You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid, William?
_Col. G._ No, sir.
_Ger._ Don't let in any one calling himself _Waterfield_.
_Col. G._ No, sir.
_Ger._ I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly.
_Col. G._ Very well, sir. _Exit into the house_.
_Ger._ (_to_ WAR.) I can't touch clay again till I get that fellow out
of my head.
_War._ Come along, then.
_Exeunt_ GER. _and_ WAR.
_Re-enter_ COL. G. _polishing a boot. Regards it with
dissatisfaction_.
_Col. G._ Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think
I'm getting it all right--one rub more and it's gone dull again!
_The house-door opens slowly, and_ THOMAS _peeps cautiously in_.
_Th._ What sort of a plaze be this, maister?
_Col. G._ You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in?
_Th._ By th' dur-hole. Iv yo leave th' dur oppen, th' dogs'll coom in.
_Col. G._ I must speak to Martha again. She _will_ leave the
street-door open!--Well, you needn't look so frightened. It ain't a
robbers' cave.
_Th._ That be more'n aw knaw--not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun
keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman
axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll coom in,
for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak
here?
_Col. G._ What would you think now?
_Th._ It looks to mo like a mason's shed--a greight one.
_Col. G._ You're not so far wrong.
_Th._ (_advancing_). It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure
abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin'. Aw'll bother
noan. (_Sits down on the dais and wipes his face_.) Well, aw be a'most
weary.
_Col. G._ Is there anything I can do for you?
_Th._ Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw
dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for
summut aw've lost, mou.
_Col. G._ Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it?
_Th._ Eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro!
_Col. G._ Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean no
offence.
_Th._ (_looking disappointed_). Well, noan's ta'en. But thae dunnot
say thae's ne'er been to Lancashire thisel'?
_Col. G._ No, I don't say that: I've been to Lancashire several times.
_Th._ Wheer to?
_Col. G._ Why, Manchester.
_Th._ That's noan ov it.
_Col. G._ And Lancaster.
_Th._ Tut! tut! That's noan of it, nayther.
_Col. G._ And Liverpool. I was once there for a whole week.
_Th._ Nay, nay. Noather o' those plazes. Fur away off 'em.
_Col. G._ But what does it matter where I have or haven't been?
_Th._ Mun aw tell tho again? Aw've lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto
ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman 'at lost her shillin'? Hoo couldn't
sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon's me. (_Hides his face in his
hands_.)
_Col. G._ Ah! now I begin to guess! (_aside_).--You don't mean you've
lost your--
_Th._ (_starting up and grasping his stick with both hands_). Aw _do_
mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae's feawnd her, but
aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then!
_Col. G._ What on earth makes you think that? I don't know what you're
after.
_Th._ Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what aw'd lost afoor aw
tou'd tho yo' be deny in' your own name. Thae knows. Aw'll tay tho
afore the police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull.
_Col. G._ What story have you to tell the police then? They'll want to
know.
_Th._ Story saysto? The dule's i' th' mon! Didn't aw seigh th' mon 'at
stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour
ago?--Aw seigh him wi' mo own eighes.
_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to him?
_Th._ He poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've been a-watching
ever since. Aw've not took my eighes off ov it. He's somewheeres now
in this same heawse.
_Col. G._ He _may_ have been out in the morning (_aside_).--But you
see there are more doors than one to the place. There is a back door;
and there is a door out into the street.
_Th._ Eigh! eigh! Th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other--have it? Three
dur-holes to one shed! That looks bad!
_Col. G._ He's not here, whoever it was. There's not a man but myself
in the place.
_Th._ Hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a marlock wi' mo? He'll be
oop i' th' heawse theer. Aw mun go look (_going_).
_Col. G._ (_preventing him_). And how am _I_ to know you're not a
housebreaker?
_Th._ Dun yo think an owd mon like mosel' would be of mich use for
sich wark as that, mon?
_Col. G._ The more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made of
it.
_Th._ Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as you? But aw'm seechin'
nothin', man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie
mo mo Mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor. Aw winnot--if yo'll give
mo back mo Mattie. (_Comes close up to him and lays his hand on his
arm_.) Be yo a feyther, mon?
_Col. G._ Yes.
_Th._ Ov a pratty yung lass?
_Col. G._ Well, no. I have but a son.
_Th._ Then thae winnot help mo?
_Col. G._ I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how.
_Th._ Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait fro
Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll
let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam:
hoo's but poorly. Tell yor maister that.
_Col. G._ But I don't believe my master knows anything about her.
_Th._ Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a
feow minutes agoo?
_Col. G._ You've mistaken somebody for him.
_Th._ Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh
mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur--aw mane th' heawsedur, yon.
_Col. G._ Are you sure of that?
_Th._ Sure as death. Aw seigh her back.
_Col. G._ Her back! Who could be sure of a back?
_Th._ By th' maskins! dosto think I dunnot know mo Mattie's back? I
seign her coom eawt o' that dur, aw tell tho!
_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to her?
_Th._ Aw co'd.
_Col. G._ And she didn't answer?
_Th._ Aw didn't co' leawd. Aw're not willin' to have ony mak ov a din.
_Col. G._ But you followed her surely?
_Th._ Aw did; but aw're noan so good at walkin' as aw wur when aw
coom; th' stwons ha' blistered mo fet. An it're the edge o' dark like.
Aw connot seigh weel at neet, wi o' th' lamps; an afoor aw geet oop
wi' her, hoo's reawnd th' nook, and gwon fro mo seet.
_Col. G._ There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for
your own under such circumstances--not seeing more than the backs of
them.
_Th._ Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto?--wi'her greight
eighes and her lung yure?--Puh!
_Col. G._ But you've just said you didn't see her face!
_Th._ Dunnot aw know what th' face ov mo chylt be like, beout seein' ov
it? Aw'm noan ov a lump-yed. Nobory as seigh her once wouldn't know
her again.
_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's a lunatic!--I don't see what I can do for
you, old fellow.
_Th._ (_rising_). And aw met ha' known it beout axin'! O'reet! Aw're a
greight foo'! But aw're beawn to coom in: aw lung'd to goo through th'
same dur wi' mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon!
God's curse upon o' sich! (_Turns his back. After a moment turns
again_.) Noa. Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say
that. God forgie you! (_going by the house_).
_Col. G._ This way, please! (_opening the street-door_).
_Th._ Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seein' oather Mattie or th'
mon. _Exit_.
Col. G. _resumes his boot absently. Re-enter_ THOMAS, _shaking his
fist_.
_Th._ But aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day and neet, aw wull.
Aw wull. Aw wull.
_Col. G._ Come back to-morrow.
_Th._ Coom back, saysto? Aw'll not goo away (_growing fierce_). Wilto
gie mo mo Mattie? Aw'm noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto
gie mo mo Mattie?
_Col. G._ I cannot give you what I haven't got.
_Th._ Aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (_threatening him with his
stick_). Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a mon's maister more'n me! I
would dey fur thee, Mattie. _Exit_.
_Col. G._ It's all a mistake, of course. There are plenty of young
men--but my Arthur's none of such. I cannot believe it of him. The
daughter! If I could find _her, she_ would settle the question. (_It
begins to grow dark_.) I must help the old man to find her. He's sure
to come back. Arthur does _not_ look the least like it.
But--(_polishes vigorously_). I can_not_ get this boot to look like a
gentleman's. I wish I had taken a lesson or two first. I'll get hold
of a shoeblack, and make him come for a morning or two. No, he does
_not_ look like it. There he comes. (_Goes on polishing_.)
_Enter_ GER.
_Ger._ William!
_Col. G._ (_turning_). Yes, sir.
_Ger._ Light the gas. Any one called?
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.
_Ger._ Who?
_Col. G._ I don't know, sir. (_Lighting the gas_.)
_Ger._ You should have asked his name. (_Stands before the clay,
contemplating it_.)
_Col. G._ I'm sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an old man from the
country--after his daughter, he said.
_Ger._ Came to offer his daughter, or himself perhaps. (_Begins to
work at the figure_.)
_Col. G._ (_watching him stealthily_). He looked a respectable old
party--from Lancashire, he said.
_Ger._ I dare say. You will have many such callers. Take the address.
Models, you know.
_Col. G._ If he calls again, sir?
_Ger._ Ask him to leave his address, I say.
_Col. G._ But he told me you knew her.
_Ger._ Possibly. I had a good many models before I left. But it's of
no consequence; I don't want any at present.
_Col. G._ He seemed in a great way, sir--and swore. I couldn't make
him out.
