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

LEMMY. [Dubious] Wot abaht 'em? I s'pose ye're on the comic pypers? 'Ave yer noticed wot a weakness they 'ave for the 'orrible?

PRESS. [Writing] "A grim humour peeped out here and there through the earnestness of his talk."

[He sketches LEMMY'S profile.]

LEMMY. We 'ad an explosion in my factory time o' the war, that would just ha' done for you comics. [He meditates] Lord! They was after it too,--they an' the Sundyes; but the Censor did 'em. Strike me, I could tell yer things!

PRESS. That's what I want, Mr. Lemmy; tell me things!

LEMMY. [Musing] It's a funny world, 'yn't it? 'Ow we did blow each other up! [Getting up to admire] I sy, I shall be syfe there. That won't betry me anonymiety. Why! I looks like the Prime Minister!

PRESS. [Rather hurt] You were going to tell me things.

LEMMY. Yus, an' they'll be the troof, too.

PRESS. I hope so; we don't----

LEMMY. Wot oh!

PRESS. [A little confused.] We always try to verify----

LEMMY. Yer leave it at tryin', daon't yer? Never, mind, ye're a gryte inst.i.tootion. Blimy, yer do have jokes, wiv it, spinnin' rahnd on yer own tyles, denyin' to-dy wot ye're goin' to print to-morrer.

Ah, well! Ye're like all of us below the line o' comfort--live dyngerously--ever' dy yer last. That's wy I'm interested in the future.

PRESS. Well now--the future. [Writing] "He prophesies."

LEMMY. It's syfer, 'yn't it? [He winks] No one never looks back on prophecies. I remembers an editor spring o' 1916 stykin' his reputytion the war'd be over in the follerin' October. Increased 'is circulytion abaht 'arf a million by it. 1917 an' war still on--'ad 'is readers gone back on 'im? Nao! They was increasin' like rabbits. Prophesy wot people want to believe, an' ye're syfe. Naow, I'll styke my reputation on somethin', you tyke it dahn word for word. This country's goin' to the dawgs--Naow, 'ere's the sensytion--unless we gets a new religion.

PRESS. Ah! Now for it--yes?

LEMMY. In one word: "Kindness." Daon't mistyke me, nao sickly sentiment and nao patronizin'. Me as kind to the millionaire as 'im to me. [Fills his mug and drinks.]

PRESS. [Struck] That's queer! Kindness! [Writing] "Extremes meet. Bombed and bomber breathing the same music."

LEMMY. But 'ere's the interestin' pynt. Can it be done wivaht blood?

PRESS. [Writing] "He doubts."

LEMMY. No dabt wotever. It cawn't! Blood-and-kindness! Spill the blood o' them that aren't kind--an' there ye are!

PRESS. But pardon me, how are you to tell?

LEMMY. Blimy, they leaps to the heye!

PRESS. [Laying down-his note-book] I say, let me talk to you as man to man for a moment.

LEMMY. Orl right. Give it a rest!

PRESS. Your sentiments are familiar to me. I've got a friend on the Press who's very keen on Christ and kindness; and wants to strangle the last king with the--hamstrings of the last priest.

LEMMY. [Greatly intrigued] Not 'arf! Does 'e?

PRESS. Yes. But have you thought it out? Because he hasn't.

LEMMY. The difficulty is--where to stop.

PRESS. Where to begin.

LEMMY. Lawd! I could begin almost anywhere. Why, every month abaht, there's a cove turns me aht of a job 'cos I daon't do just wot 'e likes. They'd 'ave to go. I tell yer stryte--the Temple wants cleanin' up.

PRESS. Ye-es. If I wrote what I thought, I should get the sack as quick as you. D'you say that justifies me in shedding the blood of my boss?

LEMMY. The yaller Press 'as got no blood--'as it? You shed their ile an' vinegar--that's wot you've got to do. Stryte--do yer believe in the n.o.ble mission o' the Press?

PRESS. [Enigmatically] Mr. Lemmy, I'm a Pressman.

LEMMY. [Goggling] I see. Not much! [Gently jogging his mother's elbow] Wyke up, old lydy!

[For Mrs. LEMMY who has been sipping placidly at her port, is nodding. The evening has drawn in. LEMMY strikes a match on his trousers and lights a candle.]

Blood an' kindness-that's what's wanted--'specially blood! The 'istory o' me an' my family'll show yer that. Tyke my bruver Fred --crushed by burycrats. Tyke Muvver 'erself. Talk o' the wrongs o'

the people! I tell yer the foundytions is rotten. [He empties the bottle into his mother's mug] Daon't mind the mud at the bottom, old lydy--it's all strengthenin'! You tell the Press, Muvver. She can talk abaht the pawst.

PRESS. [Taking up his note-book, and becoming, again his professional self] Yes, Mrs. Lemmy? "Age and Youth--Past and Present--"

MRS. L. Were yu talkin' about Fred? [The port has warmed her veins, the colour in her eyes and cheeks has deepened] My son Fred was always a gude boy--never did nothin' before 'e married. I can see Fred [She bends forward a little in her chair, looking straight before her] acomin' in wi' a pheasant 'e'd found--terrible 'e was at findin' pheasants. When father died, an' yu was c.u.min', Bob, Fred 'e said to me: "Don't yu never cry, Mother, I'll look after 'ee." An'

so 'e did, till 'e married that day six months an' take to the drink in sower. 'E wasn't never 'the same boy again--not Fred. An' now 'e's in That. I can see poor Fred----

[She slowly wipes a tear out of the corner of an eye with the back of her finger.]

PRESS. [Puzzled] In--That?

LEMMY. [Sotto voce] Come orf it! Prison! 'S wot she calls it.

MRS. L. [Cheerful] They say life's a vale o' sorrows. Well, so 'tes, but don' du to let yureself thenk so.

PRESS. And so you came to London, Mrs. Lemmy?

MRS. L. Same year as father died. With the four o' them--that's my son Fred, an' my son Jim, an' my son Tom, an' Alice. Bob there, 'e was born in London--an' a praaper time I 'ad of et.

PRESS. [Writing] "Her heroic struggles with poverty----"

MRS. L. Worked in a laundry, I ded, at fifteen sh.e.l.lin's a week, an'

brought 'em all up on et till Alice 'ad the gallopin' consumption. I can see poor Alice wi' the little red spots is 'er cheeks---an' I not knowin' wot to du wi' 'her--but I always kept up their buryin' money.

Funerals is very dear; Mr. Lemmy was six pound, ten.