The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graft, by Harold Brighouse This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Graft A Comedy in Four Acts Author: Harold Brighouse Release Date: August 7, 2017 [EBook #55291] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAFT *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive GRAFT A Comedy In Four Acts By Harold Brighouse London: Samuel French Publisher 1913 0001 0005 CONTENTS ACT I ACT II ACT III ACT IV. GRAFT ACT I A small room on the first floor, awkwardly overcrowded with the entire furniture of a cottage, a pile of which is stacked in the left corner and covered with a sheet; the plain iron bed is right, the window coming between its foot and the pile of furniture; table centre; three plain upright chairs and one wicker armchair before the fire; fireplace left; opposite it right a kitchen dresser well stocked with crockery; pans and kettle about the fireplace. For all the uncomfortable crowding the room is bright and well kept. Door right. It is 7 p.m. on a September evening, and the approach of dusk is noticed gradually. Jim Pilling, a gardener, has finished tea and sits in his shirt-sleeves before the débris of the meal facing spectator lighting a briar pipe. Jim is thirty, clean looking, dressed in his rough working clothes without coat or his combined collar and "dicky" and red tie, which hangs with the coat behind the door. Sally Pilling is transferring the last of the table utensils to a tray which she puts on the bed; then removing the white cloth and shaking crumbs into the fire; a red cloth is underneath. Sally is of the pale complexion usual to a country girl living in a town; she dresses neatly and has an apron on; Dick, a thin boy of eight, in a blue sailor suit, gets off his chair at the table. 0091 Dick. Can I go out and play now, mother? (Jim rises and crosses l. with chair.) Sally. Yes. (She crosses to door and takes down from a hook his sailor hat.) Here's your hat. (Dick comes to her; she secures it on his head with an elastic band.) Don't go far from the door, Dick. I'll shout you when it's bedtime. Jim. And don't get playing in the road—keep on the footpath. Dick. Yes, dad. (He runs out as Sally opens: the door.) Sally. Don't get run over now. Jim. The young 'un misses the country. (Sits in armchair above fire.) Sally (closing door). We all do that, Jim. Jim. Aye. Streets are no sort of playground for a growing child. Did you get out while he was at school this afternoon? Sally (gathering up tea-things). Oh, yes. There's not the cleaning to do in a single room to keep me in it all day. Jim. No; better for you to get out a bit. Sally (dully). It's no pleasure walking in the streets. Jim. Not when there's shops to look at? Sally. You can get tired of shops. (Tea-things on tray.) Jim. You're no true woman. Sally. I'm no town's woman. (Crosses to Jim.) I miss the flowers and the green. I'm pining for the country, Jim. Jim. And I'm same way, only I do get the smell of the earth in Mr. Vining's garden and it's not so bad for me. Sally (wistfully standing above his chair). I'd dearly love to see that garden, Jim. Jim. I know you would; but they're that strict about the Polygon. No getting in unless you've business. Sally. It does seem hard when there's not a park nor so much as a blade of grass in the whole blessed town except the Polygon. (Puts tray on bed.) Jim. The old days were the best, Sally, on the estate where we were born. Sally. We didn't know it, either, till Sir Charles began to sack his men. Jim. No; many a time I've grumbled at the work there and the pay. It's a judgment on me. Sally. You weren't sacked for grumbling. (Shaking cloth in fire.) Jim (bitterly). No. I was sacked because Sir Charles lost so much money on the turf he couldn't keep six gardeners any longer—and me the one to go because we'd only our Dick and t'others had more childer. Sally (mildly surprised at his tone). Gentlemen will have their sport, Jim. It might be worse. You dropped lucky into a job. (Folds cloth and puts in dresser drawer.) Jim. Aye, the job's all right, and Mr. Vining's a good gentleman to work for—pay's better than the country an' all, though I can't get stuff to thrive in Mr. Vining's garden as I'd wish. (Rises.) Town air kills 'em. Yes, we'd do all right, Sally, if (looking round as if caged)—if there was room to live. That's what we want—room to live. We've our sticks for a proper house eating their heads off in yon corner (indicating the pile), and I've wages enough to pay rent for a house and no