_Ger._ Ah! hm!
_Col. G._ He says he saw her come out of the house.
_Ger. Has_ there been any girl here? Have you seen any about?
_Col. G._ No, sir.
_Ger._ My aunt had a dressmaker to meet her here the other evening. I
have had no model since I came back.
_Col. G._ The man was in a sad taking about her, sir. I didn't know
what to make of it. There seemed some truth--something suspicious.
_Ger._ Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. (COL. G.
_lingers_.) That will do. (_Exit_ COL. G.) How oddly the man behaves!
A sun-stroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the
head. I must keep my eye on him. (_Stops working, steps backward, and
gazes at the Psyche_.) She is growing very like some one! Who can it
be? She knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping
back a smile! She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will
follow it through the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are!
You know and you don't know--both at once. Like a bat in the twilight
you are sure of it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who _is_ my
Psyche like?--The forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple?
The half-playful, half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the
lifted eyelid? There is more there than ever I put there. Some power
has been shaping my ends. By heaven, I have it!--No--yes--it is--it is
Constance--momently dawning out of the clay! What _does_ this mean?
_She_ never gave me a sitting--at least, she has not done so for the
last ten years--yet here she is--she, and no other! I never thought
she was beautiful. When she came with my aunt the other day though, I
did fancy I saw a new soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it
is--the same soul breaking through the clay of my Psyche!--I will give
just one touch to the corner of the mouth.
_Gives a few touches, then steps back again and contemplates the
figure. Turns away and walks up and down. The light darkens to slow
plaintive music, which lasts for a minute. Then the morning begins
to dawn, gleaming blue upon the statues and casts, and revealing_
GER. _seated before his Psyche, gazing at her. He rises, and exit.
Enter_ COL. G. _and looks about_.
_Col. G._ I don't know what to make of it! Or rather I'm afraid I do
know what to make of it! It looks bad. He's not been in bed all night.
But it shows he has some conscience left--and that's a comfort.
_Enter_ Mrs. CLIFFORD, _peeping round cautiously_.
_Col. G._ What, Clara! you here so early!
_Mrs. C._ Well, you know, brother, you're so fond of mystery!
_Col. G._ It's very kind of you to come! But we must be very careful;
I can't tell when my master may be home.
_Mrs. C._ Has he been out all night, then?
_Col. G._ Oh no; he's just gone.
_Mrs. C._ I never knew him such an early bird. I made sure he was safe
in bed for a couple of hours yet. But I do trust, Walter, you have had
enough of this fooling, and are prepared to act like a rational man
and a gentleman.
_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, with my usual obstinacy, I am more
determined than ever that my boy shall not know me, until, as I told
you, I have rendered him such service as may prove me not altogether
unworthy to be his father. Twenty years of neglect will be hard to
surmount.
_Mrs. C._ But mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion
of your obligations. As his father alone can you really serve him.
_Col. G._ You persist in misunderstanding me. This is not the service
I mean. I scorn the fancy. This is only the means, as I told you
plainly before, of finding out _how_ I may serve him--of learning what
he really needs--or most desires. If I fail in discovering how to
recommend myself to him, I shall go back to India, and content myself
with leaving him a tolerable fortune.
_Mrs. C._ How ever a hair-brained fellow like you, Walter, could have
made such a soldier!--Why don't you tell your boy you love him, and
have done with it?
_Col. G._ I will, as soon as I have proof to back the assertion.
_Mrs. C._ I tell you it is rank pride.
_Col. G._ It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant
thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand
to prove the genuineness of his sorrow.
_Mrs. C._ It never _was_ of any use to argue with _you_, Walter; you
know that, or at least I know it. So I give up.--I trust you have got
over your prejudice against his profession. It is not my fault.
_Col. G._ In truth, I had forgotten the profession--as you call it--in
watching the professor.
_Mrs. C._ And has it not once occurred to you to ask how he may take
such watching?
_Col. G._ By the time he is aware of it, he will be ready to
understand it.
_Mrs. C._ But suppose he should discover you before you have thus
established your position?
_Col. G._ I must run the risk.
_Mrs. C._ Suppose then you should thus find out something he would not
have you know?
_Col. G._ (_hurriedly_). Do you imagine his servant might know a thing
he would hide from his father?
_Mrs. C._ I do not, Walter. I can trust him. But he might well resent
the espionage of even his father. You cannot get rid of the vile look
of the thing.
_Col. G._ Again I say, my boy shall be my judge, and my love shall be
my plea. In any case I shall have to ask his forgiveness. But there is
his key in the lock! Run into the house.
_Exit_ MRS. C. _Enter_ GER., _and goes straight to the Psyche_.
_Col. G._ Breakfast is waiting, sir.
_Ger._ By and by, William.
_Col. G._ You haven't been in bed, sir!
_Ger._ Well? What of that?
_Col. G._ I hope you're not ill, sir.
_Ger._ Not in the least: I work all night sometimes.--You can go.
(COL. G. _lingers, with a searching gaze at the Psyche_.)--I don't
want anything.
_Col. G._ Pardon me, sir, but I am sure you are ill. You've done no
work since last night.
_Ger._ (_with displeasure_). I am quite well, and wish to be alone.
_Col. G._ Mayn't I go and fetch a doctor, sir? It is better to take
things in time.
_Ger._ You are troublesome. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--What can the fellow
mean? He looked at me so strangely too! He's officious--that's all, I
dare say. A good sort of man, I do think! William!--What is it in the
man's face?--(_Enter_ Col G.) Is the breakfast ready?
_Col. G._ Quite ready, sir.
_Ger._ I'm sorry I spoke to you so hastily. The fact is--
_Col. G._ Don't mention it, sir. Speak as you will to me; I shan't
mind it. When there's anything on a man's conscience--I--I--I mean on
a man's mind--
_Ger._ What _do_ you mean?
_Col. G._ I mean, when there is anything there, he can't well help his
temper, sir.
_Ger._ I don't understand you; but, anyhow, you--go too far, William.
_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir: I forgot myself. I do humbly beg
your pardon. Shall I make some fresh coffee, sir? It's not cold--only
it's stood too long.
_Ger._ The coffee will do well enough. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--Is she so
beautiful? (_turning to the Psyche_)--Is there a likeness?--I see
it.--Nonsense! A mere chance confluence of the ideal and the
actual.--Even then the chance must mean something. Such a _mere_
chance would indeed be a strange one!
_Enter_ CONSTANCE.
Oh, my heart! here she comes! my Psyche herself!--Well, Constance!
_Con._ Oh, Arthur, I am _so_ glad I've found you! I want to talk to
you about something. I know you don't care much about me now, but I
_must_ tell you, for it would be wrong not.
_Ger._ (_aside_). How beautiful she is! What _can_ she have to tell me
about? It cannot be--it _shall_ not be--. Sit down, won't you?
(_offering her a chair_.)
_Con._ No. _You_ sit there (_pointing to the dais_), and I will sit
here (_placing herself on the lower step_). It was here I used to sit
so often when I was a little girl. Why can't one keep little? I was
always with you then! (_Sighs_.)
_Ger._ It is not my fault, Constance.
_Con._ Oh no! I suppose it can't be. Only I don't see why. Oh, Arthur,
where should I be but for you! I saw the old place yesterday. How
dreadful and yet how dear it was!
_Ger._ Who took you there?
_Con._ Nobody. I went alone.
_Ger._ It was hardly safe.--I don't like your going out alone, Constance.
_Con._ Why, Arthur! I used to know every court and alley about Shoreditch
better than I know Berkeley Square now!
_Ger._ But what made you go there?
_Con._ I went to find a dressmaker who has been working for my aunt,
and lost my way. And--would you believe it?--I was actually
frightened!
_Ger._ No wonder! There are rough people about there.
_Con._ I never used to think them rough when I lived among them with
my father and mother. There must be just as good people there as
anywhere else. Yet I could not help shuddering at the thought of
living there again!--How strange it made me feel! You have been my
angel, Arthur. What would have become of me if you hadn't taken me, I
dare not think.
_Ger._ I have had my reward, Constance: you are happy.
_Con._ Not quite. There's something I want to tell you.
_Ger._ Tell on, child.
_Con._ Oh, thank you!--that is how you used to talk to me.
(_Hesitates_.)
_Ger._ (_with foreboding_) Well, what is it?
_Con._ (_pulling the fingers of her gloves_) A gentleman--you know
him--has been--calling upon aunt--and me. We have seen a good deal of
him.
_Ger._ Who is he?
