[At the window] Cheerio!  Cockies!

     [The silence of surprise falls on the crowd.]

I’m one of yer.  Gas an’ water I am.  Got more grievances an’ out of employment than any of yer.  I want to see their blood flow, syme as you.

Press. [writing] “Born orator—­ready cockney wit—­saves situation.”

Lemmy.  Wot I sy is:  Dahn wiv the country, dahn wiv everyfing.  Begin agyne from the foundytions. [Nodding his head back at the room] But we’ve got to keep one or two o’ these ’ere under glawss, to show our future generytions.  An’ this one is ’armless.  His pipes is sahnd, ’is ’eart is good; ’is ’ead is not strong.  Is ’ouse will myke a charmin’ palace o’ varieties where our children can come an’ see ’ow they did it in the good old dyes.  Yer never see rich waxworks as ’is butler and ’is four conscientious khaki footmen.  Why—­wot dyer think ’e ’as ’em for—­fear they might be out o’-works like you an’ me.  Nao!  Keep this one; ’e’s a Flower.  ‘Arf a mo’!  I’ll show yer my Muvver.  Come ’ere, old lydy; and bring yer trahsers. [Mrs. Lemmy comes forward to the window] Tell abaht yer speech to the meetin’.

Mrs. Lemmy. [Bridling] Oh dear!  Well, I cam’ in with me trousers, an’ they putt me up on the pedestory at once, so I tole ’em. [Holding up the trousers] “I putt in the button’oles, I stretches the flies; I lines the crutch; I putt on this bindin’, I presses the seams—­Tuppence three farthin’s a pair.”

     [A groan from tote crowd, ]

Lemmy. [Showing her off] Seventy-seven!  Wot’s ’er income?  Twelve bob a week; seven from the Gover’ment an’ five from the sweat of ’er brow.  Look at ’er!  ‘Yn’t she a tight old dear to keep it goin’!  No workus for ’er, nao fear!  The gryve rather!

     [Murmurs from the crowd, at Whom Mrs. Lemmy is blandly smiling.]

You cawn’t git below ’er—­impossible!  She’s the foundytions of the country—­an’ rocky ’yn’t the word for ’em.  Worked ’ard all ’er life, brought up a family and buried ’em on it.  Twelve bob a week, an’ given when ’er fingers goes, which is very near.  Well, naow, this torf ‘ere comes to me an’ says:  “I’d like to do somefin’ for yer muvver.  ’Ow’s ten bob a week?” ’e says.  Naobody arst ’im—­quite on ’is own.  That’s the sort ’e is. [Sinking his voice confidentially] Sorft.  You bring yer muvvers ’ere, ’e’ll do the syme for them.  I giv yer the ’int.

Voice. [From the crowd] What’s ’is nyme?

Lemmy.  They calls ’im Bill.

Voice.  Bill What?

L. Anne.  Dromondy.

Lady W. Anne!

Lemmy.  Dromedary ’is nyme is.

Voice. [From the crowd] Three cheers for Bill Dromedary.

Lemmy.  I sy, there’s veal an’ ‘am, an’ pork wine at the back for them as wants it; I ‘eard the word passed.  An’ look ’ere, if yer want a flag for the revolution, tyke muvver’s trahsers an’ tie ’em to the corfin.  Yer cawn’t ‘ave no more inspirin’ banner.  Ketch! [He throws the trousers out] Give Bill a double-barrel fast, to show there’s no ill-feelin’.  Ip, ’ip!