like a thousand serpents in me.  I ‘m not arskin’ for any treat.  A man wants to sweat hisself silly and not allowed that’s a rum start, ain’t it?  A man wants to sweat his soul out to keep the breath in him and ain’t allowed—­that’s justice that’s freedom and all the rest of it! [He turns his face towards the wall.] You’re so milky mild; you don’t know what goes on inside o’ me.  I’m done with the silly game.  If they want me, let ’em come for me!

     [Mrs. Jones stops cooking and stands unmoving at the table.]

I’ve tried and done with it, I tell you.  I’ve never been afraid of what ’s before me.  You mark my words—­if you think they’ve broke my spirit, you’re mistook.  I ’ll lie and rot sooner than arsk ’em again.  What makes you stand like that—­you long-sufferin’, Gawd-forsaken image—­that’s why I can’t keep my hands off you.  So now you know.  Work!  You can work, but you have n’t the spirit of a louse!

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?