_Con._ Mr. Waterfield. (_Keeps her eyes on the floor_.)
_Ger._ Well?
_Con._ He says--he--he--he wants me to marry him.--Aunt likes him.
_Ger._ And you?
_Con._ I like him too. I don't think I like him enough--I dare say I
shall. It is _so_ good of him to take poor me! He is _very_ rich, they
say.
_Ger._ Have you accepted him?
_Con._ I am afraid he thinks so.--Ye--e--s.--I hardly know.
_Ger._ Haven't you--been rather--in a hurry--Constance?
_Con._ No, indeed! I haven't been in a hurry at all. He has been a long
time trying to make me like him. I have been too long a burden to Mrs.
Clifford.
_Ger._ So! it is her doing, then!
_Con._ You were away, you know.
_Ger._ (_bitterly_) Yes; too far--chipping stones and making mud-pies!
_Con._ I don't know what you mean by that, Arthur.
_Ger._ Oh--nothing. I mean that--that--Of course if you are engaged to
him, then--
_Con._ I'm afraid I've done very wrong, Arthur. If I had thought you
would care!--I knew aunt would be pleased!--she wanted me to have him,
I knew.--I ought to do what I can to please her,--ought I not? I have
no right to--
_Ger._ Surely, surely. Yes, yes; I understand. It was not your fault.
Only you mustn't marry him, if you--. Thank you for telling me.
_Con._ I ought to have told you before--before I let him speak to me
again. But I didn't think you would care--not much.
_Ger._ Yes, yes.
_Con._ (_looking up with anxiety_) Ah! you _are_ vexed with me,
Arthur! I see how wrong it was now. I never saw you look like that. I
am very, very sorry. (_Bursts into tears_.)
_Ger._ No, no, child! Only it is rather sudden, and I want to think
about it. Shall I send William home with you?
_Con._ No, thank you. I have a cab waiting. You're not angry with your
little beggar, Arthur?
_Ger._ What is there to be angry about, child?
_Con._ That I--did anything without asking you first.
_Ger._ Nonsense! You couldn't help it. _You_'re not to blame one bit.
_Con._ Oh, yes, I am! I ought to have asked you first. But indeed I
did not know you would care. Good-bye.--Shall I go at once?
_Ger._ Good-bye. (_Exit_ CON., _looking back troubled_.) Come at last!
Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!--and too late! For
three years I haven't seen her--have not once written to her! Since I
came back I've seen her just twice,--and now in the very hell of love!
The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that
corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to
such a fellow as that!--not even a gentleman! How _could_ she take him
for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men _have_ borne
such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! Nothing
but work will save me. (_Approaches the Psyche, but turns from it with
a look of despair and disgust_.) What a fool I have been!--Constance!
Constance!--A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in
heaven! It will drive me mad. (_Rushes out, leaving the door open_.)
_Enter_ COL. GERVAISE.
_Col. G._ Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There's
something very wrong with you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's
conscience in him yet!--It is all my fault. If I had been a father to
him, this would never have happened.--If he were to marry the girl
now?--Only, who can tell but _she_ led _him_ astray? I have known such
a thing. (_Sits down and buries his face in his hands_.)
_Enter_ WATERFIELD.
_Wat_. Is Mr. Gervaise in?
_Col. G._ (_rising_) No, sir.
_Wat_. Tell him I called, will you? [_Exit_.]
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--Forgot again. Young man;--gentleman or cad?--don't
know; think the latter.
_Enter_ THOMAS.
_Th._ Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir?
_Col. G._ (_starting up_). In the name of God, I know nothing of your
child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds--in
golden sovereigns.
_Th._ Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir?
_Col. G._ That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your
money.
_Th._ Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov
England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for
mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther--ov the
feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo
sorry for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo
whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait
till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us.
_Col. G._ For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring
her here, I say, and I will make you happy.
_Th._ Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy
then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be
a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be
gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!--aw'm noan sich a greight foo
as yo tak mo for.
_Exit._ COL. G. _follows him. Enter._ GER. _Sits down before the
Psyche, but without looking at her_.
_Ger._ Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my
heart! I _will_ conquer it. But I _will_ love her. The spear shall
fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. "I'll
but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again."
Brave old Sir Andrew!
_Enter_ COL. G.
_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir--a young man called while you were
out.
_Ger._ (_listlessly_). Very well, William.
_Col. G._ Is there any message, if he calls again, sir? He said he
would.
_Ger._ No. (COL. G. _lingers_.) You can go.
_Col. G._ I hope you feel better, sir?
_Ger._ Quite well.
_Col. G._ Can I get you anything, sir?
_Ger._ No, thank you; I want nothing.--Why do you stay?
_Col. G._ Can't you think of something I can do for you, sir?
_Ger._ Fetch that red cloth.
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.
_Ger._ Throw it over that--
_Col. G._ This, sir?
_Ger._ No, no--the clay there. Thank you. (_A knock at the door_.) See
who that is.
_Col. G._ Are you at home, sir?
_Ger._ That depends. Not to Mr. Waterfield. Oh, my head! my head!
[_Exit_ COL. G.
_Enter_ CONSTANCE. GER. _starts, but keeps his head leaning on his
hand_.
_Con._ I forgot to say to you, Arthur,--. But you are ill! What is the
matter, dear Arthur?
_Ger._ (_without looking up_) Nothing--only a headache.
_Con._ Do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. Don't be
vexed with me any more. I will do whatever you like. I couldn't go
home without seeing you again. And now I find you ill!
_Ger._ Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must go out of town. I
am so busy! I can't stay in it a moment longer. I have so many things
to do.
_Con._ Mayn't I come and see you while you work? I never used to
interrupt you. I want so to sit once more in my old place. (_Draws a
stool towards him_.)
_Ger._ No, no--not--not there! Constance used to sit there. William!
_Con._ You frighten me, Arthur!
_Enter_ COL. G.
_Ger._ Bring a chair, William.
_Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit_ COL. G.
_Con._ I must have offended you more than I thought, Arthur! What
_can_ I say? It is so stupid to be always saying _I am sorry_.
_Ger._ No, no. But some one may call.
_Con._ You mean more than that. Will you not let me understand?
_Ger._ Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes ago. He will be
here again presently, I dare say.
_Con._ (_indifferently_). Indeed!
_Ger._ I suppose you appointed--expected--to meet him here.
_Con._ Arthur! Do you think I would come to you to meet _him_? I saw
him this morning; I don't want to see him again. I wish you knew him.
_Ger._ Why should you want me to know him?
_Con._ Because you would do him good.
_Ger._ What good does he want done him?
_Con._ He has got beautiful things in him--talks well--in bits--arms
and feet and faces--never anything like--(_turning to the Psyche_) Why
have you--? Has _she_ been naughty too?
_Ger._ Is it _only_ naughty things that must be put out of sight,
Constance?
_Con._ Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self then.
_Ger._ (_rising hurriedly_). Excuse me. I must go. It is very rude,
but--William!
_Enter_ COL. G.
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.
_Ger._ Fetch a hansom directly.
_Col. G._ Yes, sir. _Exit_.
_Con._ You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you are ill.
_Ger._ Not at all. I have an engagement.
_Con._ I must go then--must I?
_Ger._ Do not think me unkind?
_Con._ I will not think anything you would not have me think.
_Re-enter_ COL. G.
_Col. G._ The cab is at the door, sir.
_Ger._ Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordère out. Stay. I will open the
door for her myself. _Exeunt_ GER. _and_ CON.
_Col. G._ He speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! If he
should die! Oh, my God!
_Re-enter_ GER. _Walks up and down the room_.
_Col. G._ Ain't you going, sir?
_Ger._ No. I have sent the lady in the cab.
_Col. G._ Then hadn't you better lie down, sir?
_Ger._ Lie down! What do you mean? I'm not in the way of lying down
except to sleep.
_Col. G._ And let me go for the doctor, sir?
_Ger._ The doctor! Ha! ha ha!--You are a soldier, you say?
_Col. G._ Yes, sir.
_Ger._ Right. We're all soldiers--or ought to be. I will put you to
your catechism. What is a soldier's first duty?
_Col. G._ Obedience, sir.
[GER. _sits down and leans his head on his hands_. COL. G. _watches
him_.]
_Ger._ Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women out. They will hurt
you--may kill you; but you must not mind that. They burn, they
blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! The hottest is the
white fire. But duty, old soldier!--obedience, you know!--Ha! ha! Oh,
my head! my head! I believe I am losing my senses, William. I was in a
bad part of the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew long
ago. It had gone to hell--but the black edges of it were left. There
was a smell--and I can't get it out of me. Oh, William! William! take
hold of me. Don't let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at me. I
told you to throw the red cloth over her.
