Jones. [Crossing the room gloomily.] If you think I want to leave the little beggars you’re bloomin’ well mistaken.

Mrs. Jones.  Of course I know you’re fond of them.

Jones. [Fingering the purse, half angrily.] Well, then, you stow it, old girl.  The kids ’ll get along better with you than when I ’m here.  If I ‘d ha’ known as much as I do now, I ‘d never ha’ had one o’ them.  What’s the use o’ bringin’ ’em into a state o’ things like this?  It’s a crime, that’s what it is; but you find it out too late; that’s what’s the matter with this ’ere world.

     [He puts the purse back in his pocket.]

Mrs. Jones.  Of course it would have been better for them, poor little things; but they’re your own children, and I wonder at you talkin’ like that.  I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose them.

Jones. [Sullenly.] An’ you ain’t the only one.  If I make money out there—­[Looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat—­in a changed voice.] Leave that coat alone!

     [The silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the
     cigarettes upon the bed.  Taking up the box she stares at it;
     he rushes at her and snatches the box away.]

Mrs. Jones. [Cowering back against the bed.] Oh, Jem! oh, Jem!

Jones. [Dropping the box onto the table.] You mind what you’re sayin’!  When I go out I ’ll take and chuck it in the water along with that there purse.  I ’ad it when I was in liquor, and for what you do when you ’re in liquor you’re not responsible-and that’s Gawd’s truth as you ought to know.  I don’t want the thing—­I won’t have it.  I took it out o’ spite.  I ’m no thief, I tell you; and don’t you call me one, or it’ll be the worse for you.

Mrs. Jones. [Twisting her apron strings.] It’s Mr. Barthwick’s!  You’ve taken away my reputation.  Oh, Jem, whatever made you?

Jones.  What d’ you mean?

Mrs. Jones.  It’s been missed; they think it’s me.  Oh! whatever made you do it, Jem?

Jones.  I tell you I was in liquor.  I don’t want it; what’s the good of it to me?  If I were to pawn it they’d only nab me.  I ’m no thief.  I ’m no worse than wot that young Barthwick is; he brought ’ome that purse that I picked up—­a lady’s purse—­’ad it off ’er in a row, kept sayin’ ’e ’d scored ’er off.  Well, I scored ’im off.  Tight as an owl ‘e was!  And d’ you think anything’ll happen to him?

Mrs. Jones. [As though speaking to herself.] Oh, Jem! it’s the bread out of our mouths!

Jones.  Is it then?  I’ll make it hot for ’em yet.  What about that purse?  What about young Barthwick?

[Mrs. Jones comes forward to the table and tries to take the box; Jones prevents her.] What do you want with that?  You drop it, I say!