^Jfa^S^i Class JP^JAii Book. Z 3 ?3 GopightN COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. FEED THE BRUTE By GEORGE PASTON Copyright, 1909, by Samuel French, Ltd. New York SAMUEL FRENCH PUBLISHER London SAMUEL FRENCH Ltd 26 Southampton Street 26, WEST 22ND STREET I STRAND z 7 ?3 ©C/.D 17 8 3 6 Produced at the Royalty Theatre, London, on May 24, 1908, with the following cast : — CHARACTERS Samuel Pottle . . . Mr. Edmund Gwenn. Mrs. Pottle . . . Miss Clare Greet. Mrs. Wilks . . . Miss Agnes Thomas. Scene : — Mawson's Buildings, West Ham. Any costumes or wigs required in the performance of this play may be hired or purchased reasonably from Messrs. C. H. Fox, Ltd., 27, Wellington Street, Strand, London. FEED THE BRUTE Scene : — Living room in workman's model dwellings. Mrs. Pottle is busy with a couple of saucepans at the fireplace, or gas stove. N.B. — If desired the fireplace can be masked by a clothes-horse or other screen, and the dishes handed in to her as she wants them. But it would be more effective to allow the audience to see her at work. Mrs. Wilks is seated by the table, on which is a tea- tray. There are two or three wooden or horsehair chairs, one armchair, and a couch. Also a large chest of drawers with books and ornaments on the top, a smaller table, and a sewing machine. Mrs. Pottle, a cheery looking little woman of about thirty-five, plump and rosy. She is tidily dressed, and wears a clean apron. Her hair is neatly parted ' down the middle. She holds a fork, with which she occasionally turns OVW the contents of the saucepan. Mrs. Pottle. So the pore old lady's gone at last. Mrs. Wilks, a sallow, discontented-looking woman of about thirty, with her hair in curling pins. She wears very rusty and untidy mourning, battered hat with mangy feather, bodice and skirt not meeting at the back, white tapes hanging down, coloured petticoat showing below torn skirt. She speaks in a com- plaining voice, but is proudly conscious that her narrative is one of strong dramatic interest. Mrs. Wilks. Yes, it was only Wednesday fort- 8 FEED THE BRUTE. night, or it might have been Thursday, that I sez, " You pore dear," I sez, " I can see you're struck for death, for what my cousin's stepmother had you've got, and you'll die of it, I sez." Mrs. Pottle {deeply interested). Ah ! And what had she got to say to that ? Mrs. W. She seemed a bit put out, though my aunt's sister-in-law told her the same. But when her legs began to swell Mrs. P. (with increased enjoyment). Ah-h, we all know what that means. A real polished oak coffin, you said ? Mrs. W. (importantly). Yes, with best brass han- dles, and name-plate inlaid, no expense spared— flowers and plumes and everything the heart could wish, though it took every bit of the insurance money, and then we had to pawn the mangle. Mrs. P. (clucks admiringly). Well, you could not have done more for her if she'd been a count- ess. Mrs. W. Thought you'd like a mourning card. (Takes card out of an envelope.) Mrs. P. (taking it in her apron). Well now, ain't that handsome ! Black and silver ! You may well say there was no expense spared. What's this — looks like a hat box ? Mrs. W. Broken column. The undertaker re- commended that. Mrs. P. What's the tex' ? (Reading.) " To live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die." I always did like that tex'. We had it for my great- aunt, Mrs. Twigg, what kept the fried fish shop in Church Street. Mrs. W. (slightingly). Never heard of her. . . . I wanted, " Ow for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still." More classy, I thought. But they said we'd better keep that for father. He'll be the next to go, and it'll be a blessed relief. . . . What you got there ? FEED THE BRUTE. 