[As he speaks David enters, a tall ungainly youth with spectacles
    and a projecting brow.

David.  Here I yam, feyther.

Bully.  It’s close on ten. (Hopefully) Have ye been at a night-club?

David.  I were kept late at evenin’ class.

Bully.  Brr! (In an ecstasy of fury) See ye belong to a night-club before the week’s out. (He does his glare again.) I’ll establish frivolity and a spirit of modernism in this household, if I have to take the stick to every member of it.

Janet (springing up suddenly).  Feyther! (A pause; she collects herself for her big effort.) Feyther, I’m one o’ they dour silent girls to whom expression comes hardly, but (with veiled menace) when it does come it means fifteen minutes’ unrelieved monologue.  So tak’ heed.  We’re not wanting these changes, and to be up-to-date, and all that.  I’m happy as I am, and so’s David.  He has his hope of the council, and the bribes and them things.  And I’ve my guild and my friends, with their odd clothes and variable accents.  That’s the life I want, and I won’t change it.  I won’t—­

[Quite suddenly she breaks from them and rushes out of the room, slamming the door after her.  The others remain silent, apparently from emotion, but really to see if there will be any applause.  When this is settled in the negative old Bullyum speaks again.

Bully, (slowly and as if with an immense effort).  Why couldn’t she wait?...  She might have known we wouldn’t decide anything—­that we never do decide anything—­because it would be too much like a rounded climax.  Well (rousing himself), let’s put out the gas. [He moves heavily towards the conspicuous bracket.

David (protesting).  But, feyther, ’tisn’t near time for bed yet.

Bully, (grimly).  Maybe; but ’tis more than time play was finished.  And this is how.

    [He turns the tap.  A few moments later the light is switched off with
    a faintly audible click, and upon a stage in total darkness the curtain
    falls.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Officer (anxious to pass his recruit who is not shooting well).  “DO YOU SMOKE MUCH?”

Recruit. “ABOUT A PACKET OF WOODBINES A DAY, SIR.”

Officer. “DO YOU INHALE?” Recruit. “NOT MORE THAN A PINT A DAY, SIR.”]

* * * * *

THE WOBBLER.

My friend, whom for the purpose of concealing his identity I will call Wiggles, opened fire upon me on March 1st (coming in like a lion) with this: 

“DEAR WILLIAM,—­I have not been well and my doctor thinks it might do me good to come to Cornwall for a few weeks.  May I invite myself to stay with you?...”