'd----
Jim. No. He'd drive over them.
Dick (_who's been clutching Sally's skirts, staring_). Boo hoo!
(_Sally bends down._)
Ste. (_all ostentatious sympathy_). What's to do?
Dick. My knee's hurting. (_Holding it up._) I falled on it.
Sally (_examining it_). It's only bruised.
Jim (_looking at the knee_). Got any plaster?
Sally. I think so. (_Opens drawer in the dresser and searches._) I ought
to have.
Jim (_watches her_). What's that?
Sally. That's no good. Corn plaster. There's Beecher's Pills and Wood's
Sarsaperilla and every mortal thing except the one you want.
Walter (_reprovingly_). Patent medicines, Mrs. Pilling. (_Back to
fire._)
(_Dick on stool, watching Sally._)
Sally (_justifying herself_). They've all got the Government stamp, sir.
Ste. (_who has taken out a pocket hook, eyeing Dick with what he thinks
is benevolence_). I generally have some plaster in my pocket. (_But he
looks in vain._) No, none there. Sorry, Mrs. Pilling.
Sally. I'd better take him to the chemist's. (_She gets a purse from the
dresser._)
Dick. Don't want no chemists. Want my supper.
Sally. You'll have your supper when we get back. Come and see the man
who lives behind the big red bottles.
(_Dick consents to go. Exeunt Sally and Dick._)
Ste. (_triumphantly_). Anybody got anything to say against a recreation
ground _now_.
Walter. Neither of us ever had, I hope.
Ste. You'd a lot to say about the rates.
Jim. And I didn't see the use of pulling houses down to make room where
houses are scarce.
Ste. We shan't pull down many.
Jim. It'll be a small ground then. (_Sits R. of table._)
Ste. (_with quiet triumph_). About ten acres.
Jim. You'll have to pull down streets on streets to find ten acres.
Ste. We shall pull down just five houses. (_Sits L. of table._) No more
and no less.
Jim. Five houses!
Walter (_startled_). Five, Mr. Verity?
Ste. (_with bluster_). Yes. Five houses, I said.
Walter (_puzzled_). Then you must be thinking of--oh, but that's
ridiculous.
Ste. And why is it ridiculous, Mr. Montgomery?
Walter. The Polygon's the only place that applies to.
Ste. Well, why shouldn't I be thinking of the Polygon?
Walter. Are you?
Ste. Yes..
Walter. But the Polygon is----
Ste. (_interrupting_). I'll tell you what the Polygon, is.
Walter (_quietly_). It's my home, Mr. Verity.
Ste. (_with gusto_). Yes, it's the home of the leisured and privileged
class of Carrington. It's five big houses with a kind of a square of
tennis lawn in the middle of them and a great big garden behind each.
It's the only apology for a breathing space we have and it's bang in the
middle of the town. You've got great gates to it marked "private" and a
lodge keeper to watch 'em and see none of the common herd get in to soil
your sacred air by breathing it in their vulgar lungs. It's a shame
and a scandal for the land to be wasted on you and it's not going to be
wasted much longer.
Walter (_without passion_). To the people who live there, it's-----
Ste. (_interrupting_). They're about twenty all told. Who are they
to get in the way of the thousands that live crowded up like rabbits
outside?
Walter. They happen to be able to afford it, Mr. Verity.
Ste. (_sarcastically_). Yes. They're well-to-do, so they've the right to
monopolize the air.
Walter (_mildly_). Yes, yes. But you do put things so violently.
Ste. (_glancing at Jim for approval_). I feel 'em violently.
Walter (_half apologetically_). You must remember this is quite a new
idea to me, and for the moment it seems iconoclastic, if you don't mind
my saying so.
Ste. (_sneering_). Yes. Like all your class, you don't like new ideas.
I'll say nothing about your Church, though that don't like new things
either.
(_Jim rises._)
Walter. If you'll only give me a moment to think, Mr. Verity.... I'm
trying my best to see the matter from your standpoint. Meantime, I don't
know that you'll improve things by fulminating against the Church.
Ste. (_blustering_). I shan't do myself any good by truckling to it,
either. The Church was here before I was. It was here when Carrington
was a little village and it's stood by and let the place grow into one
huge slum. If we waited for the Church to give us a lead, we'd wait for
all eternity.