_Col. G._ My poor boy!
_Ger._ Don't fancy you're my father, though! I wish you were. But I
cannot allow that.--Why the devil didn't you throw the red cloth over
that butterfly? She's sucking the blood from my heart.
_Col. G._ You said the Psyche, sir! The red cloth _is_ over the
Psyche, sir. Look.
_Ger._ Yes. Yes. I beg your pardon. Take it off. It is too red. It
will scorch her wings. It burns my brain. Take it off, I say! (COL. G.
_uncovers the Psyche_.) There! I told you! She's laughing at me!
Ungrateful child! _I_'m not her Cupid. Cover her up. Not the red cloth
again. It's too hot, I say. I won't torture _her_. I am a man and I
can bear it. She's a woman and she shan't bear it.
_Sinks back in his chair_. COL. G. _lays him on the dais, and sits
down beside him_.
_Col. G._ His heart's all right! And when a fellow's miserable over
his faults, there must be some way out of them.--But the
consequences?--Ah! there's the rub.
_Ger._ What's the matter? Where am I?
_Col. G._ I must fetch a doctor, sir. You've been in a faint.
_Ger._ Why couldn't I keep in it? It was very nice: you know nothing--and
that's the nicest thing of all. Why is it we can't stop, William?
_Col. G._ I don't understand you, sir.
_Ger._ Stop living, I mean. It's no use killing yourself, for you
don't stop then. At least they say you go on living all the same. If
I thought it did mean stopping, William--
_Col. C._ Do come to your room, sir.
_Ger._ I won't. I'll stop here. How hot it is! Don't let anybody in.
_Stretches out his hand_. COL. G. _holds it. He falls asleep_.
_Col. G._ What _shall_ I do? If he married her, he'd be miserable, and
make her miserable too. I'll take her away somewhere. I'll be a father
to her; I'll tend her as if she were his widow. But what confusions
would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand
miseries! And now he's in for a fever--typhus, perhaps!--I _must_ find
this girl!--What a sweet creature that Miss Lacordère is! If only he
might have _her_! I don't care what she was.
_Ger._ Don't let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They
think I shall love them. I _will_ not. If she comes one step nearer, I
shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!--Fire-hearted Chaos is
burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William!
_Col. G._ Here it is, sir.
_Ger._ But just look to Psyche there. Ah, she's off! There she goes!
melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my
field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste.
_Col. G._ Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make
yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if--
_Ger._ What worse would _you_ be, William? You are a soldier. I must
talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (_holding his head
with both hands_). I should go raving mad else (_wildly_). Give me
some water. (_He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room_.)
Now they _are_ gone, and I do believe they won't come again! I see
everything--and your face, William. You are very good to me--very
patient! I should die if it weren't for you.
_Col. G._ I would die for you, sir.
_Ger._ Would you? But perhaps you don't care much for your life.
Anybody might have _my_ life for the asking. I dare say it's just as
good to be dead.--Ah! there is a toad--a toad with a tail! No; it's a
toad with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, William!--Thank
you.--I used to think life pleasant, but now--somehow there's nothing
in it. She told me the truth about it--Constance did. Don't let those
women come back. What if I _should_ love them, William!--love and hate
them both at once! William! William! (_A knock at the door_.) See who
that is. Mind you don't let _them_ in.
_Col. G._ Martha is there, sir.
_Ger._ She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would
walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look.
You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't
let them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to
their eyes: those have none--those frightful snowy beauties.--And yet
snow is very nice! And I'm so hot! _There_ they come again! _Exit_
COL. G.
_Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD.
_Ger._ Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come!
_Mrs. C._ What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I
will take care of you.
_Ger._ Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you
know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and
Venus.--They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white
women--only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are
purple--and inside their lips, when they smile--and in the hollows of
their eyes--ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are
all--all of you women--no better than they are. I _know_ that is a
lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes.
_Mrs. C._ Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you,
and drive them away?
_Ger._ No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain.
_Mrs. C._ How long have you had this headache? (_laying her hand on
his forehead_.)
_Ger._ Only a year or two--since the white woman came--that woman
(_pointing to the Psyche_). She's been buried for ages, and won't grow
brown.
_Mrs. C._ There's no woman there, Arthur.
_Ger._ Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my
head! my head!--There's my father standing behind the door and won't
come in!--_He_ could help me now, if he would. William! show my father
in. But he isn't in the story--so he can't.
_Mrs. C._ Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be
here in a few minutes.
_Ger._ He shan't come here! He would put the white woman out. She does
smell earthy, but I won't part with her. (_A knock_.) What a devil of
a noise! Why don't they use the knocker? What's the use of taking a
sledge-hammer?
_Mrs. C._ It's that stupid James!
_Enter_ CONSTANCE. MRS. C. _goes to meet her_.
_Mrs. C._ Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with
Arthur.
_Con._ Is he _very_ ill, aunt?
_Mrs. C._ I'm afraid he is.
_Ger._ (_sitting up_). Constance! Constance!
_Con._ Here I am! (_running to him_).
_Ger._ Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!--Sit by
me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder--for one
minute--only one minute. It aches so! (_She sits down by him. His head
sinks on her shoulder_. MRS. C. _looks annoyed, and exit_.)
_Con._ Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (_sobbing_). You used to
like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You _have_ forgiven me?
Dear head!
_He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music_.
_Ger._ (_half waking_). I can't read. When I get to the bottom of the
page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi!
and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that
one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white
hand."--I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they
_will_ come!--I _won't_ go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and
never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will
_not_ go mad! I will die like a man.
_Con._ Arthur! Arthur!
_Ger._ God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind
her!--Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I
will tear my heart out and give it you.--It is Psyche herself now, and
the rest are gone! Psyche--listen.
_Con._ It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would
but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her:
she's not like herself at all.
_Ger._ Who's that behind you?
_Con._ Behind me? (_looking round_). There's nobody behind me.
_Ger._ I thought there was somebody behind you. William!--What can
have become of William?
_Con._ I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere.
_Ger._ Then he's gone! he's gone!
_Con._ You're not afraid of being left alone with me, Arthur?
_Ger._ Oh no! of course not?--What can have become of William? Don't
you know they sent him--not those women, but the dead people--to look
after me? He's a good fellow. He said he would die for me. Ha! ha! ha!
Not much in that--is there?
_Con._ Don't laugh so, dear Arthur.
_Ger._ Well, I won't. I have something to tell you, Constance. I will
try to keep my senses till I've told you.
_Con._ Do tell me. I hope I haven't done anything more to vex you.
Indeed I am sorry. I won't speak to that man again, if you like. I
would rather not--if you wish it.
_Ger._ What right have I to dictate to you, my child?
_Con._ Every right. I am yours. I belong to you. Nobody owned me when
you took me.
_Ger._ Don't talk like that; you will drive me mad.
_Con._ Arthur! Arthur!
_Ger._ Listen to me, Constance. I am going to Garibaldi. He wants
soldiers. I must not live an idle life any longer.--We must part,
Constance.--Good-bye, my darling!
_Con._ No, no; not yet; we'll talk about it by-and-by. You see I shall
have ever so many things to make for you before you can go!
(_smiling_).
_Ger._ Garibaldi can't wait, Constance--and _I_ can't wait. I shall
die if I stop here.
_Con._ Oh, Arthur, you are in some trouble, and you won't tell me what
it is, so I can't help you!
_Ger._ I shall be killed, I know. I mean to be. Will you think of me
sometimes? Give me one kiss. I may have a last kiss.
_Con._ (_weeping_.) My heart will break if you talk like that, Arthur.
I will do anything you please. There's something wrong, dreadfully
wrong! And it must be my fault!--Oh! there's that man! (_starting
up_.) He shall _not_ come here.
[_Runs to the house-door, and stands listening, with her hand on
the key_.]
END OF ACT I.
ACT II.
SCENE.--_A street in Mayfair_. MRS. CLIFFORD'S _house. A pastrycook's
shop. Boys looking in at the window_.
_Bill._ I say, Jim, ain't it a lot o' grub? If I wos a pig now,--
_Jack._ I likes to hear Bill a supposin' of hisself. Go it, Bill!--There
ain't nothink _he_ can't suppose hisself, Jim.--Bein' as you ain't a pig.
Bill, you've got yer own trotters, an' yer own tater-trap.