9 Mrs. P. A little bit of stew for supper. Samuel loves a bit of stew with plenty of onion. Mrs. W. Smells good, but it's a lot of trouble. Tinned salmon now — I say that's always ready. Mrs. P. My husband don't] fancy tinned food. He's that picksome about his victuals. This stew now — it's got to be so as you could eat it with a spoon. Mrs. W. I shouldn't give in to such fancies. Mrs. P. Well, his teeth ain't over good — least- ways, they ain't a good fit. Mrs. W. What you got in the saucepan ? Mrs. P. A little jam rowley-powley. Mrs. W. Stew and rowley-powley ! Well, I shouldn't think there's another man in the Buildings as'll come home to such a supper to-night. Mrs. P. No, and not in West Ham neither. But it's the naniversary of our wedding day. I seemed to want a bit of a treat. Mrs. W. {enviously). You going to have a hot supper too ! Mrs. P. (clearing away the teathings and beginning to lay the cloth, knife and fork, etc.). Oh no, the cooking's my treat. I used to be a cook, you know — " good plain " — but I've sent up as many -as nine courses, counting cheese and biscuits. My mother now, she was a professed cook, and so was my grand- mother. We Twiggs ain't much at our books, but give us a saucepan, and we're all there. Mrs. W. (sniffing). Mr. Pottle must be doing well. I thought he was out of work. Mrs. P. So he is, in a manner of speaking. But he went to the Relief Committee, and they put him on the roads. Five shillings a day, wet or fine. He didn't make that at his own trade, and worked longer hours. Mrs. W. Ah, I often wish my old man could lose his job. But there — he's got no ambition— no enterprise. 10 FEED THE BRUTE. Mrs. P. Of course we don't have stew and pud- den every day. Sometimes it only runs to a blowter and a baked apple. But you can make anything tasty if you take a bit of trouble. Mrs. W. Well, I should think there's only one way of cooking a blowter and a baked apple. •Mrs. P. Ah, I know that one way — mine's the other. First I choose my blowter — ham-cured, not too mild, with a hard roe. Then I split and bone it, fry to a turn with a dab of butter, and serve be- tween two hot plates, with mustard and vinegar beat up for a relish. Mrs. W. (in wide-eyed amazement). Well, I never ! Mrs. P. And I pick my own apple — English, of course. Take out the core, fill in with sugar, and roast to a turn. Then I save a drain of milk from tea, and boil it up with a pinch of flour and a dash of sugar — milk custard, I call it Mrs. W. (in contemptuous amusement). Fancy taking all that trouble about your own husband ! Mrs. P. Well, he's been a good husband to me. Never knocks me about — don't drink Mrs. W. How about last Good Friday ? Mrs. P. Oh, I don't say he hasn't a bit of a spree on Bank Holidays, Christmas Day and Good Friday ; but it's a poor heart that never rejoices. Mrs. W. Gives yer the rough side of his tongue sometimes, don't he ? We can hear him carrying-on right through the wall. Mrs. P. Oh, that ain't my Sam. It must be those Wiggins' down below. Mrs. W. Oh, go on. Mrs. P. (looking at clock). He ought to be back in a minute. Mrs. W. (getting up wearily). I suppose I must go and see after something for supper. The men little think how we slave for 'em, day in and day out— cooking and cleaning, mending and washing up after 'em. It's a dog's life, I say. FEED THE BRUTE. U Mrs. P. (virtuously). I think we ought to be very thankful to have victuals to cook, and husbands to cook 'em for. Mrs. W. Oh, you're all right. You haven't got any kids dragging after you. Mrs. P. No, I used to wish I had. 3ut there, I think a man's baby enough for any woman. . . . You haven't left yourself much time to cook the supper, have you ? Mrs. W. Cold bacon is all my old man'll get to- night. If he wants any more, there's the tinned salmon. Mrs. P. I should just like to see Samuel's face if I put cold bacon under his nose. Altercation with children on the stairs. Noise outside, and enter Pottle. He is a big, rough-looking man, in working clothes, with grimy hands and face. He comes in grumbling about "a parcel of kids always under your feet," etc. Mrs. W. (with a feeble attempt at coquetry). Why, there is Mr. Pottle, I do declare. Mr. Pottle. Umph ! Mrs. W. Good-evening, Mr. Pottle. 1 just looked in to borrow a bit of kindling. Good-night, Mrs. Pottle, dear. See you in the morning. Mrs. P. (shortly). Good-night. (Looks anxiously at Pottle.) Exit Mrs. Wilks (with bundle of kindling). Mr. P. (savagely). Why ain't my supper ready ? What you gossiping with that slut for when you ought to be cooking my supper ? Blime me, if it ain't enough to drive a man to the public. Mrs. P. (cheerfully). Your supper '11 be ready as soon as you are. Let me take your coat. My ! ain't you wet ? Mr. P. Wet ! Of course I'm wet. Thought I 12 FEED THE BRUTE. came home in a hansom, did you ? Then you jolly well thought wrong. ... I footed it, I did footed it. 