Walter (_smiling_). But you're not addressing the Church, you know.
You're addressing a young and humble member of it.
Ste. You're all tarred with the same brush.
Walter. Not so black as our cloth, I hope. Some of us younger men try to
be social reformers.
Ste. Yes. It's all very pretty and romantic, but when it comes to
anything that touches you personally like this does you're as bad as the
greediest tithe grabbing pluralist that ever robbed a starving farmer of
his----
Jim (_touching Stephen's arm_). Mr. Verity, I'm a man that's slow to
anger. But I've this to tell you. Mr. Montgomery's a clergyman and
you're saying things to him that aren't proper to be said and that I'll
hot have said in my room. (_Shrewdly._) And you're not going the right
way to get my vote for your recreation ground either. .
Ste. (_alarmed_). I apologize, Pilling. (_Rises._)
Jim (_satisfied_). Ah!
Ste. (_earnestly_). It's the wrongs of your class. I think of others,
Pilling. I see what the motorman saw--streets crowded with little
children, growing up in the gutter, playing in the dust--I can't help
it. My tongue runs away with me when I think of it all.
Walter. Say no more, Mr. Verity. You're probably right about the
Polygon. I dare say we are out of place there, but you couldn't expect
me to take your view the moment it's sprung on me.
Ste. (_nodding_). I've a way of calling a spade a spade.
(_A knock at the door. Jim opens it. A Man advances a foot into the
room. Behind him is dimly seen a woman, both poorly dressed. The Man has
a bundle tied up into a blue quilt on his shoulder; his voice is tired
and hopeless._)
Man. Have you got any floor space to let in this room, mate?
Jim. No. (_Trying to close the door. The Man's foot keeps it open._)
Man. Don't shut the door in our face. I've got the money to pay for it.
I'll give you a week's rent now.
Jim. It's no use. I'm not letting.
Man (_pleading_). I'm in work, mate. Start at Bamford's factory o'
Monday. A corner's all as we want.
Jim. I tell you I've none to let.
Man. Don't be so hard on a fellow. I can't get in nowhere.
Jim. You'll not get in here.
Man (_turning dejectedly_). Lodging-houses full up and getting late an'
all. We've been looking all day.
Jim (_closes the door_). Get three or four of them a week. They find
room somewhere in the end.
Walter. What did he want? Floor space?
(_Stephen crosses l._)
Jim. Aye. Lots of rooms about here with two or three families in 'em.
Some one 'ull take them in if they look long enough.
Walter. I know. It's appalling.
Ste. And ten acres in the Polygon with only five houses on 'em. (_Sits
in armchair._)
Walter. All the more reason to build houses there and not waste it in
playing fields.
Ste. Ah! So it is wasted now?
Walter. Yes. It's wasted now. I'm going to do my best to help you.
(_Back to fire standing._)
Ste. That's good news, any way.
Walter. Don't count on me for much. But what I can do I will. I'm afraid
I must go now. I've a call to make before I'm due at your house.
Ste. Right. See you later.
Walter (_to Jim_). Say good-night to Mrs. Pilling for me. (_Crossing
R._)
(_Jim opens the door as Walter goes out._)
Good-night.
Ste. (_rubbing his hands together_). Ah, glad I came. Good thing to rope
in young Montgomery.
Jim (_sourly_). Good, is it?
Ste. What else do you call it?
Jim (_aggressively_). Look here, Mr. Verity, you've been coming here
calling yourself my friend. I knew well enough it was my vote you were
after. Bless you, I don't mind. I know what even the real gentry 'ull
do to get a man's vote. I've seen Sir Charles himself stand by and watch
his wife kiss our Dick at election time. But I've finished with you now.
You'll come here no more after this. (_Above table l._)
Ste. (_staggered_). But... I don't understand. What have I done?
(_Rises._)
Jim. It's not what you've done. It's what you're wanting to do.
Ste. I'm wanting to provide a recreation ground for Dick to play in.
Anything wrong in that?
Jim. A lot. There's more important things than playing fields.
Ste. Oh, you're thinking of Montgomery's idea for houses.
Jim. No, I'm not thinking of anybody's ideas. Thinking of ideas leads
to mischief. I'm thinking of my bread and butter that you're taking from
me.
Ste. I?
Jim. You know very well where I work.