_Bill._ Vereupon blue Bobby eccosts me with the remark, "I wants you,
Bill;" and seein' me too parerlyzed to bolt, he pops me in that 'ere
jug vithout e'er a handle.
_Jack._ Mother kep' a pig once.
_Jim._ What was he like, Jack?
_Jack._ As like any other pig as ever he could look; accep' that where
other pigs is black he wor white, an' where other pigs is white he wor
black.
_Jim._ Did you have the milk in your tea, Jack?
_Jack._ Pigs ain't got no milk, Jim, you stupe!
_Bill._ Pigs _has_ milk, Jack, only they don't give it to coves.--I
wish I wos the Lord Mayor!
_Jack._ Go it again, Bill. He ought ha' been a beak, Bill ought. What
'ud you do, Bill, supposin' as how you wos the Lord Mayor?
_Bill._ I'd take all the beaks, an' all the peelers, an' put their own
bracelets on 'em, an' feed 'em once a day on scraps o' wittles to
bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all.
_Jim._ He gets what mother calls the squeamishes.
_Jack._ Well, Bill?
_Bill._ Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose
as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', I'd bring 'em all up to this
'ere winder, five or six at a time--with the darbies on, mind ye--
_Jim._ And I'm to be there to see, Bill--ain't I?
_Bill._ If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer prayers.
_Jack._ My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill.
_Bill._ Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an' Gen'lemen, 'cos as
how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat _too_ many
wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you
shall obswerve me eat."
_Jim._ Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill.
_Bill._ No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a 'ungry gift, as
the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let's sojourn the meetin'.
_Jack_. Yes; come along. 'Tain't a comfable corner this yere: the wind
cuts round uncommon sharp. Them pies ain't good--leastways not to
look at.
_Bill_. They ain't disgestible. But look ye here, Jack and
Jim--hearkee, my kids. (_Puts an arm round the neck of each, and
whispers first to one and then to the other_.)
_Enter_ MATTIE _and_ SUSAN.
_Sus_. Now, Mattie, we're close to the house, an' I don't want to be
seen with you, for she's mad at _me_.
_Mat_. You must have made her mad, then, Sue.
_Sus_. She madded me first: what else when she wouldn't believe a word
I said? She'd ha' sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the
spout. But she'll believe _you_, an' give you something, and then
we'll have a chop!
_Mat_. How can you expect that, Sue, when the work's lost?
_Sus_. Never mind; you go and see.
_Mat_. I shan't take it, Susan. I couldn't.
_Sus_. Stuff and nonsense! I'll wait you round the corner: I don't
like the smell o' them pastry things.
_Exit_. MATTIE _walks past the window_.
_Mat_. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected.
_Bill_. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!--Mattie! Mattie!
_Mat_. Ah, Bill! you're there--are you?
_Bill_. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer
chice;--leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it.
_Mat_. Wouldn't you like to _take_ your choice sometimes, Bill?
_Bill_. In course I would.
_Mat_. Then why don't you work, and better yourself a bit?
_Bill_. Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf'able. He never
complains.
_Mat_. You're hungry sometimes,--ain't you?
_Bill_. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie--this werry moment. Odd you
should ask now--ain't it?
_Mat_. You would get plenty to eat if you would work.
_Bill_. Thank you--I'd rayther not. Them as ain't 'ungry never enj'ys
their damaged tarts. If I'm 'appy, vere's the odds? as the cat said to
the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work
more'n any other gen'leman?
_Mat_. A gentleman that don't work is a curse to his neighbours, Bill.
_Bill_. Bless you, Mattie! I ain't a curse--nohow to nobody. I don't
see as you've got any call to say that, Mattie. I don't go fakin'
clies, or crackin' cribs--nothin' o' the sort. An' I don't mind doin'
of a odd job, if it _is_ a odd one. Don't go for to say that again,
Mattie.
_Mat_. I won't, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!--You're all in
rags.
_Bill_. Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the
black-an'-tan.--I shouldn't object to a new pair of old trousers,
though.
_Mat_. Why don't you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only
sweep a crossing--
_Bill_. There ain't, a crossin' but what's took. Besides, my legs
ain't put together for one place all day long. It ain't to be done,
Mattie. They can't do it.
_Mat_. There's the shoe-black business, then.
_Bill_. That ain't so bad, acause you can shoulder your box and
trudge. But if it's all the same to you, Mattie, I'd rayther enj'y
life: they say it's short.
_Mat_. But it ain't the same to me. It's so bad for you to be idle,
Bill!
_Bill_. Not as I knows on. I'm tollable jolly, so long's I gets the
browns for my bed.
_Mat_. Wouldn't you like a bed with a blanket to it?
_Bill_. Well, yes--if it was guv to me. But I don't go in for knocking
of yourself about, to sleep warm.
_Mat_. Well, look here, Bill. It's all Susan and I can do to pay for
our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. It ain't
enough.--If you were to earn a few pence now--
_Bill_. Oh golly! I never thought o' that. What a hass I wur, to be
sure! I'll go a shoe-blackin' to-morror--I will.
_Mat_. Did you ever black a shoe, Bill?
_Bill_. I tried a boot oncet--when Jim wor a blackin' for a day or
two. But I made nothink on it--nothink worth mentionin'. The blackin'
or som'at was wrong. The gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an he'd slog
me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade.
_Mat_. And what did you say to that?
_Bill_. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as I could holler.
_Mat_. You must try my boots next time you come.
_Bill_. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine like plate
glass--see then if I don't. But where'll I get a box and brushes?
_Mat_. You shall have our brushes and my footstool.
_Bill_. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and
carry it by one leg--as drunken Moll does her kid.--Here you are, sir!
Black your boots, sir?--Shine your trotters, sir? (_bawling_.)
_Mat_. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You needn't do it again
(_holding her ears_). Would you like a tart?
_Bill_. Just wouldn't I, then!--Shine your boooooots!
_Mat_. (_laughing_). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's a penny for a
tart.
_Bill_. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you.
_Exit into the shop_.
_Jack and Jim_ (_touching their supposed caps_). Please, ma'am! Please,
ma'am! I likes 'em too. I likes 'em more 'n Bill.
_Mat_. I'm very sorry, but--(_feeling in her pocket_) I've got a
ha'penny, I believe. No--there's a penny! You must share it, you
know. (_Gives it to Jack. Knocks at Mrs. Clifford's door._)
_Jack and Jim_. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.
_Exit_ MATTIE _into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S.
_Jim_. Now, Jack, what's it to be?
_Jack_. I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin's Lane.
_Jim_. A ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, Jack.
_Jack_. Well, you do put the stunners on me!
_Jim_. She said we wos to divide it--she did.
_Jack_. 'Taint possible. It beats my ivories. (_He pretends to bite
it_. JIM _flies at him in a rage_.)
_Re-enter_ BILL, _with his mouth full_.
_Bill_. Now what are you two a squabblin' over? Oh! Jack's got a
yennep, and Jim's iookin' shirty.
_Jim_. She told him to divide it, and he won't.
_Bill_. Who told him?
_Jim_. Mattie.
_Bill_. You dare, Jack? Hand over.
_Jack_. Be hanged if I do.
_Bill_. Then do and be hanged. (_A struggle_.) There, Jim! Now you go
and buy what you like.
_Jim_. Am I to give Jack the half?
_Bill_. Yes, if our Mattie said it.
_Jim_. All right, Bill. (_Goes into the shop_.)
_Jack_. I owe you one for that, Bill.
_Bill_. Owe it me then, Jack. I do like fair play--always did
(_eating_).
_Jack_. You ain't a sharin' of _your_ yennep, Bill.
_Bill_. Mattie didn't say I was to. She knowed one wouldn't break up
into three nohow. 'Tain't in natur', Jack.
_Jack_. You might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill.
_Bill_. It ain't desirable, Jack--size o' trap dooly considered. Here
comes your share.
_Re-enter_ JIM. _Gives a bun to_ JACK.
_Jim_. I tell you what, Bill--she ain't _your_ Mattie. She ain't
nobody's Mattie; she's a hangel.
_Bill_. No, Jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no wings,
leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got clo'es enough to hide
'em. I wish I wos a hangel!
_Jack_. At it again, Bill! I _do_ like to hear Bill a wishin' of
hisself! Why, Bill?
_Bill_. Acause they're never 'ungry.
_Jack_. How do you know they ain't?
_Bill_. You never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres.
_Jim_. Is Mattie your sister, Bill?
_Bill_. No, Jim; I ain't good 'nough to have a sister like she.
_Jack_. Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha!
