naked through the lands—

You can see 'im on the back of 'arf-a-quid—

'E spiked the fiery dragon with a spear in both 'is 'ands,

But to-day, if 'e 'd to do what then he did,

'E 'd roll up easy in an armoured car,

'E 'd loose off a little Lewis gun,

Then 'e 'd 'oist the scaly dragon upon a G.S. wagon

And cart 'im 'ome to show the job was done.

SPOOP.

A REPERTORY DRAMA IN ONE ACT.

["A repertory play is one that is unlikely to be repeated."—Old Saying.]

CHARACTERS.

SCENE.—The living-room of a smallish house in the dullest street of a provincial suburb. [N.B.—This merely means that practically any scenery will do, provided the wall-paper is sufficiently hideous. Furnish with the scourings of the property-room—a great convenience for Sunday evening productions.] The room contains rather less than the usual allowance of doors and windows, thus demonstrating a fine contempt for stage traditions. An electric-light, disguised within a mid-Victorian gas-globe, occupies a conspicuous position on one wall. You will see why presently. When the curtain rises Janet, an awkward girl of any age over thirty (and made up to look it) is seated before the fire knitting. Her mother, also knitting, faces her. The appearance of the elder woman contains a very careful suggestion of the nearest this kind of play ever gets to low-comedy.

Janet (glancing at clock on mantelpiece). It's close on nine. David is late again.

Mrs. B. He's aye late these nights. 'Tis the lectures at the Institute that keeps him.

[N.B.—Naturally both women speak with a pronounced accent, South Lancashire if possible. Failing that, anything sufficiently unlike ordinary English will serve.

Janet. He's that anxious to get on, is David.

Mrs. B. Ay, he's fair set on being a town councillor one day, like thy feyther.

Janet (quietly). That 'ud be fine.

Mrs. B. You'd a rare long meeting at the women's guild to-night.

Janet (without emotion). Ay. They've elected me to go to Manchester on the deputation.

Mrs. B. You'll like that.

Janet (suppressing a secret pride so that it is wholly imperceptible by the audience). It'll be well enough. I'm to go first-class. (A pause.) Young Mr. Inkslinger is going too.

Mrs. B. (with interest). Can they spare him from the boot-shop?

Janet. He's left them. He's writing a play.

Mrs. B. (concerned). Dear, dear! And he used to be such a steady young fellow.

[All that matters in their conversation is now finished, but as the play has got to be filled up they continue to talk for some ten minutes longer. At the end of that time—

Janet (glancing at clock again). It's half-past nine, and neither of they men back yet.

[Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted, the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind. This is called realism.

Mrs. B. Listen! Yer feyther's comin' now.

[A door in the far distance is heard to bang. At the same instant John Bullyum enters quickly. He is the typical British parent of repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a gamekeeper and an undertaker.

Bullyum (He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks scornfully). Well, here's a fine thing happened.

Mrs. B. What is it, feyther?

Bully, (showing letter). That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the impudence to write me asking for our Janet. But I've told him off to rights. He's nobbut a boot-builder.

Janet (in a level voice). Ye're wrong there, feyther. Bob Inkslinger's a dramatist now.

Bully, (thunderstruck). What?

Janet (as before). He's had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.

Bully. Great Powers, a repertory dramatist! And I've insulted him!—me, a town councillor. (He has grown white to the lips; this is not easy, but can be managed.) There'll be a play about me—about us, this house—everything. But (passionately) I'll thwart him yet. Janet, my girl, do thee write at once and say that I withdraw my opposition to the engagement.

Janet (dully). But I don't want the man.

Bully, (hectoring). Am I your feyther or am I not? I tell you you shall marry him. And what's more, he shan't find us what he looks for. No, no (with rising agitation), he thinks that because I'm a town councillor I'm to be made game of, does he? Well, I'll learn him different! (Glaring round) This room—it's got to be changed. And you (to Janet) put on a short frock, something lively and up-to-date—d' ye hear? At once!

Mrs. B. (as Janet only stares without moving). Well, I never.

Bully. And let's have some books about the place—BERNARD SHAW—

Janet (icily). He's a back number now, feyther.

Bully. Well, whoever's the latest. Then you must go to plays and dances, lots of dances. (Struck with an idea) Where's David?

[As he speaks David enters, a tall ungainly youth with spectacles and a projecting brow.

David. Here I yam, feyther.

Bully. It's close on ten. (Hopefully) Have ye been at a night-club?

David. I were kept late at evenin' class.

Bully. Brr! (In an ecstasy of fury) See ye belong to a night-club before the week's out. (He does his glare again.) I'll establish frivolity and a spirit of modernism in this household, if I have to take the stick to every member of it.

Janet (springing up suddenly). Feyther! (A pause; she collects herself for her big effort.) Feyther, I'm one o' they dour silent girls to whom expression comes hardly, but (with veiled menace) when it does come it means fifteen minutes' unrelieved monologue. So tak' heed. We're not wanting these changes, and to be up-to-date, and all that. I'm happy as I am, and so's David. He has his hope of the council, and the bribes and them things. And I've my guild and my friends, with their odd clothes and variable accents. That's the life I want, and I won't change it. I won't—

[Quite suddenly she breaks from them and rushes out of the room, slamming the door after her. The others remain silent, apparently from emotion, but really to see if there will be any applause. When this is settled in the negative old Bullyum speaks