LITMIR.BIZ

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But you're in good work, aren't you?

      MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have a day in Stamford Place Thursdays. And Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays I come here. But to-day, of course, is a half-day, because of yesterday's Bank Holiday.

      BARTHWICK. I see; four days a week, and you get half a crown a day, is that it?

      MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, and my dinner; but sometimes it's only half a day, and that's eighteen pence.

      BARTHWICK. And when your husband earns anything he spends it in drink, I suppose?

      MRS. JONES. Sometimes he does, sir, and sometimes he gives it to me for the children. Of course he would work if he could get it, sir, but it seems there are a great many people out of work.

      BARTHWICK. Ah! Yes. We – er – won't go into that. [Sympathetically.] And how about your work here? Do you find it hard?

      MRS. JONES. Oh! no, sir, not very hard, sir; except of course, when I don't get my sleep at night.

      BARTHWICK. Ah! And you help do all the rooms? And sometimes, I suppose, you go out for cook?

      MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir.

      BARTHWICK. And you 've been out this morning?

      MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I had to go to the greengrocer's.

      BARTHWICK. Exactly. So your husband earns nothing? And he's a bad character.

      MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I don't say that, sir. I think there's a great deal of good in him; though he does treat me very bad sometimes. And of course I don't like to leave him, but I think I ought to, because really I hardly know how to stay with him. He often raises his hand to me. Not long ago he gave me a blow here [touches her breast] and I can feel it now. So I think I ought to leave him, don't you, sir?

      BARTHWICK. Ah! I can't help you there. It's a very serious thing to leave your husband. Very serious thing.

      MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I 'm afraid of what he might do to me if I were to leave him; he can be so very violent.

      BARTHWICK. H'm! Well, that I can't pretend to say anything about.

      It's the bad principle I'm speaking of —

      MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir; I know nobody can help me. I know I must decide for myself, and of course I know that he has a very hard life. And he's fond of the children, and its very hard for him to see them going without food.

      BARTHWICK. [Hastily.] Well – er – thank you, I just wanted to hear about you. I don't think I need detain you any longer, Mrs. Jones.

      MRS. JONES. No, sir, thank you, sir.

      BARTHWICK. Good morning, then.

      MRS. JONES. Good morning, sir; good morning, ma'am.

      BARTHWICK. [Exchanging glances with his wife.] By the way, Mrs. Jones – I think it is only fair to tell you, a silver cigarette-box – er – is missing.

      MRS. JONES. [Looking from one face to the other.] I am very sorry, sir.

      BARTHWICK. Yes; you have not seen it, I suppose?

      MRS. JONES. [Realising that suspicion is upon her; with an uneasy movement.] Where was it, sir; if you please, sir?

      BARTHWICK. [Evasively.] Where did Marlow say? Er – in this room, yes, in this room.

      MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I have n't seen it – of course if I 'd seen it

      I should have noticed it.

      BARTHWICK. [Giving hey a rapid glance.] You – you are sure of that?

      MRS. JONES. [Impassively.] Yes, Sir. [With a slow nodding of her head.] I have not seen it, and of course I don't know where it is.

      [She turns and goes quietly out.]

      BARTHWICK. H'm!

      [The three BARTHWICKS avoid each other's glances.]

      The curtain falls.

      ACT II

      SCENE I

      The JONES's lodgings, Merthyr Street, at half-past two o'clock.

      The bare room, with tattered oilcloth and damp, distempered walls, has an air of tidy wretchedness. On the bed lies JONES, half-dressed; his coat is thrown across his feet, and muddy boots are lying on the floor close by. He is asleep. The door is opened and MRS. JONES comes in, dressed in a pinched black jacket and old black sailor hat; she carries a parcel wrapped up in the "Times." She puts her parcel down, unwraps an apron, half a loaf, two onions, three potatoes, and a tiny piece of bacon. Taking a teapot from the cupboard, she rinses it, shakes into it some powdered tea out of a screw of paper, puts it on the hearth, and sitting in a wooden chair quietly begins to cry.

      JONES. [Stirring and yawning.] That you? What's the time?

      MRS. JONES. [Drying her eyes, and in her usual voice.] Half-past two.

      JONES. What you back so soon for?

      MRS. JONES. I only had the half day to-day, Jem.

      JONES. [On his back, and in a drowsy voice.] Got anything for dinner?

      MRS. JONES. Mrs. BARTHWICK's cook gave me a little bit of bacon. I'm going to make a stew. [She prepares for cooking.] There's fourteen shillings owing for rent, James, and of course I 've only got two and fourpence. They'll be coming for it to-day.

      JONES. [Turning towards her on his elbow.] Let 'em come and find my surprise packet. I've had enough o' this tryin' for work. Why should I go round and round after a job like a bloomin' squirrel in a cage. "Give us a job, sir" – "Take a man on" – "Got a wife and three children." Sick of it I am! I 'd sooner lie here and rot. "Jones, you come and join the demonstration; come and 'old a flag, and listen to the ruddy orators, and go 'ome as empty as you came." There's some that seems to like that – the sheep! When I go seekin' for a job now, and see the brutes lookin' me up an' down, it's 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

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