Come 'ere, old lydy; and bring yer trahsers. [MRS. LEMMY
comes forward to the window] Tell abaht yer speech to the meetin'.
MRS. LEMMY. [Bridling] Oh dear! Well, I cam' in with me trousers,
an' they putt me up on the pedestory at once, so I tole 'em.
[Holding up the trousers] "I putt in the button'oles, I stretches
the flies; I lines the crutch; I putt on this bindin', I presses the
seams--Tuppence three farthin's a pair."
[A groan from tote crowd, ]
LEMMY. [Showing her off] Seventy-seven! Wot's 'er income? Twelve
bob a week; seven from the Gover'ment an' five from the sweat of 'er
brow. Look at 'er! 'Yn't she a tight old dear to keep it goin'! No
workus for 'er, nao fear! The gryve rather!
[Murmurs from the crowd, at Whom MRS. LEMMY is blandly smiling.]
You cawn't git below 'er--impossible! She's the foundytions of the
country--an' rocky 'yn't the word for 'em. Worked 'ard all 'er life,
brought up a family and buried 'em on it. Twelve bob a week, an'
given when 'er fingers goes, which is very near. Well, naow, this
torf 'ere comes to me an' says: "I'd like to do somefin' for yer
muvver. 'Ow's ten bob a week?" 'e says. Naobody arst 'im--quite on
'is own. That's the sort 'e is. [Sinking his voice confidentially]
Sorft. You bring yer muvvers 'ere, 'e'll do the syme for them. I
giv yer the 'int.
VOICE. [From the crowd] What's 'is nyme?
LEMMY.
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