[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.

Press. [Smiling] Well, Mr. Lemmy, it has the biggest influ——­

Lemmy.  They all ’as that; dylies, weeklies, evenin’s, Sundyes; but it’s of no consequence—­my voos are open and aboveboard.  Naow, wot shall we begin abaht?

Press.  Yourself, if you please.  And I’d like you to know at once that my paper wants the human note, the real heart-beat of things.

Lemmy.  I see; sensytion!  Well; ’ere am I—­a fustclawss plumber’s. assistant—­in a job to-dy an’ out tomorrer.  There’s a ’eart-beat in that, I tell yer.  ’Oo knows wot the mower ’as for me!

Press. [Writing].  “The great human issue—­Mr. Lemmy touches it at once.”

Lemmy.  I sy keep my nyme aht o’ this; I don’ go in fer self-advertisement.

Press. [Writing] “True working-man—­modest as usual.”

Lemmy.  I daon’t want to embarrass the Gover’ment.  They’re so ticklish ever since they got the ‘abit, war-time, o’ mindin’ wot people said.

Press.  Right-o!

Lemmy.  For instance, suppose there’s goin’ to be a revolution——­ [the press writes with energy.] ’Ow does it touch me?  Like this:  I my go up—­I cawn’t come dahn; no more can Muvver.

Mrs. L. [Surprisingly] Us all goes down into the grave.

Press.  “Mrs. Lemmy interjects the deeper note.”

Lemmy.  Naow, the gryte—­they can come dahn, but they cawn’t go up!  See!  Put two an’ two together, an’ that’s ’ow it touches me. [He utters a throaty laugh] ’Ave yer got that?

Press. [Quizzical] Not go up?  What about bombs, Mr. Lemmy?