one 'ull take it from me. There's not a house to let in all Carrington, nor like to be but what there's plenty waiting for it before our turn come, and we've waited three years now. Sally (consoling him). Never mind, Jim. We've got our privacy. We've a room to ourselves. (She crosses to cupboard, gets work out and puts on table.) Jim (hotly). A room! One room! (Cooling.) Aye, but you're right. Let's be thankful for small mercies. (Sits.) I mind it looked like we shouldn't even find a room when we came seeking. But it's hard to live decent in here, and it's harder on Dick than us. Eat and sleep an all in one room's not a Christian way of life. (A knock at the door. Sally opens it. Walter Montgomery stands without. He is a curate, twenty-eight years old, athletic in build, clean-shaven, with a bright manner and a strong jaw.) Walter. May I come in? Good evening, Mrs. Pilling. Sally. Surely, sir. (Enter Walter. Sally closes the door, adroitly taking her apron off as she does so and hanging it up. Jim makes for his coat.) Walter. Good evening, Mr. Pilling. (Seeing his objective.) You're all right as you are. Jim. Shirt-sleeves don't seem respectful, sir. Walter (genially).. Rubbish. It's a pity if you can't be cool in your own room. Jim (apologetically). The fire does make it hot in here. Sally. And we must have a fire to boil the kettle, sir. (Walter looks at the closed window, but, having experience, makes no suggestion. Jim knocks his pipe out on the fire-bar.) Walter (seeing him, but too late to stop him). Oh, don't do that—here, try a pipe of mine. (Delving in his coat tails for pouch and offering it.) Jim (shyly). Well, sir—— Walter. Go on, man. (Jim accepts and fills his pouch; Sally dusts a chair with the corner of the table cloth.) Now you know that chair didn't need dusting, Mrs. Pilling. (He sits.) Well, how's the garden, Mr. Pilling? Jim. Oh, nicely, sir, nicely. Walter. Yes. So I thought when I had a look at it over the hedge. (Turning to Sally.) I live next door to Mr. Vining, you know, Mrs. Pilling. Sally. Oh, but he can't get the garden to suit him, sir. (Sits R. of table.) Walter. Oh! How's that? Jim. Thanks. (Returning pouch. Walter fills a pipe and lights up.) This air's ruination to a garden, sir. Walter. You put up a jolly good fight against it, then. My father's garden looks pretty mean compared with yours. Jim (shyly). Well, sir, you see, your father will try and look after his himself. Walter. Yes. He's awfully attached to his garden. Jim (with a touch of patronage). And he doesn't do it badly—for an amateur, as you might say, but—well, he makes mistakes. Sally (protestingly). Jim! Walter. Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Pilling. Dick keeping well? Sally (formally). Oh, yes, thank you, sir. Walter. I saw him outside as I came in. I fancied the little chap looked pale. Jim (gravely). He does look pale. Walter. Anything the matter? Jim. No, sir, no... only this. Walter (vaguely). This? Jim. This room—living in one room and nothing but streets to run about in. Sally. You can't keep a child inside, sir. 'Tisn't natural. The streets if it's fine and the stairs when it's wet out. Walter. None too safe, Mrs. Pilling, either of 'em. Sally. But what are you to do? Walter (hopelessly). Nothing, I suppose. Jim. Folks can't thrive cramped up the way we are. If garden stuff won't go in the air, it can't be good for humans. (A knock at the door. Without waiting for Sally, who starts towards door, Stephen Verity enters. He is fifty, iron grey, with a good deal of iron in his composition, though just now concerned more with the velvet glove than the mailed fist. A selfmade man, he is cynical, domineering, dryly humorous at times, an ugly customer if crossed, with a strong jaw and tightly closed lips. Dressed in morning coat and grey trousers with very square toed boots, turned down collar, black tie. His coat is good solid broadcloth, but the cut is palpably local.) Stephen (off). Are ye in, Pilling? (He enters and sees Walter. Sally and Walter rise —grimacing at Walter.) Oh! (He stops short in doorway.) Jim (with deference nicely regulated some degrees lower than that he showed Walter). Come in, Mr. Verity. Walter (holding out hand). How do you do, Mr. Verity? Ste. (shaking hands and speaking with laboured politeness). How do you do, Mr. Montgomery? (Dropping his hand—sneeringly.) [He appropriates the wicker chair. Walter sits edgeways on the table. I didn't expect to find you here. What are you doing? Looking after their souls? Walter (pleasantly). I dropped in for a