'Arf a mile I must ha' walked. Look at] me boots now — look at 'em. (Holds one up.) Mrs. P. Oh, my word ! I shall 'ave a job to clean 'em. Mr. P. Yes, and just see you do clean 'em. A lick and a wipe was all they'd 'ad this morning (taking off his boots). . . . Ugh ! there's more rain coming* Mrs. P. Yes. Mine have been at it all day. Mr. P. Got nothing fit to eat there, I s'pose. Mrs. P. (with quiet triumph). Only a little bit of stew and a rowley powley pudden. Mr. P. (ungraciously). Umph ! (Suspiciously.) A treacle rowley powley ? Mrs. P. (with pride). No, jam. Rorsberry jam. Mr. P. (throwing away his boots noisily). Now then, where's my slippers ? What you want to go hiding my slippers for ? Why the juice can't you put the bally slippers where I can find 'em ? Mrs. P. Here they are, dearie. I had 'em toast- ing in the fender. (Hands him slippers.) Mr. P. (puts them on, and bursts out in a new place). No hot water, of course ! Can't get a drop o' hot water in this 'ouse. Bio wed if I'm going to wash in cold. Mrs. P. Here's the kettle — just on the boil. Mr. P. Clever, ain't you ? (takes kettle and shuffles towards door. Stumbles against chair). Oh, blarst the chair ! Why can't you keep the chairs against the wall ? Always sticking the damned things out for me to tumble over. (Kicks chair over.) You'll break my neck one of these days, and then you'll be had up for manslaughter. Mrs. P. (calmly). You'll feel better when you've had your supper. I can see you're hungry. Mr. P. (going through door, which he leaves partly open). Hungry ! Ow no ; I lunched with the Lord Mayor at the Manshing House, and bio wed meself FEED THE BRUTE. 13 out with turtle soup and pineapples. Hungry ! Not much ! Sounds of water being poured out, Where's the sowp ? (Shouting.) Mrs. P. (busy over her pots and pans). In the sowp-dish. Mr. P. (shouting). But where's the blooming sowp-dish ? Mrs, P. Where it always is — beside the sink. Mr. P. (yells). Ow ! Mrs. P. What's the matter now ? Mr. P. Scalt meself. You've been and made the water so plaguey hot. Mrs. P. Well, you wouldn't have me ice it, would you ? Sounds of vigorous splashing. Mr. P. (wails). You've put me the wrong towel. Mrs. P. There's two on the roller. One rough and one smooth. I ain't got nothing between. Mr. P. No, you never would 'ave nothing be- tween. Grunt from Pottle. A minute later he stumps in rubbing his face and head with a rough towel. (Loudly.) Now then, where's this here grub ? My Gawd, if it ain't enough to break a man's heart. An idling, gossipping, trolloping Mrs. P. (quietly draws up a chair to the table. Kindly). Now, you just set down there. I told you your supper'd be ready as soon as you'd cleaned yourself. Look at this now. (Quickly turns stew out on to dish, and sets it in front of him.) Done to a turn, though I sez it. Mr. P. (looks at it critically, grunts, and helps himself). Where's my beer ? 14 FEED THE BRUTE. Mrs. P. (pouring Out beer from jug). In your mug, but I don't suppose it'll be there long. Pottle eats greedily, but grumblingly. Mrs. Pottle stands and watches him with a benignant eye. Mrs. P. How's the stew ? Mr. P. Not enough onion. Mrs. P. Well there : last time you said I pizened it with onion. I expect you're tired to-night, and then you never stomach your victuals. Mr. P. Expect I'm tired. Ow no ! I've been laying on a sofa all day, with me feet on a cushion and a piller under me head. ... (Fiercely.) I'm getting about sick of it all, I am. Working the flesh off me bones for a beggarly sixpence an hour. Might as well be a blooming nigger. Mrs. P. The boss hasn't been down on you again, has he ? Mr. P. (with his mouth full). I'd like to knock his ugly head off. I'd stopped sweeping half a sec, just to draw me breath like, when up he comes, and sez, " Ullo, my man," he sez, " I don't pay you to lean on your broom all day." " Hoh ! " I sez, " you don't, don't you," I sez, " Hoh ! indeed ! " Mrs. P. (admiringly). Oh, you are a caution ! You do know how to cheek 'em. What had he got to say to that ? Mr. P. Said I used me broom as if I was cleaning a baby's face. Said the blarsted brooms were meant for use and not for ornament. Said the roads weren't over good, but I needn't be afraid of sweeping 'em away. I up and sez, " Go and put your head in a bag," I sez. Mrs. P. (startled). And he didn't give you the sack ? Mr. P. (sheepishly). No, he never 'eard me. . . . What I say is, there's got to be an end of this. (With FEED THE BRUTE. 