Mrs. Jones. [Quietly.] You talk more wild sometimes when you’re yourself, James, than when you ’re not.  If you don’t get work, how are we to go on?  They won’t let us stay here; they’re looking to their money to-day, I know.

Jones.  I see this Barthwick o’ yours every day goin’ down to Pawlyment snug and comfortable to talk his silly soul out; an’ I see that young calf, his son, swellin’ it about, and goin’ on the razzle-dazzle.  Wot ’ave they done that makes ’em any better than wot I am?  They never did a day’s work in their lives.  I see ’em day after day.

Mrs. Jones.  And I wish you wouldn’t come after me like that, and hang about the house.  You don’t seem able to keep away at all, and whatever you do it for I can’t think, because of course they notice it.

Jones.  I suppose I may go where I like.  Where may I go?  The other day I went to a place in the Edgware Road.  “Gov’nor,” I says to the boss, “take me on,” I says.  “I ‘aven’t done a stroke o’ work not these two months; it takes the heart out of a man,” I says; “I ’m one to work; I ’m not afraid of anything you can give me!” “My good man,” ’e says, “I ’ve had thirty of you here this morning.  I took the first two,” he says, “and that’s all I want.”  “Thank you, then rot the world!” I says.  “Blasphemin’,” he says, “is not the way to get a job.  Out you go, my lad!” [He laughs sardonically.] Don’t you raise your voice because you’re starvin’; don’t yer even think of it; take it lyin’ down!  Take it like a sensible man, carn’t you?  And a little way down the street a lady says to me:  [Pinching his voice] “D’ you want to earn a few pence, my man?” and gives me her dog to ’old outside a shop-fat as a butler ‘e was—­tons o’ meat had gone to the makin’ of him.  It did ’er good, it did, made ’er feel ’erself that charitable, but I see ‘er lookin’ at the copper standin’ alongside o’ me, for fear I should make off with ’er bloomin’ fat dog. [He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a boot on.  Then looking up.] What’s in that head o’ yours? [Almost pathetically.] Carn’t you speak for once?

     [There is a knock, and Mrs. Seddon, the landlady, appears, an
     anxious, harassed, shabby woman in working clothes.]

Mrs. Seddon.  I thought I ’eard you come in, Mrs. Jones.  I ’ve spoke to my ’usband, but he says he really can’t afford to wait another day.

Jones. [With scowling jocularity.] Never you mind what your ’usband says, you go your own way like a proper independent woman.  Here, jenny, chuck her that.

     [Producing a sovereign from his trousers pocket, he throws it
     to his wife, who catches it in her apron with a gasp.  Jones
     resumes the lacing of his boots.]

Mrs. Jones. [Rubbing the sovereign stealthily.] I’m very sorry we’re so late with it, and of course it’s fourteen shillings, so if you’ve got six that will be right.