_Bill_. Dry up, Jack.
_Jim_. Tell me about her, Bill. _I_ didn't jaw you.
_Bill_. She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and things.
_Jack_. Oh! ho!
BILL _hits_ JACK. JACK _doubles himself up_.
_Bill_. Jim, our Mattie ain't like other gals; I never see her out
afore this blessed day--upon my word and honour, Jim, never!
_Jack_. (_wiping his nose with his sleeve_). You don't know a joke
from a jemmy, Bill.
_Bill_. I'll joke you!--A hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks her
feathers! Get on t'other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or
I'll give you another smeller--cheap too. Off with you!
_Jack_. No, Bill; no, please. I'm wery sorry. I ain't so bad's all
that comes to.
_Bill_. If you wants to go with Jim and me, then behave like a
gen'leman.
_Jim_. I calls our Mattie a brick!
_Bill_. None o' _your_ jaw, Jim! She ain't _your_ Mattie.
Enter THOMAS.
_Tho._ Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise--Row, or Road, or
summat?
_Bill_. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school.
_Tho._ Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt?
_Bill_. Second door round the corner, sir.
_Tho._ Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner, my man?
_Bill_. Round _any_ corner. Second door's all-ways Sunday-school.
(_Takes a sight. Exeunt boys_.)
THOMAS _sits down on a door-step_.
_Tho._ Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord dunnot be a forsakin'
ov mo. There's that abeawt th' lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' angels
keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an'
they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful
plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless
him! but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo
mo Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb.
(_Boys begin to gather and stare_.) She's o' the world to me. O Lord,
hear mo, and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw'll geet oop, and go look again.
(_Rises_.)
_First Boy_. Ain't he a cricket, Tommy?
_Second Boy_. Spry, ain't he? Prod him, and see him jump. (_General
insult_.)
_Tho._ Why, childer, what have aw done, that yo cry after mo like a
thief?
_First Boy_. Daddy Longlegs! Daddy Longlegs!
_They hustle and crowd him. Re-enter_ BILL. THOMAS _makes a rush.
They run. He seizes_ BILL. _They gather again_.
_Tho._ Han yo getten a mother, lad?
_Bill_. No, thank ye. 'Ain't got no mother. Come of a haunt, I do.
_First Boy_. Game!--ain't he?
_Tho._ Well, aw'll tak yo whoam to yor aunt--aw wull.
_Bill_. Will you now, old chap? Wery well. (_Squats_.)
_Tho._ (_holding him up by the collar, and shaking his stick over
him_). Tell mo wheer's por aunt, or aw'll breyk every bone i' yor
body.
_Bill_ (_wriggling and howling and rubbing his eyes with alternate
sleeves_). Let me go, I say. Let me go and I'll tell ye. I will
indeed, sir.
_Tho._ (_letting go_) Wheer then, mo lad?
_Bill_ (_starting up_). I' the church-cellar, sir--first bin over the
left--feeds musty, and smells strong. Ho! ho! ho! (_Takes a sight_.)
THOMAS _makes a dart_. BILL _dodges him_.
_First Boy_. Ain't he a cricket _now_, Tommy?
_Second Boy_. Got one leg too many for a cricket, Sam.
_Third Boy_. That's what he jerks hisself with, Tommy.
_Tho._ Boys, I want to be freens wi' yo. Here's a penny.
_One of the boys knocks it out of his hand. A scramble_.
_Tho._ Now, boys, dun yo know wheer's a young woman bi th' name ov
Mattie--somewheer abeawt Paradise Row?
_First Boy_. Yes, old un.
_Second Boy_. Lots on 'em.
_Third Boy_. Which on em' do you want, Mr. Cricket?
_Fourth Boy_. You ain't peticlar, I s'pose, old corner-bones?
_First Boy_. Don't you fret, old stilts. We'll find you a Mattie.
There's plenty on 'em--all nice gals.
_Tho._ I want mo own Mattie.
_First Boy_. Why, you'd never tell one from t'other on 'em!
_Third Boy_. All on 'em wery glad to see old Daddy Longlegs!
_Tho._ Oh dear! Oh dear! What an awful plaze this Lon'on do be! To
see the childer so bad!
_Second Boy_. Don't cry, gran'pa. _She'_d chaff you worser 'n us!
We're only poor little innocent boys. We don't know nothink, bless
you! Oh no!
_First Boy_. You'd better let her alone, arter all, bag o' nails.
_Second Boy_. She'll have it out on you now, for woppin' of her when
she wor a kid.
_First Boy_. She's a wopper herself now.
_Third Boy_. Mighty fine, with your shirt for a great-coat. He! he!
he!
_Fourth Boy_. Mattie never kicks us poor innocent boys--cos we 'ain't
got no mothers to take our parts. Boo hoo!
_Enter_ JACK--_his hands in his pockets_.
_Jack_. What's the row, Bill?
_Bill_. Dunnow, Jack. Old chap collared me when I wasn't alludin' to
him. He's after some Mattie or other. It can't be our Mattie. _She_
wouldn't never have such a blazin' old parient as that.
_Jack_. Supposin' it was your Mattie, Bill, would you split, and let
Scull-and-cross-bones nab her?
_Bill_. Would I? Would I 'and over our Mattie to her natural enemy?
Did you ax it, Jack?
_Jack_. Natural enemy! My eye, Bill! what words you fakes!
_Bill_. Ain't he her natural enemy, then? Ain't it yer father as bumps
yer 'ed, an' cusses ye, an' lets ye see him eat? Afore he gets our
Mattie, I'll bite!
_Tho._ Poor lad! poor lad! Dunnot say that! Her feyther's th' best
freen' hoo's getten. Th' moor's th' pity, for it's not mich he can do
for her. But he would dee for her--he would.
_Boys (all together)_. Go along, Daddy-devil! Pick yer own bones, an'
ha' done.
Bag-raker!
Skin-cat!
Bag o' nails!
Scull-an'-cross-bones!
Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn't say his prayers--
Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs.
Go along! Go to hell!
_We_'ll skin you.
Melt ye down for taller, we will.
Only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'!
_They throw things at him. He sits down on the door-step, and covers
his head with his arms. Enter_ COL. G. _Boys run off_.
_Tho._ Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie!
_Col. G._ Poor old fellow! Are you hurt?
_Tho._ Eh! _yo_ be a followin' ov mo too!
_Col. G._ What are you doing here?
_Tho._ What am aw doin' yere! Thee knows well enough what aw're a
doin' yere. It 're o' thy fau't, mon.
_Col. G._ Why, you've got a blow! Your head is cut! Poor old fellow!
_Tho._ Never yo mind mo yed.
_Col. G._ You must go home.
_Tho._ Goo whoam, says to! Aw goo no-wheers but to th' grave afoor
aw've feawnd mo chylt.
_Col. G._ Come along with me; I will do all I can to find her. Perhaps
I can help you after all.
_Tho._ Aw mak nea deawbt o' that, mon. And thae seems a gradely chap.
Aw'm a'most spent. An' aw'm sick, sick! Dunnot let th' boys shove mo
abeawt again.
_Col. G._ I will not. They shan't come near you. Take my arm. Poor old
fellow! If you would but trust me! Hey! Cab there!
_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ SUSAN, _peeping_.
_Sus_. I wonder whatever's come to Mattie! It's long time she was out
again.
_Enter_ MATTIE, _hurriedly_.
_Mat_. Oh, Susan! Susan! (_Falls_.)
_Sus_. Mattie! Mattie! (_Kneels beside her, and undoes her bonnet_.)
_Enter_ POLICEMAN.
_Pol_. What ails her? (_Goes to lift her_.)
_Sus_. Leave her alone, will you? Let her head down. Get some water.
_Pol_. Drunk--is she?
_Sus_. Hold your tongue, you brute! If she'd a satin frock on, i'stead
o' this here poor cotton gownd, you'd ha' showed her t'other side o'
your manners! Get away with you. You're too ugly to look at.--Mattie!
Mattie! Look up, child.
_Pol_. She mustn't lie there.
_Mat_. Susan!
_Pol_. Come, my girl.
_Sus_. You keep off, I tell you! Don't touch her. She's none o' your
sort. Come, Mattie, dear.--Why don't you make 'em move on?
_Pol_. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, young woman.
_Sus_. You live lobster!
_Pol_. I'll have to lock you up, I see. One violent. T'other
incapable.
_Sus_. You're another. Mattie, my dear, come along home.
_Pol_. That's right; be off with you.
MATTIE _rises_.