chat and a smoke, before going on to keep my appointment at your house. What are you doing? (Sits l. of table.) Ste. I'm looking after their bodies, only some of them won't see it. Pilling's a tough nut to crack. Walter. Not gathered him in yet? Ste. No, but I shall. He's one of your flock. It takes time to get hold of these fellows who come in from the country, (spitefully) where the squire and the parson spell omnipotence. He'll change his tune yet, though. Jim (shaking his head). I'm not the changing sort. Ste. (confidently). You will be. A year or two more of this room and you'll be ripe for anything. Sally (lifting the tray). We're ripe now for a change from this. Ste. Don't go, Mrs. Pilling. Sally. I can get my turn at the sink for washing up now. Ste. That can wait. I want to ask you something. Sally (replacing the tray). Yes, sir? (Sits r. of table.) Ste. (after brief pause). Well, now, Mrs. Pilling, what would you say we need most in Carrington? Sally (promptly). Fresh air. Ste. You've hit the nail on the head. Trust a woman to be sensible when health's at stake. I've a piece of news for you. There's talk of getting a recreation ground for Carrington. Walter (interested—sincerely). Indeed! I hadn't heard. It's a most interesting thing. Jim. And about time too. (Sits below fire.) Ste. (sentimentalizing). Yes, you'll be able to take Mrs. Pilling down for a stroll on a summer's evening or a Sunday afternoon and watch little Dick play about on the soft grass breathing the fresh air and fancying yourselves back in the country again. No need to have Dick running about in the streets then. Jim (curtly). When? Ste. Well, nothing's settled yet, of course. I'm bringing it up at the next Council meeting and I've a backing on both sides. Alderman Verity's a power in Carrington, I don't mind telling you. Jim. I don't know about your power, sir. What I'm wondering is how it 'ull strike my boss. Walter. It sounds excellent. Jim (suspiciously). And where might your land be, Mr. Verity? Ste. Ah, that's a secret yet. Jim. Um. Recreation ground two mile away's no use to my lad and you'll not find land nearer. Ste. It'll not be five minutes from your door. (Walter turns interestedly from one to the other.) Jim. Then you'll have to burrow for it or hang it in the air. Ste. No, we shan't. The land we have in view's built on at present. Jim. Lots of good that 'ull do—turning people out of house and home to make a playing field, when houses are so scarce an' all. Walter. Yes. To my mind it's more housing accommodation that's most urgent here, Mr. Verity. Ste. We'll get neither without we're helped. There'll be a lot of opposition. Walter. Surely not. Ste. Oh, yes, there will. We Progressives can't carry anything in the Council unless there's a big force of public opinion at our backs. Walter (confidently). You won't lack that if you've a practicable plan. Ste. (hotly). Practicable! Nothing ever is practicable to some folk that means spending public money and putting up the rates. They're too shortsighted to see that a healthy town pays best in the end. Walter (reasonably). Still, such things as rates have to be considered, I suppose. Ste. (hotly). Oh, yes. Consider the purses of the ratepayers and consider the health of the people and the danger of little children playing in the street and ask your religion which consideration weighs heaviest. Walter (a little warmly). Really, Mr. Verity, I needn't consult my religion. My common sense is sufficient to put me on your side—if you really are right in believing there can be two sides to such a question. Ste. Don't you make any doubt about that. There'll be two sides right enough. Walter. Well, can I do anything? Will you accept my help? Ste. Yes, yours—and yours, Pilling, and every man's who'll say a word for us. (A motor horn heard violently below the window—a few masculine curses and feminine shrieks—which Sally echoes as she leaps to window and puts it up.) Sally. Dick's in the street. (She flies across from window and out at door.) Ste. (with the air of a conjuror). There you are! Street accident. (Jim follows Sally, but is met at the door by a very irate taxi-cabman carrying Dick in one hand and by the slack of his trousers, followed by Sally. The Chauffeur is a Cockney, about thirty, clean shaven, with the usual oily pallid complexion— dark—with black leather leggings and a bottle green great-coat with red facings. His number is on an enamelled plate, which is reversed.) Jim (with more threat than anxiety). Have you hurt him? Chauffeur. 