15 violence.) I ain't going to put up with it much longer. It's me, and such as me, what creates the wealth of this country. Mrs. P. Lor ! (Impressed.) Mr. P. I may be only a pore working man, but I have me own ideas. The employer and the parson can't bamboozle me. I think for myself. Mrs. P. (admiringly). I never knew such a man to think. And then you talk so beautiful. You ought to be in Parliament. Mr. P. (growling). A fat lot you know about Par- liament. You attend to your pudden. Mrs. P. goes to fireplace. Mr. P. (striking the table with his fist). I tell you, there's a day coming — when these here bloated capitalists, they'll have to reckon with us working men what makes their money for 'em. What right, I arsk, have they to drive in their mowter-cars while I walk through the mud on me shoddy boots ? Mrs. P. (with cheerful irrelevance). I do hate them nasty mowters. I'd feel safer on me boots, or in a good old horse bus. Mr. P. (witheringly). I didn't arsk what your feelings were. You're only a woman. (Slight pause, while he eats grumblingly.) Look at this here govern- ment ! Calls theirselves Radicals. Sits in their droring-rooms swilling champagne, and wants to shut up the pore man's pub. Mrs. P. (always willing to agree, but really caring nothing whatever about the matter). It's a wicked shame. Mr. P. Gets their own salaries raised, and grudges the pore man ten shillings a week at sixty. Mrs. P. (in same tone). I call it downright mean. Mr. P. Talks of doing away with the 'Ouse of Lords, and then goes and shoves theirselves into it. Mrs. P. Something ought to be done about it. 16 FEED THE BRUTE. But still sugar's cheaper, and you always had a sweet tooth, Samuel. Mr. P. I say, if we all had our rights, we should be living in Park Lane, and the employer would be pigging in this dirty kennel. Mrs. P. It ain't dirty, and them Park Lane houses must take a lot of cleaning. I never think they look real cosy. Mr. P. Oh, shut your head ! . . . I'd like to treat them millionaires the way they do in Russia- blow 'em up with dynamite. Mrs. P. Oh, Samuel, how can you talk so ? You that wouldn't hurt a fly! The kindest, mildest man Mr. P. I'm a lot too kind and mild — that's what's the matter with me. . . . But I say (strikes table) that them that creates the wealth should consoom the wealth, and I say that them that tills the soil should possess the soil Mrs. P. (nodding). Yes, I know that's right, because I saw something like it in the Sunday paper. Mr. P. (eyeing her suspiciously). What call have you to go reading speeches in the paper ? You ought to be darning my socks. Mrs. P. It just caught me eye while I was reading that there murder case in Whitechapel — about the man what cut his wife's throat, and then chopped up the baby and hid it in the coal box. Must have one of them new-fangled coal boxes with lids. I had one for a wedding present, d'ye remember ? Lor, I was glad when it fell to pieces, and I could get back to a good old iron shoot. Mr. P. (pushing away his plate). Not so much jaw. Where's my pudden ? Biling itself to rags, I s'pose ? Mrs. P. (cheerfully). Just asking to come out of the cloth. (Takes it off fire.) Open your mouth and shut your eyes. (Turns it out, and puts it in front of him.) There, done to a turn. FEED THE BRUTE. 