_Mat_. Let's go. Sue! Let's get farther off.
_Sus_. You can't walk, child. If I hadn't been so short o' wittles for
a week, I could ha' carried you. But it's only a step to the
cook-shop.
_Mat_. No money, Sue. (_Tries to walk_.)
_Sus_. O Lord! What _shall_ I do! And that blue-bottle there a buzzin'
an' a starin' at us like a dead codfish!--Boh!
_Enter_ BILL.
_Bill_. Our Mattie! Gracious! what's the row, Susan?
_Sus_. She ain't well. Take her other arm, Bill, and help her out o'
this. We ain't in no Christian country. Pluck up, Mattie, dear.
_Bill_. Come into the tart-shop. I'm a customer.
_They go towards the shop. Exit_ POLICEMAN.
_Mat_. No, no, Sukey! I can't abide the smell of it. Let me sit on the
kerb for a minute. (_Sits down_.) Oh, father! father!
_Bill_. Never you mind, Mattie! If he wor twenty fathers, he shan't
come near ye.
_Mat_. Oh, Bill! if you could find him for me! He would take me home.
_Bill_. Now who'd ha' thought o' that? Axially wantin' her own father!
I'd run far enough out o' the way o' mine--an' farther if he wur
a-axin' arter me.
_Mat_. Oh me! my side!
_Sus_. It's hunger, poor dear! (_Sits down beside her_.)
_Bill_ (_aside_). This won't do, Bill! I'm a shamed o' _you_, Bill!
_Exit_.
_Mat_. No, Susan, it's not hunger. It's the old story, Sue.
_Sus_. Mattie! I never! You don't mean to go for to tell me you're a
breakin' of your precious heart about _him_? It's not your gentleman
sure_ly_! It's not _him_ ye're turnin' sick about, this time o' day?
MATTIE _nods her head listlessly_.
_Sus_. What's up fresh, then? You was pretty bobbish when you left me.
It's little he thinks of _you_, I'll be bound.
_Mat_. That's true enough. It's little he ever thought of me. He _did_
say he loved me, though. It's fifty times he did!
_Sus_. Lies, lies, Mattie--all lies!
_Mat_. No, Susan; it wasn't lies. He meant it--at the time. That's
what made it look all right. Oh dear! Oh dear!
_Sus_. But what's come to you now, Mattie? What's fresh in it? You're
not turned like this all at once for nothink!
_Mat_. I've seen him!
_Sus_. Seen him! Oh, my! I wish it had been me. _I_'d ha' seen him!
I'd ha' torn his ugly eyes out.
_Mat_. They ain't ugly eyes. They're big and blue, and they sparkle so
when he talks to her!
_Sus_. And who's _her_? Ye didn't mention a _her_. Some brazen-faced
imperence!
_Mat_. No. The young lady at Mrs. Clifford's.
_Sus_. Oho! See if I do a stitch for her!--Shan't I leave a needle in
_her_ shimmy, just!
_Mat_. What _shall_ I do! All the good's gone out of me! And such a
pain here!
_Sus_. Keep in yer breath a minute, an' push yer ribs out. It's one on
'em's got a top o' the other.
_Mat_. Such a grand creature! And her colour coming and going like the
shadows on the corn! It's no wonder he forgot poor me. But it'll burn
itself out afore long.
_Sus_. Don't ye talk like that, Mattie; I can't abear it.
_Mat_. If I was dressed like her, though, and could get my colour
back! But laws! I'm such a washed out piece o' goods beside her!
_Sus_. That's as I say, Matilda! It's the dress makes the differ.
_Mat_. No, Susan, it ain't. It's the free look of them--and the head
up--and the white hands--and the taper fingers. They're stronger than
us, and they're that trained like, that all their body goes in one,
like the music at a concert. _I_ couldn't pick up a needle without
going down on my knees after it. It's the pain in my side, Sue.--Yes,
it's a fine thing to be born a lady. It's _not_ the clothes, Sue. If
we was dressed ever so, we couldn't come near them. It's that look,--I
don't know what.
_Sus_. Speak for yerself, Mattie; _I_'m not a goin' to think such
small beer of _my_self, _I_ can tell you! I believe if I'd been took
in time--
_Mat_. It's a big _if_ that though, Sue.--And then she looked _so_ good!
You'd hardly think it of me,--perhaps it's because I'm dying--but for
one minute I could ha' kissed her very shoes. Oh, my side!
_Sus_. (_putting her arm tight round her waist_). Does that help it
Mattie, dear?--a little teeny bit?
_Mat_. Yes, Sukey. It holds it together a bit. Will he break her heart
too, I wonder?
_Sus_. No fear o' that! Ladies takes care o' theirselves. They're
brought up to it.
_Mat_. It's only poor girls gentlemen don't mind hurting, I suppose.
_Sus_. It's the ladies' fathers and brothers, Mattie! We've got nobody
to look after us.
_Mat_. They may break their hearts, though, for all that.
_Sus_. They won't forgive them like you, then, Mattie!
_Mat_. I dare say they're much the same as we are when it comes to
that, Sue.
_Sus_. Don't say _me_, Mattie. _I_ wouldn't forgive him--no, not if
I was to die for it. But what came of it, child?
_Mat_. I made some noise, I suppose, and the lady started.
_Sus_. And then you up and spoke?
_Mat_. I turned sick, and fell down.
_Sus_. Poor dear!
_Mat_. She got me a glass of wine, but I couldn't swallow it, and got
up and crawled out.
_Sus_. Did he see you?
_Mat_. I think he did.
_Sus_. You'll tell her, in course?
_Mat_. No, Sue; he'd hate me, and I couldn't bear that. Oh me! my
side! It's so bad!
_Sus_. Let's try for home, Mattie. It's a long way, and there's
nothing to eat when you're there; but you can lie down, and that's
everything to them as can't sit up.
_Mat_. (_rising_). I keep fancying I'm going to meet my father.
_Sus_. Let's fancy it then every turn all the way home, an' that'll
get us along. There, take my arm. There!--Come along. _Exeunt_.
_Slow music. Twilight_.
_Enter_ BILL _with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc._
_Bill_. Come! it's blackin' all over! When gents can't no longer see
their boots, 'tain't much use offerin' to shine 'em. But if I can get
a penny, I will. I _must_ take a tart to Mattie, or this here damaged
one (_laying his hand on his stomach_) won't go to sleep this night.
_Enter_ WATERFIELD.
_Bill_. Black your boots for a party, sir?
_Wat_. (_aside_) The very rascal I saw her speaking to! But wasn't she
a brick not to split! That's what I call devotion now! There _are_
some of them capable of it. I'll set her up for life. I'd give a cool
thousand it hadn't happened, though. I saw her father too hanging
about Gervaise's yesterday.
_Bill_. Clean your boots, sir? Shine 'em till they grin like a
Cheshire cat eatin' cheese!
_Wat_. Shine away, you beggar.
_Bill_ (_turning up his trousers_). I ain't no beggar, sir. Shine for
a shiner's fair play.
_Wat_. Do you live in this neighbourhood?
_Bill_. No, sir.
_Wat_. Where, then?
_Bill_ (_feeling where a pocket should be_). I don't appear to 'ave a
card about me, sir, but my address is Lamb's Court, Camomile
Street--leastways I do my sleepin' not far off of it. I've lived
there, what livin' I _have_ done, sin' ever I wor anywheres as I knows
on.
_Wat_. Do you happen to know a girl of the name of Pearson?
_Bill_. No, sir. I can't say as how I rec'lect the name. Is she a old
girl or a young un?
_Wat_. You young liar! I saw you talking to her not two hours ago!
_Bill_. Did ye now, sir? That's odd, ain't it? Bless you! I talks to
everybody. I ain't proud, sir.
_Wat_. Well, do you see this? (_holding up a sovereign_).
_Bill_. That's one o' them tilings what don't require much seein',
sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T'other twin, sir!
_Wat_. I'll give you this, if you'll do something for me--and another
to that when the thing's done.
_Bill_. 'Tain't stealin', sir?
_Wat_. No.
_Bill_. Cos, you see, Mattie--
_Wat_. Who did you say?
_Bill_. Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. 'Tain't
stealin', you say, sir?
_Wat_. What do you take me for? I want you to find out for me where
the girl Pearson lives--that's all.
_Bill_ (_snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth_). Now
then, sir!--What's the young woman like?
_Wat_. Rather tall--thin--dark hair--large dark eyes--and long white
hands. Her name's Matilda--Mattie Pearson--the girl you were talking
to, I tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago.
