Press.  Well now—­the future. [Writing] “He prophesies.”

Lemmy.  It’s syfer, ’yn’t it? [He winks] No one never looks back on prophecies.  I remembers an editor spring o’ 1916 stykin’ his reputytion the war’d be over in the follerin’ October.  Increased ’is circulytion abaht ‘arf a million by it. 1917 an’ war still on—­’ad ’is readers gone back on ‘im?  Nao!  They was increasin’ like rabbits.  Prophesy wot people want to believe, an’ ye’re syfe.  Naow, I’ll styke my reputation on somethin’, you tyke it dahn word for word.  This country’s goin’ to the dawgs—­Naow, ’ere’s the sensytion—­unless we gets a new religion.

Press.  Ah!  Now for it—­yes?

Lemmy.  In one word:  “Kindness.”  Daon’t mistyke me, nao sickly sentiment and nao patronizin’.  Me as kind to the millionaire as ’im to me. [Fills his mug and drinks.]

Press. [Struck] That’s queer!  Kindness! [Writing] “Extremes meet.  Bombed and bomber breathing the same music.”

Lemmy.  But ‘ere’s the interestin’ pynt.  Can it be done wivaht blood?

Press. [Writing] “He doubts.”

Lemmy.  No dabt wotever.  It cawn’t!  Blood-and-kindness!  Spill the blood o’ them that aren’t kind—­an’ there ye are!

Press.  But pardon me, how are you to tell?

Lemmy.  Blimy, they leaps to the heye!

Press. [Laying down-his note-book] I say, let me talk to you as man to man for a moment.

Lemmy.  Orl right.  Give it a rest!

Press.  Your sentiments are familiar to me.  I’ve got a friend on the Press who’s very keen on Christ and kindness; and wants to strangle the last king with the—­hamstrings of the last priest.

Lemmy. [Greatly intrigued] Not ’arf!  Does ’e?

Press.  Yes.  But have you thought it out?  Because he hasn’t.

Lemmy.  The difficulty is—­where to stop.

Press.  Where to begin.

Lemmy.  Lawd!  I could begin almost anywhere.  Why, every month abaht, there’s a cove turns me aht of a job ’cos I daon’t do just wot ’e likes.  They’d ’ave to go.  I tell yer stryte—­the Temple wants cleanin’ up.

Press.  Ye-es.  If I wrote what I thought, I should get the sack as quick as you.  D’you say that justifies me in shedding the blood of my boss?

Lemmy.  The yaller Press ’as got no blood—­’as it?  You shed their ile an’ vinegar—­that’s wot you’ve got to do.  Stryte—­do yer believe in the noble mission o’ the Press?

Press. [Enigmatically] Mr. Lemmy, I’m a Pressman.

Lemmy. [Goggling] I see.  Not much! [Gently jogging his mother’s elbow] Wyke up, old lydy!

     [For Mrs. Lemmy who has been sipping placidly at her port, is
     nodding.  The evening has drawn in.  Lemmy strikes a match on
     his trousers and lights a candle.]