'Urt? Nah. Aw'm a hexpert droiver, aw am. (He puts Dick on his feet. Dick seeks refuge behind his mother s skirts and pulls at them with one hand, curiously watching the Chauffeur all the time. Pilling takes jug from washstand r. and exit for water.) Pulled up in foive yard. Bet it ain't no bloomin' fault of 'is 'es not 'urt. Sally (threateningly). If you'd killed my boy I'd have—— Chauff. (interrupting). Cheese it, missus. 'E's only froightened. Dick. I'm not hurt, mother. Chauff. No, bet yer would be if yer got what yer bloomin' well arsked for. Yer came as near to it as bone is to flesh. (Sally sits on stool r, with Dick, examining his bruised knee.) Ste. (stepping forward pompously). Now then, my man—— Chauff. Aw'm not yer man. (To Sally.) Nah aw' give yer warning, missus, to look after 'im. (Jim returns with water, which he puts by Sally r. She washes the knee.). Walter (quietly). Isn't it your business to look after the safety of pedestrians? Chauff. (acknowledging the Church by a quieter reply). What roight 'ad 'e to-be in the middle of the rowd? Ain't the poivement woide enough for 'im to ply 'opscotch? (He addresses Walter.) Jim (r). Look here, that's my kid, and if you've anything to say you can say it to me. Chauff. Aw've this to sy. Yer tell 'im to keep to the poivements. 'E moight 'ave bin in 'eaven nah if aw wasn't a hexpert droiver. There's more kids to the square foot in this tahn than any place aw've struck. People moike a fair 'obby of it. Ste. (importantly). You'd better be careful what you say. You don't know who you're talking to. Chauff. (with infinite scorn). Fat lot aw care. Yer nothing but a crowd of dead- aloive provincials. Don't suppose yer ever saw a taxi-keb till me and my mate come dahn from London. A 'ackney keb is news to yer in these parts. (Up to Stephen.) Ste. (boiling over). I'm an alderman of this town and if you don't talk to me respectfully I'll have your license cancelled. You're not fit to have one. Chauff. Ho! Blimey, not fit to 'ave a license, ain't aw? Aw've druv a dook in my keb. And yer a tahn councillor, are yer? Yus. Yer bloomin' well look it and aw can't say wuss than that. Ste. I'll pay you out for this. I'll report you to your employer. Chauff. (indignantly). Employer be blowed. Aw'm my own boss. Bought my keb, aw did. Thet's enterprise. Don't know what enterprise means dahn here, do yer? Ste, What's your number? I'll report you to the police. (Goes to window and looks out.) Chauff. Yus, yer do. Aw'll tell yer where 'e is. On the 'Igh Street with a stopwatch in his fat hand, trying to cop me exceedin' the limit, and aw've never druv above ten moile for fear of the kids. (Jim goes up to door.) Ste. I demand to know your number. Chauff. (making sure that it is reversed). Never you moind my number. My name's Walker. Fair fed up with this tahn, aw am. Aw'm used to drivin' gentlemen. Aw druv a bally commercial abart all yesterday and the blighter tipped me tuppence. (Jim indicates door.) Yes. Aw'm going. My keb 'ull carry me to London now (moves a bit towards door), and yer rowds reek of kids. Aw've killed none yet and aw don't want to. Aw reckon 'oss kebs are good enough for Carrington. P'raps they train 'em to step loightly on the kids or else they're funeral 'osses in their spare toime and never learn to go faster. Ste. (almost frenzied). You... insolent... Cockney... cad. Chauff. (crossing back to Stephen). Foine language from a tahn alderman with the Church lookin' on an' all. Aw am among the nobs. Abart toime aw cleared when a tahn 'as a bally hobject the loikes of you for an alderman. Aw wouldn't be seen droiv-ing yer not for a quid a moile and disinfectin' free. (Stephen looks pugnacious. Walter steps between them.) Walter. If you're going to London, Mr. Walker—I think you said Walker—hadn't you better go? Chauff. (at door). Yus, and aw'll droive quick for once through Carrington and charnce it. The kids 'ad better look aloive. (Looking back at Stephen.) Aw'll tell 'em when aw droive into the old garage in the Westminster Rowd abaht meetin' a real loive alderman. They'll be sending rand from Fleet Street to interview me abaht it. (Exit Chauffeur, leaving door open.) Jim (closing door—to Walter). I'm sorry you've been spoken to like that in my room, sir. Civil tongues don't cost nothing. Walter (smiling). That's a type of modern progress. The new man, Mr. Pilling. Jim. Then I'd as lief have the old. Ste. That's where you're wrong, Jim Pilling. This fellow's up-to-date. He'd never be content to let his children play in the streets. He'd—— Jim. No. He'd drive