_Bill_ (_dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it_). Golly! it
_is_ our Mattie!
_Wat_. Shall you know her again?
_Bill_. Any boy as wasn't a hass would know his own grandmother by
them spots. Besides, I remember sich a gal addressin' of me this
mornin'. If you say her it was, I'll detect her for ye.
_Wat_. There's a good boy! What's your name?
_Bill_. Timothy, sir.
_Wat_. What else?
_Bill_. Never had no other--leastways as I knows on.
_Wat_. Well, Timothy--there's the other sov.--and it's yours the
moment you take me to her. Look at it.
_Bill_. My eye!--Is she a square Moll, sir?
_Wat_. What do you mean by that?
_Bill_. Green you are, to be sure!--She ain't one as steals, or--
_Wat_. Not she. She's a sempstress--a needlewoman, or something of the
sort.
_Bill_. And where shall I find _you_, sir?
_Wat_. Let me see:--to-morrow night--on the steps of St. Martin's
Church--ten o'clock.
_Bill_. But if I don't find her? It may be a week--or a month--or--
_Wat_. Come whether you find her or not, and let me know.
_Bill_. All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush your trousers, sir?
_Wat_. No; leave 'em.--Don't forget now.
_Bill_. Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir!
_Wat_. There's that other skid, you know.
_Bill_. All right, sir! Anything more, sir?
_Wat_. Damn your impudence! Get along.
_Exit_. BILL _watches him into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S.
_Bill_. Now by all the 'ungry gums of Arabiar, 'ere's a swell arter
our Mattie!--A right rig'lar swell! I knows 'em--soverings an' red
socks. What's come to our Mattie? 'Ere's Daddy Longlegs arter her,
vith his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty swell
vith his soverings--an' his red socks! An' she's 'ungry, poor
gal!--This 'ere yellow-boy?--I 'ain't got no faith in swells--no more
'n in Daddy Longlegses--I 'ain't!--S'posin' he wants to marry
her?--Not if I knows it. He ain't half good 'nough for _her_. Too many
quids--goin' a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! He's been a
crackin' o' cribs--_he_ has. I ain't a goin' to interduce our Mattie
to no sich blokes as him. No fathers or lovyers for me--says I!--But
this here pebble o' Paradise!--What's to be done wi' the cherub? I
can't tell _her_ a lie about it, an' who'll break it up for a cove
like me, lookin' jes' as if I'd been an' tarred myself and crep'
through a rag-bag! They'd jug me. An' what 'ud Mattie say then? I wish
I 'adn't 'a' touched it. I'm blowed if I don't toss it over a
bridge!--Then the gent 'ain't got the weight on his dunop out o' me. O
Lord! what _shall_ I do with it? I wish I'd skied it in his face! I
don't believe it's a good un; I don't! (_Bites it_.) It do taste wery
nasty. It's nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! Jes' what a cove might
look for from sich a swell! (_Goes to a street lamp and examines it_.)
Lor! there's a bobby! (_Exit. Re-enter to the lamp_.) I wish the
gen'leman 'ad guv me a penny. I can't do nothin' wi' this 'ere quid.
Vere am I to put it? I 'ain't got no pocket, an' if I was to stow it
in my 'tato-trap, I couldn't wag my red rag--an' Mother Madge 'ud soon
have me by the chops. Nor I've got noveres to plant it.--O Lor! it's
all I've got, an' Madge lets nobody go to bed without the tuppence.
It's all up with Bill--_for_ the night!--Where's the odds!--there's a
first-class hotel by the river--The Adelphi Arches, they calls
it--where they'll take me in fast enough, and I can go to sleep with
it in my cheek. Coves is past talkin' to you there. Nobody as sees me
in that 'ere 'aunt of luxury, 'ill take me for a millionaire vith a
skid in his mouth. 'Tain't a bit cold to-night neither (_going_).--Vy
do they say a _aunt_ of luxury? I s'pose acause she's wife to my
uncle. _Exit_.
_Slow music. The night passes. A policeman crosses twice_. THOMAS
_crosses between. Dawn_.
_Re-enter_ BILL.
_Bill_. I'm hanged if this here blasted quid ain't a burnin' of me
like a red-hot fardin'! I'm blest if I've slep' more 'n half the
night. I woke up oncet, with it a slippin' down red lane. I wish I had
swallered it. Then nobody 'd 'a' ast me vere I got it. I don't wonder
as rich coves turn out sich a bad lot. I believe the devil's in this
'ere!
_Knocks at_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S door. JAMES _opens. Is shutting it
again_. BILL _shoves in his stool_.
_Bill_. Hillo, Blazes! where's your manners? Is that the way you
behaves to callers on your gov'nor's business?
_James (half opening the door_). Get about your own business, you
imperent boy!
_Bill_. I'm about it now, young man. I wants to see your gov'nor.
_James_. _You_'ve got business with _him_, have you, eh?
_Bill_. Amazin' precoxity! You've hit it! I _have_ got business with _him_,
Door-post--not in the wery smallest with _you_, Door-post!--essep' the
knife-boy's been and neglected of your feet-bags this mornin'. (JAMES
_would slam the door_. BILL _shoves in his stool_.) Don't you try that
'ere little game again, young man! for if I loses my temper and takes
to hollerin', you'll wish yourself farther.
_James_. A humbug you are! I 'ain't got no gov'nor, boy. The master as
belongs to me is a mis'ess.
_Bill_. Then that 'ere gen'lemen as comes an' goes, ain't your
master--eh?
_James_. What gen'leman, stoopid?
_Bill_. Oh! it don't matter.
_James_. What _have--you--got_ to say to _him_?
_Bill_. Some'at pickled: it'll keep.
_James_. I'll give him a message, if you like.
_Bill_. Well, you may tell him the bargain's hoff, and if he wants his
money, it's a waitin' of him round the corner.
_James_. You little blackguard! Do you suppose a gen'leman's a goin'
to deliver sich a message as that! Be off, you himp! (_Makes a dart at
him_.)
_Bill_ (_dodging him_). How d'e do, Clumsy? Don't touch me; I ain't
nice. Why, what was you made for, Parrot? Is them calves your own
rearin' now? Is that a quid or a fardin? Have a shot, now, Shins.
_James_. None o' your imperence, young blackie! 'And me over the
money, and I'll give it to the gen'leman.
_Bill_. Do you see anything peticlar green in my eye, Rainbow?
JAMES _makes a rush_. BILL _gets down before him_. JAMES _tumbles
over him_. BILL _blacks his face with his brush_.
_Bill_ (_running a little way_). Ha! ha! ha! Bill Shoeblack--his mark!
Who's blackie now? You owes me a penny--twopence--'twor sich a ugly
job! Ain't shiny? I'll come back and shine ye for another penny. Good
mornin', Jim Crow! Take my adwice, and don't on no account apply your
winegar afore you've opened your hoyster. Likeways: Butter don't melt
on a cold tater. _Exit_.
_Exit_ JAMES _into the house, banging the door_.
_Enter_ WATERFIELD, _followed by BILL_.
_Bill_. Please, sir, I been a watchin' for you.
_Wat_. Go to the devil!
_Bill_. I'd rayther not. So there's your suv'ring!
_Wat_. Go along. Meet me where I told you.
_Bill_. I won't. There's yer skid.
_Wat_. Be off, or I'll give you in charge. Hey! Policeman! _Exit_.
_Bill_. Well, I'm blowed! This quid '11 be the hangin' o' me! _Damn
you_! (_Throws it fiercely on the ground and stamps on it_.) Serves
me right for chaffin' the old un! He didn't look a bad sort--_for_
a gov'nor.--Now I reflexes, I heerd Mattie spoony on some father or
other, afore. O Lord! I'll get Jim and Jack to help me look out for
him. (_Enter_ THOMAS.) Lor' ha' mussy!--talk o' the old un!--I'm wery
peticlar glad as I found you, daddy. I been a lookin' for ye--leastways
I was a goin' to look for ye this wery moment as you turns up. I chaffed
you like a zorologicle monkey yesterday, daddy, an' I'm wery sorry. But
you see fathers ain't nice i' this 'ere part o' the continent. (_Enter_
JAMES, _in plain clothes, watching them_.) They ain't no good nohow to
nobody. If _I_ wos a husband and a father, I don't know as how I should
be A One, myself. P'r'aps I might think it wur my turn to break arms and
legs. I knowed more 'n one father as did. It's no wonder the boys is a
plaguy lot, daddy.