Mrs. L. Don’ yu pay no ’eed to his talk.
L. Aida. I daon’t.
Ice. Would yer like a sip aht o’ my mug?
L. Aida. [Brilliant] Yus.
Mrs. L. Not at yore age, me dear, though it is teetotal.
[Little Aida
puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to
understand.]
Lemmy. Well, ‘ave one o’ my gum-drops.
[Holds out a paper.]
[Little Aida
brilliant, takes a flat, dark substance from it,
and puts it in her mouth.]
Give me a kiss, an’ I’ll give yer a penny.
[Little Aida shakes her head, and leans out of window.]
Movver, she daon’t know the valyer of money.
Mrs. L. Never mind ’im, me dear.
L. Aida. [Sucking the gum-drop—with difficulty] There’s a taxi-cab at the corner.
[Little Aida
runs to the door. A figure stands in the doorway;
she skids round him
and out. The press comes in.]
Lemmy. [Dubiously] Wat-oh!
Press. Mr. Lemmy?
Lemmy. The syme.
Press. I’m from the Press.
Lemmy. Blimy.
Press. They told me at your place you wens very likely here.
Lemmy. Yus I left Downin’ Street a bit early to-dy! [He twangs the feddle-strings pompously.]
Press. [Taking out his note-book and writing] “Fiddles while Rome is burning!” Mr. Lemmy, it’s my business at this very critical time to find out what the nation’s thinking. Now, as a representative working man—
Lemmy. That’s me.
Press. You can help me. What are your views?
Lemmy. [Putting down fiddle] Voos? Sit dahn!
[The press sits on the stool which Lemmy has vacated.]
The Press—my Muvver. Seventy-seven. She’s a wonder; ’yn’t yer, old dear?
Press. Very happy to make your acquaintance, Ma’am. [He writes] “Mrs. Lemmy, one of the veterans of industry——” By the way, I’ve jest passed a lot of people following a coffin.
Lemmy. Centre o’ the cyclone—cyse o’ starvytion; you ’ad ’er in the pyper this mornin’.
Press. Ah! yes! Tragic occurrence. [Looking at the trousers.] Hub of the Sweated Industries just here. I especially want to get at the heart——
Mrs. L. ’Twasn’t the ’eart, ’twas the stomach.
Press. [Writing] “Mrs. Lemmy goes straight to the point.”
Lemmy. Mister, is it my voos or Muvver’s yer want?
Press. Both.
Lemmy. ’Cos if yer get Muvver’s, yer won’t ’ave time for mine. I tell yer stryte [Confidentially] she’s get a glawss a’ port wine in ’er. Naow, mind yer, I’m not anxious to be intervooed. On the other ’and, anyfink I might ‘eve to sy of valyer——There is a clawss o’ politician that ‘as nuffn to sy—Aoh! an’ daon’t ’e sy it just! I dunno wot pyper yer represent.