over them. Dick (who's been clutching Sally's skirts, staring). Boo hoo! (Sally bends down.) Ste. (all ostentatious sympathy). What's to do? Dick. My knee's hurting. (Holding it up.) I falled on it. Sally (examining it). It's only bruised. Jim (looking at the knee). Got any plaster? Sally. I think so. (Opens drawer in the dresser and searches.) I ought to have. Jim (watches her). What's that? Sally. That's no good. Corn plaster. There's Beecher's Pills and Wood's Sarsaperilla and every mortal thing except the one you want. Walter (reprovingly). Patent medicines, Mrs. Pilling. (Back to fire.) (Dick on stool, watching Sally.) Sally (justifying herself). They've all got the Government stamp, sir. Ste. (who has taken out a pocket hook, eyeing Dick with what he thinks is benevolence). I generally have some plaster in my pocket. (But he looks in vain.) No, none there. Sorry, Mrs. Pilling. Sally. I'd better take him to the chemist's. (She gets a purse from the dresser.) Dick. Don't want no chemists. Want my supper. Sally. You'll have your supper when we get back. Come and see the man who lives behind the big red bottles. (Dick consents to go. Exeunt Sally and Dick.) Ste. (triumphantly). Anybody got anything to say against a recreation ground now. Walter. Neither of us ever had, I hope. Ste. You'd a lot to say about the rates. Jim. And I didn't see the use of pulling houses down to make room where houses are scarce. Ste. We shan't pull down many. Jim. It'll be a small ground then. (Sits R. of table.) Ste. (with quiet triumph). About ten acres. Jim. You'll have to pull down streets on streets to find ten acres. Ste. We shall pull down just five houses. (Sits L. of table.) No more and no less. Jim. Five houses! Walter (startled). Five, Mr. Verity? Ste. (with bluster). Yes. Five houses, I said. Walter (puzzled). Then you must be thinking of—oh, but that's ridiculous. Ste. And why is it ridiculous, Mr. Montgomery? Walter. The Polygon's the only place that applies to. Ste. Well, why shouldn't I be thinking of the Polygon? Walter. Are you? Ste. Yes.. Walter. But the Polygon is—— Ste. (interrupting). I'll tell you what the Polygon, is. Walter (quietly). It's my home, Mr. Verity. Ste. (with gusto). Yes, it's the home of the leisured and privileged class of Carrington. It's five big houses with a kind of a square of tennis lawn in the middle of them and a great big garden behind each. It's the only apology for a breathing space we have and it's bang in the middle of the town. You've got great gates to it marked "private" and a lodge keeper to watch 'em and see none of the common herd get in to soil your sacred air by breathing it in their vulgar lungs. It's a shame and a scandal for the land to be wasted on you and it's not going to be wasted much longer. Walter (without passion). To the people who live there, it's——- Ste. (interrupting). They're about twenty all told. Who are they to get in the way of the thousands that live crowded up like rabbits outside? Walter. They happen to be able to afford it, Mr. Verity. Ste. (sarcastically). Yes. They're well-to-do, so they've the right to monopolize the air. Walter (mildly). Yes, yes. But you do put things so violently. Ste. (glancing at Jim for approval). I feel 'em violently. Walter (half apologetically). You must remember this is quite a new idea to me, and for the moment it seems iconoclastic, if you don't mind my saying so. Ste. (sneering). Yes. Like all your class, you don't like new ideas. I'll say nothing about your Church, though that don't like new things either. (Jim rises.) Walter. If you'll only give me a moment to think, Mr. Verity.... I'm trying my best to see the matter from your standpoint. Meantime, I don't know that you'll improve things by fulminating against the Church. Ste. (blustering). I shan't do myself any good by truckling to it, either. The Church was here before I was. It was here when Carrington was a little village and it's stood by and let the place grow into one huge slum. If we waited for the Church to give us a lead, we'd wait for all eternity. Walter (smiling). But you're not addressing the Church, you know. You're addressing a young and humble member of it. Ste. You're all tarred with the same brush. Walter. Not so black as our cloth, I hope. Some of us younger men try to be social reformers. Ste. Yes. It's all very pretty and romantic, but when it comes to anything that touches you personally like this does you're as bad as the greediest tithe grabbing pluralist that ever robbed a starving farmer of his—— Jim (touching