17 Mr. P. (poking it with fork). Sure it's not soft in the middle ? Mrs. P. (mildly reproachful). Now, Sam, are my puddens ever soft in the middle ? Mr. P. (grudgingly). No, I will say you know how to boil a pudden. . . . And I have eaten worse stew. Mrs. P. (delighted). There, I knew you'd rind it tasty. You'd never guess it was New Zealand. It caught my fancy on the stall just before closing time. I sez to the young man, " I suppose that scrap's to be given away. I want a bit of meat for my cat, and I see that's getting blown." " Blown, madam," he sez, " that's a piece of prime Canterbury, dirt cheap at fourpence ha'penny." " Canterbury, is it ? " I sez. " Then all I can say is, I'm sorry for Canterbury," and I walked on. But he calls after me, " Come, you're an old customer, and it's getting late. You shall have it for fourpence." " Cat's meat is raised," I sez, " but I'll give you threepence," and after a bit more talk I got it for threepence ha'penny. Mr. P. (with reluctant approval). He didn't make much out of you. Mrs. P. (clearing away the dish). There's some nice bits of bone here'll do for my dinner to-morrow. Mr. P. There's nothing left on them bones. Mrs. P. Oh, there's pickings. If I simmer them up with a potato or two, there'll be a dinner fit for a queen. Mr. P. (eating his pudding, and speaking in more conversational tones). What did Mrs. Wilks come poking her nose in here for ? Mrs. P. (taking up needlework). Brought me her mother-in-law's mourning card. Told me all about the old lady's last illness, too. Doctor said she ought to have champagne and oysters. They couldn't run to that, but they gave her mussels and ginger beer. It was a hard death, but they did their duty by her, 18 FEED THE BRUTE. and showed her every respect. You couldn't see the hats for the hat-bands, and there was a whole ham boiled for the mourners. Mr. P. Oh lor ! you wimmen ! And you expect a thinking man to sit and listen to your gabble ! Mrs. P. (hurt but humble). I know I'm not clever like you, Samuel, but I never had your advantages. No Continuation Schools or Polytechnics for the eldest of seven. But mother taught me to cook and clean house. . . . There's Mrs. Wilks now, she may talk and dress more elegant than what I do, but I pity her husband. She's always a-whining and a- pining because she has to cook and clean up after him. I sez, " You ought to be thankful," I sez, " to have a husband to cook for," I sez, " and victuals to cook," I sez. Mr. P. (steadily eating pudding). What's a woman for except to cook and clean for a man ? Mrs. P. That's what I sez. Mr. P. (after slight pause). The fact is these here marriage laws are all wrong. Mrs. P. (shocked). Oh, Samuel ! Mr. P. Why should a man be tied up to one woman all his life ? S'pose a young lady with a bit of property took a fancy to me, why can't I have her instead of you, or as well as you ? Mrs. P. (beginning to cry). Oh, Samuel, how can you say such dreadful things, and on the naniver- sary of our wedding day ? Mr. P. Now don't you begin to snivel — you know I won't stand snivelling. Shut it — d'y 'ear ? I didn't say I was going to marry a young lady of property, did I ? But I say a man ought to be free to chop and change as often as he likes. Why should the toffs be allowed to shunt their wives just because they can pay for it, while the pore man has to stick to the same old geezer ? Mrs. P. (with a gleam of mischief). When you men get things your own way, may the women chop and FEED THE BRUTE. 19 change, too ? Because the butcher's young man's a smart-looking chap Mr. P. (in sudden fury, half rising). What ! If you're up to any of them tricks I'll do you in, and him too. If that's why you get the meat so cheap Mrs. P. Lor no, Samuel, it was only my little joke. I never passed a remark to the young man, except to beat him down. Mr. P. (subsiding). I don't want no more little jokes of that sort. I'd joke you if I thought there was anything in it. . . . The fact is, you wimmen are getting a lot too uppish, what with wanting votes and union wages, and everything the same as men. Mrs. P. Oh, I've no patience with them suf- fragettes. I don't call 'em ladylike. Mr. P. I don't know what we're coining to. They'll be giving votes to the cats and dogs next . . . and you wimmen don't want men's wages because you don't use no baccy, and you can't drink so much beer — leastways, you didn't ought to. (Pushing away his plate and leaning back.) Still, I will say this for