Ste. You're Mr. Vining's gardener, aren't you?
Jim. Yes, and Mr. Vining lives in the Polygon. It's likely I'd vote for
breaking up the Polygon, isn't it?
Ste. But, my dear friend----
Jim. I tell you I'm not your friend.
Ste. Mr. Vining will have to live somewhere. He won't cease to require a
gardener.
Jim. Ever hear tell as a bird in the hand whacked two in the bush?
Ste. (_scornfully_). If you're afraid of losing your employment.
Jim (_with conviction_). A working man's always afraid of that. I know
what it's like to be out of a job.
Ste. (_ingratiatingly, after a slight pause_). Well, now, I tell you
what.
Jim.. Aye?
Ste. We shall want somebody to look after the grass in the recreation
ground.
Jim. Well?
Ste. The Park Committee will want an experienced gardener--like you.
Jim. Are you offering me the job?
Ste. Yes.
Jim. How do you know you'll be on any Park Committee? You might be fired
out of the Council next November.
Ste. (_with dignity_). I'm an alderman, Pilling. Aldermen stay in, they
don't get fired.
Jim. You're offering me this. Well and good. And what about all the
other folk as find work in the Polygon? House servants and such like.
Ste. The residents won't cease to want servants where they move to.
Jim. And you can flit servants same as furniture, can't you? And
servants haven't votes and I have. So you bribe me and they can go to
the devil.
Ste. (_backing in alarm_). Mr. Pilling!
Jim. Oh, I'm not blind, if I was brought up in the country. They didn't
learn me there to vote against my master, either. I take Mr. Vining's
money and----
Ste. But man alive, how's he to know which way you vote? The ballot's
secret.
Jim (_sceptically_). Oh, aye, we've heard that tale before.
Ste. (_irritated_). But it is secret.
Jim (_unconvinced_). That's what they tell you. And if it is, it's not
secret from me. I'd know how I voted. And I couldn't hold out my hand
for wages from a man when I'd voted opposite to him. I'm not built that
way.
Ste. (_disgustedly_). Jim Pilling, I thought you'd more sense.
Jim. I've a sense of right and wrong.
Ste. Yes, the sense that your employer's always right.
Jim. It makes no matter if he's right or wrong. He's still my employer.
A man can't vote against the gentleman that gives him bread and butter,
and Mr. Vining's a real gentleman, mind you. (_With enthusiastic
admiration_). I never saw him raise his hand to do a thing himself yet.
Ste. You're a fool, Pilling.
Jim. I'm an honest fool, then.
Ste. Look here, if you won't take it from me, will you take it from Mr.
Montgomery?
Jim. I don't know. He's a young 'un. More like a man than a parson.
Coming in here and smoking his pipe like you might do yourself.
Ste. But he is a parson--young Montgomery.
Jim (_grudgingly_). Aye. He's a man I trust.
Ste. Then if he tells you, will you vote for turning the Polygon into a
playing ground?
Jim (_confidently_). He won't.
Ste. But if he does?
Jim. I'll see.
(_Re-enter Sally and Dick._)
Ste. Hullo! Patched the little man up?
Sally. Yes.
(_Dick exhibits a black plaster about his knee._)
Ste. I'll get out of your way, Mrs. Pilling. I've an appointment to keep
at home. Good-night. (_Crosses below table to door._)
Sally,
Jim. Good-night.
Ste. (_turning at door, patting Dick's head_). Goodnight, Dick.
(_Dick doesn't respond. Exit Stephen._)
Sally. Good riddance and all. Now, Dick, you ought to have been in bed
long ago. (_Takes Dick up to bed._)
Dick. Can't I come and watch you wash up?
Sally. No, you can't. (_She begins to undress him._)
Dick. I want my supper.
Sally. You can have it in bed.
Jim. You don't like Verity, lass?
Sally. And never did. What's he want with bothering round week after
week? We're not his class.
Jim. Vote's what he's after, and it's a marvel to me what they will do
for votes.
Sally. You'll do yourself no good with him, Jim.
Jim. I'm thinking so myself. He's a bit too keen on this recreation
ground, Verity is. Been putting himself about something extraordinary.
(_Crosses to fireplace, taking pipe._) I fancy, you know, there's,
something behind all this.
(_The undressing of Dick advances._)
CURTAIN.