Stephen's arm). Mr. Verity, I'm a man that's slow to anger. But I've this to tell you. Mr. Montgomery's a clergyman and you're saying things to him that aren't proper to be said and that I'll hot have said in my room. (Shrewdly.) And you're not going the right way to get my vote for your recreation ground either. . Ste. (alarmed). I apologize, Pilling. (Rises.) Jim (satisfied). Ah! Ste. (earnestly). It's the wrongs of your class. I think of others, Pilling. I see what the motorman saw—streets crowded with little children, growing up in the gutter, playing in the dust—I can't help it. My tongue runs away with me when I think of it all. Walter. Say no more, Mr. Verity. You're probably right about the Polygon. I dare say we are out of place there, but you couldn't expect me to take your view the moment it's sprung on me. Ste. (nodding). I've a way of calling a spade a spade. (A knock at the door. Jim opens it. A Man advances a foot into the room. Behind him is dimly seen a woman, both poorly dressed. The Man has a bundle tied up into a blue quilt on his shoulder; his voice is tired and hopeless.) Man. Have you got any floor space to let in this room, mate? Jim. No. (Trying to close the door. The Man's foot keeps it open.) Man. Don't shut the door in our face. I've got the money to pay for it. I'll give you a week's rent now. Jim. It's no use. I'm not letting. Man (pleading). I'm in work, mate. Start at Bamford's factory o' Monday. A corner's all as we want. Jim. I tell you I've none to let. Man. Don't be so hard on a fellow. I can't get in nowhere. Jim. You'll not get in here. Man (turning dejectedly). Lodging-houses full up and getting late an' all. We've been looking all day. Jim (closes the door). Get three or four of them a week. They find room somewhere in the end. Walter. What did he want? Floor space? (Stephen crosses l.) Jim. Aye. Lots of rooms about here with two or three families in 'em. Some one 'ull take them in if they look long enough. Walter. I know. It's appalling. Ste. And ten acres in the Polygon with only five houses on 'em. (Sits in armchair.) Walter. All the more reason to build houses there and not waste it in playing fields. Ste. Ah! So it is wasted now? Walter. Yes. It's wasted now. I'm going to do my best to help you. (Back to fire standing.) Ste. That's good news, any way. Walter. Don't count on me for much. But what I can do I will. I'm afraid I must go now. I've a call to make before I'm due at your house. Ste. Right. See you later. Walter (to Jim). Say good-night to Mrs. Pilling for me. (Crossing R.) (Jim opens the door as Walter goes out.) Good-night. Ste. (rubbing his hands together). Ah, glad I came. Good thing to rope in young Montgomery. Jim (sourly). Good, is it? Ste. What else do you call it? Jim (aggressively). Look here, Mr. Verity, you've been coming here calling yourself my friend. I knew well enough it was my vote you were after. Bless you, I don't mind. I know what even the real gentry 'ull do to get a man's vote. I've seen Sir Charles himself stand by and watch his wife kiss our Dick at election time. But I've finished with you now. You'll come here no more after this. (Above table l.) Ste. (staggered). But... I don't understand. What have I done? (Rises.) Jim. It's not what you've done. It's what you're wanting to do. Ste. I'm wanting to provide a recreation ground for Dick to play in. Anything wrong in that? Jim. A lot. There's more important things than playing fields. Ste. Oh, you're thinking of Montgomery's idea for houses. Jim. No, I'm not thinking of anybody's ideas. Thinking of ideas leads to mischief. I'm thinking of my bread and butter that you're taking from me. Ste. I? Jim. You know very well where I work. Ste. You're Mr. Vining's gardener, aren't you? Jim. Yes, and Mr. Vining lives in the Polygon. It's likely I'd vote for breaking up the Polygon, isn't it? Ste. But, my dear friend—— Jim. I tell you I'm not your friend. Ste. Mr. Vining will have to live somewhere. He won't cease to require a gardener. Jim. Ever hear tell as a bird in the hand whacked two in the bush? Ste. (scornfully). If you're afraid of losing your employment. Jim (with conviction). A working man's always afraid of that. I know what it's like to be out of a job. Ste. (ingratiatingly, after a slight pause). Well, now, I tell you what. Jim.. Aye? Ste. We shall want somebody to look after the grass in the recreation ground. Jim. Well? Ste. The Park Committee will want an experienced gardener—like you. Jim. Are you offering me the job? Ste. Yes. Jim. How do you know you'll be on