Press. [Who has slipped his note-book out] “Bombed and Bomber face to face——­”

Lemmy. [Uneasy] I didn’t come ’ere agyne on me own, yer know.  The
Press betryed me.

Lord W. Is that old lady your mother?

Lemmy.  The syme.  I tell yer stryte, it was for ’er I took that old bottle o’ port.  It was orful old.

Lord W. Ah!  Port?  Probably the ’83.  Hope you both enjoyed it.

Lemmy.  So far-yus.  Muvver’ll suffer a bit tomower, I expect.

Lord W. I should like to do something for your mother, if you’ll allow me.

Lemmy.  Oh!  I’ll allow yer.  But I dunno wot she’ll sy.

Lord W. I can see she’s a fine independent old lady!  But suppose you were to pay her ten bob a week, and keep my name out of it?

Lemmy.  Well, that’s one wy o’ you doin’ somefink, ’yn’t it?

Lord W. I giving you the money, of course.

Press. [Writing] “Lord William, with kingly generosity——­”

Lemmy. [Drawing attention to the press with his thumb] I sy—­
I daon’t mind, meself—­if you daon’t——­

Lord W. He won’t write anything to annoy me.

Press.  This is the big thing, Lord William; it’ll get the public bang in the throat.

Lemmy. [Confidentially] Bit dyngerous, ‘yn’t it? trustin’ the Press?  Their right ’ands never knows wot their left ’ands is writin’. [To the press] ‘Yn’t that true, speakin’ as a man?

Press.  Mr. Lemmy, even the Press is capable of gratitude.

Lemmy.  Is it?  I should ha’ thought it was too important for a little thing like that. [To lord William] But ye’re quite right; we couldn’t do wivaht the Press—­there wouldn’t be no distress, no coffin, no revolution—­’cos nobody’d know nuffin’ abaht it.  Why!  There wouldn’t be no life at all on Earf in these dyes, wivaht the Press!  It’s them wot says:  “Let there be Light—­an’ there is Light.”

Lord W. Umm!  That’s rather a new thought to me. [Writes on his cuff.]

Lemmy.  But abaht Muvver, I’ll tell yer ’ow we can arrynge.  You send ‘er the ten bob a week wivaht syin’ anyfink, an’ she’ll fink it comes from Gawd or the Gover’ment yer cawn’t tell one from t’other in Befnal Green.

Lord W. All right; we’ll’ do that.

Lemmy.  Will yer reely?  I’d like to shyke yer ’and.

     [Lord William puts out his hand, which Lemmy grasps.]

Press. [Writing] “The heartbeat of humanity was in that grasp between the son of toil and the son of leisure.”

Lemmy. [Already ashamed of his emotion] ’Ere, ‘arf a mo’!  Which is which?  Daon’t forget I’m aht o’ wori; Lord William, if that’s ’is nyme, is workin ’ard at ’is Anti-Sweats!  Wish I could get a job like vat—­jist suit me!