Poulder. [Seeing red] Ho!  Because you had the privilege of fightin’ for your country you still think you can put it on, do you?  Take up your wine!  ’Pon my word, you fellers have got no nerve left!

     [James makes a sudden swoop, lifts the bomb and poises it in
     both hands.  Poulder recoils against a bin and gazes, at the
     object.]

James.  Put up your hands!

Poulder.  I defy you to make me ridiculous.

James. [Fiercely] Up with ’em!

     [Poulder’s hands go up in an uncontrollable spasm, which he
     subdues almost instantly, pulling them down again.]

James.  Very good. [He lowers the bomb.]

Poulder. [Surprised] I never lifted ’em.

James.  You’d have made a first-class Boche, Poulder.  Take the bomb yourself; you’re in charge of this section.

Poulder. [Pouting] It’s no part of my duty to carry menial objects; if you’re afraid of it I’ll send ’Enry.

James.  Afraid!  You ‘Op o’ me thumb!

     [From the “communication trench” appears little Anne, followed
     by a thin, sharp, sallow-faced man of thirty-five or so, and
     another footman, carrying a wine-cooler.]

L. Anne.  I’ve brought the bucket, and the Press.

Press. [In front of Poulder’s round eyes and mouth] Ah, major domo, I was just taking the names of the Anti-Sweating dinner. [He catches sight of the bomb in James’s hand] By George!  What A.1. irony! [He brings out a note-book and writes] “Highest class dining to relieve distress of lowest class-bombed by same!” Tipping! [He rubs his hands].

Poulder. [Drawing himself up] Sir?  This is present! [He indicates Anne with the flat of his hand.]

L. Anne.  I found the bomb.

Press. [Absorbed] By Jove!  This is a piece of luck! [He writes.]

Poulder. [Observing him] This won’t do—­it won’t do at all!

Press. [Writing-absorbed] “Beginning of the British Revolution!”

Poulder. [To James] Put it in the cooler.  ’Enry, ’old up the cooler.  Gently!  Miss Anne, get be’ind the Press.

James. [Grimly—­holding the bomb above the cooler] It won’t be the Press that’ll stop Miss Anne’s goin’ to ‘Eaven if one o’ this sort goes off.  Look out!  I’m goin’ to drop it.

     [All recoil.  Henry puts the cooler down and backs away.]

L. Anne. [Dancing forward] Oh!  Let me see!  I missed all the war, you know!

     [James lowers the bomb into the cooler.]

Poulder. [Regaining courage—­to the press, who is scribbling in his note-book] If you mention this before the police lay their hands on it, it’ll be contempt o’ Court.