any Park Committee? You might be fired out of the Council next November. Ste. (with dignity). I'm an alderman, Pilling. Aldermen stay in, they don't get fired. Jim. You're offering me this. Well and good. And what about all the other folk as find work in the Polygon? House servants and such like. Ste. The residents won't cease to want servants where they move to. Jim. And you can flit servants same as furniture, can't you? And servants haven't votes and I have. So you bribe me and they can go to the devil. Ste. (backing in alarm). Mr. Pilling! Jim. Oh, I'm not blind, if I was brought up in the country. They didn't learn me there to vote against my master, either. I take Mr. Vining's money and—— Ste. But man alive, how's he to know which way you vote? The ballot's secret. Jim (sceptically). Oh, aye, we've heard that tale before. Ste. (irritated). But it is secret. Jim (unconvinced). That's what they tell you. And if it is, it's not secret from me. I'd know how I voted. And I couldn't hold out my hand for wages from a man when I'd voted opposite to him. I'm not built that way. Ste. (disgustedly). Jim Pilling, I thought you'd more sense. Jim. I've a sense of right and wrong. Ste. Yes, the sense that your employer's always right. Jim. It makes no matter if he's right or wrong. He's still my employer. A man can't vote against the gentleman that gives him bread and butter, and Mr. Vining's a real gentleman, mind you. (With enthusiastic admiration). I never saw him raise his hand to do a thing himself yet. Ste. You're a fool, Pilling. Jim. I'm an honest fool, then. Ste. Look here, if you won't take it from me, will you take it from Mr. Montgomery? Jim. I don't know. He's a young 'un. More like a man than a parson. Coming in here and smoking his pipe like you might do yourself. Ste. But he is a parson—young Montgomery. Jim (grudgingly). Aye. He's a man I trust. Ste. Then if he tells you, will you vote for turning the Polygon into a playing ground? Jim (confidently). He won't. Ste. But if he does? Jim. I'll see. (Re-enter Sally and Dick.) Ste. Hullo! Patched the little man up? Sally. Yes. (Dick exhibits a black plaster about his knee.) Ste. I'll get out of your way, Mrs. Pilling. I've an appointment to keep at home. Good- night. (Crosses below table to door.) Sally, Jim. Good-night. Ste. (turning at door, patting Dick's head). Goodnight, Dick. (Dick doesn't respond. Exit Stephen.) Sally. Good riddance and all. Now, Dick, you ought to have been in bed long ago. (Takes Dick up to bed.) Dick. Can't I come and watch you wash up? Sally. No, you can't. (She begins to undress him.) Dick. I want my supper. Sally. You can have it in bed. Jim. You don't like Verity, lass? Sally. And never did. What's he want with bothering round week after week? We're not his class. Jim. Vote's what he's after, and it's a marvel to me what they will do for votes. Sally. You'll do yourself no good with him, Jim. Jim. I'm thinking so myself. He's a bit too keen on this recreation ground, Verity is. Been putting himself about something extraordinary. (Crosses to fireplace, taking pipe.) I fancy, you know, there's, something behind all this. (The undressing of Dick advances.) CURTAIN. ACT II Stephen Verity's dining-room the same evening. The room has doors right and left. Window with drawn blind, r. Large table centre with chairs. Fireplace left. Solid-looking sideboard back centre. The furniture is solid, old-fashioned, and the atmosphere of the room is one of heavy comfort without ostentation. The room is a small one. No books anywhere. In an armchair before the fire is Stephen Verity. Walter Montgomery faces him in a highbacked chair. Stephen is smoking a large, well coloured briar. 0092 Stephen (removing the pipe). So you think you're good enough to marry my daughter, do you? Walter. I ventured to think so. Ste. Why? Walter. Because I love her, Mr. Verity. Ste. That the only reason? Walter. No. Ste. What are the others? Walter. She loves me. Ste. Did she tell you so? Walter. Yes. Ste. Um! (Slight pause; he smokes reflectively.) That all? Walter (rather startled). All what? Ste. All your reasons. Walter. Yes, I think so. Ste. They're too few. Walter. But—— Ste. I'll ask you something. Walter. Yes? Ste. What do you want to get married for? Walter. I'm in love. Ste. That's no reason. You curates, you're all alike—must be with marrying other folk so much. Infectious, I reckon. Church ought to be scheduled along with the other dangerous trades. Walter. You're laughing at me. Ste. No, I'm not. Marriage isn't a laughing matter, I know.