Lemmy. [Dubious] Wot abaht ’em?  I s’pose ye’re on the comic pypers?  ’Ave yer noticed wot a weakness they ’ave for the ’orrible?

Press. [Writing] “A grim humour peeped out here and there through the earnestness of his talk.”

     [He sketches Lemmy’s profile.]

Lemmy.  We ‘ad an explosion in my factory time o’ the war, that would just ha’ done for you comics. [He meditates] Lord!  They was after it too,—­they an’ the Sundyes; but the Censor did ’em.  Strike me, I could tell yer things!

Press.  That’s what I want, Mr. Lemmy; tell me things!

Lemmy. [Musing] It’s a funny world, ’yn’t it?  ’Ow we did blow each other up! [Getting up to admire] I sy, I shall be syfe there.  That won’t betry me anonymiety.  Why!  I looks like the Prime Minister!

Press. [Rather hurt] You were going to tell me things.

Lemmy.  Yus, an’ they’ll be the troof, too.

Press.  I hope so; we don’t——­

Lemmy.  Wot oh!

Press. [A little confused.] We always try to verify——­

Lemmy.  Yer leave it at tryin’, daon’t yer?  Never, mind, ye’re a gryte institootion.  Blimy, yer do have jokes, wiv it, spinnin’ rahnd on yer own tyles, denyin’ to-dy wot ye’re goin’ to print to-morrer.  Ah, well!  Ye’re like all of us below the line o’ comfort—­live dyngerously—­ever’ dy yer last.  That’s wy I’m interested in the future.

Press.  Well now—­the future. [Writing] “He prophesies.”

Lemmy.  It’s syfer, ’yn’t it? [He winks] No one never looks back on prophecies.  I remembers an editor spring o’ 1916 stykin’ his reputytion the war’d be over in the follerin’ October.  Increased ’is circulytion abaht ‘arf a million by it. 1917 an’ war still on—­’ad ’is readers gone back on ‘im?  Nao!  They was increasin’ like rabbits.  Prophesy wot people want to believe, an’ ye’re syfe.  Naow, I’ll styke my reputation on somethin’, you tyke it dahn word for word.  This country’s goin’ to the dawgs—­Naow, ’ere’s the sensytion—­unless we gets a new religion.

Press.  Ah!  Now for it—­yes?

Lemmy.  In one word:  “Kindness.”  Daon’t mistyke me, nao sickly sentiment and nao patronizin’.  Me as kind to the millionaire as ’im to me. [Fills his mug and drinks.]

Press. [Struck] That’s queer!  Kindness! [Writing] “Extremes meet.  Bombed and bomber breathing the same music.”

Lemmy.  But ‘ere’s the interestin’ pynt.  Can it be done wivaht blood?

Press. [Writing] “He doubts.”

Lemmy.  No dabt wotever.  It cawn’t!  Blood-and-kindness!  Spill the blood o’ them that aren’t kind—­an’ there ye are!

Press.  But pardon me, how are you to tell?

Lemmy.  Blimy, they leaps to the heye!