you, Susan, you mayn't be a woman of eddication or intelligence, but you do know how to make a rowley powley. Mrs. P. (delighted). It was a bit of all right, was it ? I was afraid a drop of water had got in. Me heart was in my mouth as I turned it out. Lor, it's a fair treat to see you eat. Feel better now., don't you, dearie ? Shall I toast you a mite of cheese just to settle the pudden ? Mr. P. No, I reckon I've done meself a treat. (Unbuttons waistcoat. Takes out pipe. Mrs. P. brings him a match.) You had any supper, Susan ? Mrs. P. I and Mrs. Wilks had a nice piece of buttered toast to our teas. I couldn't eat no supper. (Begins to wash up.) Mr. P. (jocosely). Well, there wouldn't be much, if you could. I made a pretty clean sweep of that 20 FEED THE BRUTE. little lot. . . . (Getting up ; with a touch of sentiment.) So it's the hanniversary of our wedding day. Ten years, ain't it ? Mrs. P. Twelve. Second of March, 1897. Mr. P. (reminiscently). How time do fly ! Seems only the other day I met you on 'Ampstead 'Eath. Treated you to sausage rowls and a roundabout. Mrs. P. (also reminiscent). Lor, I did feel queer. Never knew whether it was the sausage rowls or the roundabout — or the way you looked at me. Mr. P. That day six months we was getting spliced. Blarst me, if I wasn't as nervous as a rabbit. You wore a blue dress, didn't you ? (Sits, R.) Mrs. P. (with promptness and exactitude, as though describing a photograph). Light blue cashmere with a white silk front, and a cream lace hat with three tips. Elbow sleeves I had, and sixteen button tan thread gloves. I wore them drop earrings you give me, and my rowled gold chain round me neck. Mr. P. (appreciatively). You knocked spots out of all the other brides. Sixteen couples we were. Mrs. P. Remember the afternoon at Southend, and the winkle tea ? Mr. P. What O ! and I remember the first supper you cooked for me. Tripe and onion, and apple turnovers to follow. As soon as ever I set me teeth in them turnovers, I knew what a treasure I'd got. Mrs. P. (modestly). I always had a light hand for pastry. Mr. P. (sentimentally) . Twelve years, and a pudden nearly every day, and never a single pudden gone wrong. That's a record ! Tell you what it is, Susan, if I could have six wives, I'd have you for number one. Mrs. P. (flicking him with teacloth. Giggling). Ow, you and your six wives ! You're a reg'lar old Bluebeard. Mr. P. (with increasing warmth). And you ain't wore badly, Susan. I've seen worse-looking women One copy del. to Cat. Div. JAN 3 1910 FEED THE BRUTE. 21 when you're tidied up. Nice colour you've got to- night. Mrs. P. (coyly). It's the fire. Caught me face, it has. Expect I look like an old turkey cock. Mr. P. You've put on flesh a bit, but you're still a tidy figure. . . . Still, I don't say the luck's all been on one side. I'm a steady man. I don't go blueing my money at the public. " Sunday evening at the Club, with a free variety show, and no black list — that's good enough for me . . . You ought to thank your stars for your good, kind husband. Mrs. P. I do, Samuel. Every night of my life. Mr. P. I may speak a bit rough sometimes, but me heart's in the right place. I've never laid a finger on you, have I, Susan ? Mrs. P. No, you've been more like a friend than a husband. Mr. P. Tell you what it is. I'll take you for an outing on Sunday. We'll go and see the 'ouse where the man chopped up the baby. Mrs. P. Oh, Samuel, that will be a treat ! Mr. P. And then we'll take a mowter bus to Hyde Park. Might get a chance to see the Queen drive through. Mrs. P. (delighted). And the dear little princes. Mr. P. (getting up). Come and give us a kiss, old girl. (Catches hold of her and pulls her towards htm.) Mrs. P. (bashfully). Lor, Samuel, how can you be so silly ? And we old married folk ! Give over, do. He pulls her down on his knee, puts his arm round her neck, and gives her a " good hug." Curtain. Butler & Tanner The Selwood Printing Works Frome and London THE PLAYS OF ALFRED SUTRO. Paper, acting edition, is. 6d. net. Cloth, Library Edition, 2S. 6d. net. The FASCINATING Mr. VANDERVELDT A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. (Paper only.) THE BARRIER,