Then there weren’t no airyplanes and there weren’t no bombs and guns;
    You just biffed the opposition on the ’ead. 
  If the world could take all weapons from the British and the ’Uns,
    Could scrap the steel, the copper and the lead;
  If we fought it out with pick-’andles and fists,
    If the good old times would only come agin,
  When there weren’t no dirty trenches with their rats and lice and
      stenches,
    Why, a month ‘ud see us whoopin’ through Berlin!

* * * * *

SPOOP.

A REPERTORY DRAMA IN ONE ACT.

    ["A repertory play is one that is unlikely to be repeated.”—­Old
    Saying.]

CHARACTERS.

John Bullyum, J.P. (Member of the Town Council of Mudslush). Mrs. Bullyum (his wife). Janet (their daughter). David (their son).

SCENE.—­The living-room of a smallish house in the dullest street of a provincial suburb. [N.B.—­This merely means that practically any scenery will do, provided the wall-paper is sufficiently hideous.  Furnish with the scourings of the property-room—­a great convenience for Sunday evening productions.] The room contains rather less than the usual allowance of doors and windows, thus demonstrating a fine contempt for stage traditions.  An electric-light, disguised within a mid-Victorian gas-globe, occupies a conspicuous position on one wall.  You will see why presently.  When the curtain rises Janet, an awkward girl of any age over thirty (and made up to look it) is seated before the fire knitting.  Her mother, also knitting, faces her.  The appearance of the elder woman contains a very careful suggestion of the nearest this kind of play ever gets to low-comedy.

Janet (glancing at clock on mantelpiece).  It’s close on nine.  David is late again.

Mrs. B. He’s aye late these nights.  ’Tis the lectures at the Institute that keeps him.

    [N.B.—­Naturally both women speak with a pronounced accent, South
    Lancashire if possible.  Failing that, anything sufficiently unlike
    ordinary English will serve.

Janet.  He’s that anxious to get on, is David.

Mrs. B. Ay, he’s fair set on being a town councillor one day, like thy feyther.

Janet (quietly).  That ’ud be fine.

Mrs. B. You’d a rare long meeting at the women’s guild to-night.

Janet (without emotion).  Ay.  They’ve elected me to go to Manchester on the deputation.

Mrs. B. You’ll like that.

Janet (suppressing a secret pride so that it is wholly imperceptible by the audience).  It’ll be well enough.  I’m to go first-class. (A pause.) Young Mr. Inkslinger is going too.

Mrs. B. (with interest).  Can they spare him from the boot-shop?