C’s.  M. Which brings you under the exemption clause.  But—­to resume; how Nursery Songs and Tales must now be duly licensed by our Censor, and any deviation from the text forbidden under heavy penalties?  All that you know.  Well; with concern of late, I have remarked among our infancy the rapid increase of a baneful habit on which I scarce can bring my tongue to dwell. (The Stage darker; blind at back illuminated.) Oh, CONRAD, there are children—­think of it!—­so lost to every sense of decency that, in mere wantonness or brainless sloth, they obstinately suck forbidden thumbs! (CONRAD starts with irrepressible emotion.) Forgive me if I shock your innocence! (Sadly.) Such things exist—­but soon shall cease to be, thanks to the measure we have passed to-day!

Con. (with growing uneasiness). But how can statutes check such practices?

C’s M. (patting his head). Right shrewdly questioned, boy!  I come to that.  Some timid sentimentalists advised compulsory restraint in woollen gloves, or the deterrent aid of bitter aloes. I saw the evil had too deep a seat to yield to such half-hearted remedies.  No; we must cut, ere we could hope to cure!  Nay, interrupt me not; my Bill appoints a new official, by the style and title of “London County Council Scissorman,” for the detection of young “suck-a-thumbs.”

[Here the shadow of a huge hand brandishing a gigantic pair of shears appears upon the blind.]

Con. (hiding his face in his Mother’s lap). Ah, Mother, see!... the scissors!...  On the blind!

C’s.  M. Why, how you tremble!  You’ve no cause to fear.  The shadow of his grim insignia should have no terror—­save for thumb-suckers.

Con. And what for them?

C’s.  M. (complacently). A doom devised by me—­the confiscation of the culprit thumbs.  Thus shall our statute cure while it corrects, for those who have no thumbs can err no more.

[The Shadow slowly passes on the blind, CONRAD appearing relieved at its departure.  Loud knocking without.  Both start to their feet.

C’s M. Who knocks so loud at such an hour as this?

A Voice. Open, I charge ye.  In the Council’s name!

C’s M. ’Tis the Official Red-legged Scissorman, who doubtless calls to thank me for the post.

Con. (with a gloomy determination). More like his business, Madam, is with—­Me!

C’s.  M. (suddenly enlightened). A Suck-a-thumb?... you, CONRAD?

C. (desperately). Ay,—­from birth!

[Profound silence, as Mother and Son face one another.  The knocking is renewed.

C’s.  M. Oh, this is horrible—­it must not be!  I’ll shoot the bolt and barricade the door.

[CONRAD places himself before it, and addresses his Mother in a tone of incisive irony.