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 sensible man, carn't you?
And a little way down the street a lady says to me: [Pinching his voice] "D' you want to earn a few pence, my man?" and gives me her dog to 'old outside a shop-fat as a butler 'e was--tons o' meat had gone to the makin' of him.It did 'er good, it did, made 'er feel 'erself that charitable, but I see 'er lookin' at the copper standin' alongside o' me, for fear I should make off with 'er bloomin' fat dog.[He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a boot on.Then looking up.] What's in that head o' yours? [Almost pathetically.] Carn't you speak for once?
[There is a knock, and MRS.SEDDON, the landlady, appears, an anxious, harassed, shabby woman in working clothes.]
MRS.SEDDON.I thought I 'eard you come in, Mrs.Jones.I 've spoke to my 'usband, but he says he really can't afford to wait another day.
JONES.[With scowling jocularity.] Never you mind what your 'usband says, you go your own way like a proper independent woman.
Here, jenny, chuck her that.
[Producing a sovereign from his trousers pocket, he throws it to his wife, who catches it in her apron with a gasp.JONESresumes the lacing of his boots.]
MRS.JONES.[Rubbing the sovereign stealthily.] I'm very sorry we're so late with it, and of course it's fourteen shillings, so if you've got six that will be right.
[MRS.SEDDON takes the sovereign and fumbles for the change.]
JONES.[With his eyes fixed on his boots.] Bit of a surprise for yer, ain't it?
MRS.SEDDON.Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged.[She does indeed appear surprised.] I 'll bring you the change.
JONES.[Mockingly.] Don't mention it.
MRS.SEDDON.Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged.[She slides away.]
[MRS.JONES gazes at JONES who is still lacing up his boots.]
JONES.I 've had a bit of luck.[Pulling out the crimson purse and some loose coins.] Picked up a purse--seven pound and more.
MRS.JONES.Oh, James!
