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HOBSON'S CHOICE
A Lancashire Comedy in Four Acts
BY
HAROLD BRIGHOUSE
_Hobson's Choice_ was originally produced in America. Its
first English production took place on June 22, 1916, at the
Apollo Theatre, London, with the following cast:
ALICE HOBSON . . . . . . . . _Miss Lydia Bilbrooke_.
MAGGIE HOBSON . . . . . . . . _Miss Edyth Goodall_.
VICKEY HOBSON . . . . . . . . _Miss Hilda Davies_.
ALBERT PROSSER . . . . . . . . _Mr. Reginald Fry_.
HENRY HORATIO HOBSON . . . . . . _Mr. Norman McKinnel_.
MRS. HEPWORTH . . . . . . . . _Miss Dora Gregory_.
TIMOTHY WADLOW (TUBBY). . . . . . _Mr. Sydney Paxton_.
WILLIAM MOSSOP . . . . . . . . _Mr. Joe Nightingale_.
JIM HEELER . . . . . . . . . _Mr. J. Cooke Beresford_.
ADA FIGGINS . . . . . . . . . _Miss Mary Byron_.
FRED BEENSTOCK . . . . . . . . _Mr. Jefferson Gore_.
DR. MACFARLANE . . . . . . . . _Mr. J. Fisher White_.
The play produced by MR. NORMAN McKINNEL.
_The_ SCENE _is Salford, Lancashire, and the period is
1880_.
ACT I. _Interior of_ HOBSON'S _Shop in Chapel Street_.
ACT II. _The same scene_.
ACT III. WILL MOSSOP'S _Shop_.
ACT IV. _Living-room of_ HOBSON'S _Shop_.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE.
Acknowledgements are made to Mr. William Armstrong, Director of
the Liverpool Repertory Company, for allowing his prompt copy to
be used in preparing this acting edition.
[Illustration] Red Walls, Brown oaken dado. T. gas bracket over
counter. Turkey red curtains half up window. No carpet. Small rug
at door R. Shoes on counter and showcases. Hanging laces.
Advertisements. Boot polishes. Brushes. Brown paper on counter.
Clogs in rows under shelves R. C. Black cane furniture and rush-
bottomed. Heavy leather armchair. Piece of rough leather on
shelves.
The trap is eminently desirable. However, should the stage used
have no trap, the work-room may be supposed to be off-stage, with
a door up Right.
HOBSON'S CHOICE
ACT 1
_The_ SCENE _represents the interior of_ HOBSON'S
_Boot Shop in Chapel Street, Bedford. The shop windows and
entrance from street occupy the left side. Facing the audience is
the counter, with exhibits of boots and slippers, behind which
the wall is fitted with racks containing boot boxes. Cane chairs
in front of counter. There is a desk down L. with a chair. A door
R. leads up to the house. In the centre of the stage is a trap
leading to the cellar where work is done. There are no elaborate
fittings. Gas brackets in the windows and walls. The business is
prosperous, but to prosper in Salford in 1880 you did not require
the elaborate accessories of a later day. A very important
customer goes for fitting into_ HOBSON'S _sitting-room. The
rank and file use the cane chairs in the shop, which is dingy but
business-like. The windows exhibit little stock, and amongst what
there is clogs figure prominently. Through the windows comes the
bright light of noon.
Sitting behind the counter are_ HOBSON'S _two younger
daughters,_ ALICE, R., _who is twenty-three, and_
VICTORIA, L., _who is twenty-one, and very pretty_. ALICE
_is knitting and_ VICTORIA _is reading. They are in black,
with neat black aprons. The door_ R. _opens, and_ MAGGIE
_enters. She is_ HOBSON'S _eldest daughter, thirty_.
ALICE. Oh, it's you. I hoped it was father going out.
MAGGIE. It isn't. (_She crosses and takes her place at desk_
L.)
ALICE. He _is_ late this morning.
MAGGIE. He got up late. (_She busies herself with an account
book_.)
VICKEY. (_reading_). Has he had breakfast yet, Maggie?
MAGGIE. Breakfast! With a Masons' meeting last night!
VICKEY. He'll need reviving.
ALICE. Then I wish he'd go and do it.
VICKEY. Are you expecting anyone, Alice?
ALICE. Yes, I am, and you know I am, and I'll thank you both to
go when he comes.
VICKEY. Well, I'll oblige you, Alice, if father's gone out first,
only you know I can't leave the counter till he goes.
(ALBERT PROSSER _enters from the street. He is twenty-six,
nicely dressed, as the son of an established solicitor would be.
He crosses to_ R. _and raises his hat to _ALICE.)
ALBERT. Good morning, Miss Alice.
ALICE. Good morning, Mr. Prosser. (_She leans across
counter_.) Father's not gone out yet. He's late.
ALBERT. Oh! (_He turns to go, and is half-way to door, when
MAGGIE rises_.)
MAGGIE (_coming_ C.). What can we do for you, Mr. Prosser?
ALBERT (_stopping_). Well, I can't say that I came in to buy
anything, Miss Hobson.
MAGGIE. This is a shop, you know. We're not here to let people go
out without buying.
ALBERT. Well, I'll just have a pair of bootlaces, please.
(_Moves slightly to_ R.)
MAGGIE. What size do you take in boots?
ALBERT. Eights. I've got small feet. (_He simpers, then
perceives that_ MAGGIE _is by no means smiling_.) Does
that matter to the laces?
MAGGIE (_putting mat in front of arm-chair_ R. C.) It matters
to the boots. (_She pushes him slightly_.) Sit down, Mr. Prosser.
ALBERT (_sitting in arm-chair_ R. C.) Yes, but--
(MAGGIE _is on her knees and takes off his boot_.)
MAGGIE. It's time you had a new pair. These uppers are
disgraceful for a professional man to wear. Number eights from
the third rack, Vickey, please.
ALICE (_moving down a little_). Mr. Prosser didn't come in
to buy boots, Maggie.
(VICKEY _comes down to_ MAGGIE _with box which she
opens_.)
MAGGIE. I wonder what does bring him in here so often!
(ALICE _moves back to behind counter_.)
ALBERT. I'm terrible hard on bootlaces, Miss Hobson.
(MAGGIE _puts a new boot on him and laces it_.)
MAGGIE. Do you get through a pair a day? You must be strong.
ALBERT. I keep a little stock of them. It's as well to be
prepared for accidents.
MAGGIE. And now you'll have boots to go with the laces, Mr.
Prosser. How does that feel?
ALBERT. Very comfortable.
MAGGIE. Try it standing up.
ALBERT (_trying and walking a few steps_). Yes, that fits
all right.
MAGGIE. I'll put the other on.
ALBERT. Oh no, I really don't want to buy them.
MAGGIE (_pushing him_). Sit down, Mr. Prosser. You can't go
through the streets in odd boots.
(ALICE _comes down again_.)
ALBERT. What's the price of these?
MAGGIE. A pound.
ALBERT. A pound! I say--
MAGGIE. They're good boots, and you don't need to buy a pair of
laces to-day, because we give them in as discount. (VICKEY
_goes back to counter_.) Braid laces, that is. Of course, if
you want leather ones, you being so strong in the arm and
breaking so many pairs, you can have them, only it's tuppence
more.
ALBERT. These--these will do.
MAGGIE. Very well, you'd better have the old pair mended and I'll
send them home to you with the bill. (_She has laced the second
boot, rises, and moves towards desk_ L., _throwing the boot
box at_ VICKEY, _who gives a little scream at the
interruption of her reading_. ALBERT _gasps_.)
ALBERT. Well, if anyone had told me I was coming in here to spend
a pound I'd have called him crazy.
MAGGIE. It's not wasted. Those boots will last. Good morning, Mr.
Prosser. (_She holds door open_.)
ALBERT. Good morning. (_He looks blankly at_ ALICE _and
goes out_.)
ALICE. Maggie, we know you're a pushing sales-woman, but--
MAGGIE (_returning to_ R. _she picks up old boots and puts
them on rack up_ R.). It'll teach him to keep out of here a
bit. He's too much time on his hands.
ALICE. You know why he comes.
MAGGIE. I know it's time he paid a rent for coming. A pair of
laces a day's not half enough. Coming here to make sheep's eyes
at you. I'm sick of the sight of him. (_Crosses in front of
counter to_ L.)
ALICE. It's all very well for an old maid like you to talk, but
if father won't have us go courting, where else can Albert meet
me except here when father's out?
MAGGIE. If he wants to marry you why doesn't he do it?
ALICE. Courting must come first.
MAGGIE. It needn't. (_She picks up a slipper on desk_ L.).
See that slipper with a fancy buckle on to make it pretty?
Courting's like that, my lass. All glitter and no use to nobody.
(_She replaces slipper and sits at her desk_.)
(HENRY HORATIO HOBSON _enters from the house. He is fifty-five,
successful, coarse, florid, and a parent of the period. His hat
is on. It is one of those felt hats which are half-way to tall
hats in shape. He has a heavy gold chain and masonic emblems on
it. His clothes are bought to wear_.)
HOBSON. Maggie, I'm just going out for a quarter of an hour.
(_Moves over to doors_ L.)
MAGGIE. Yes, father. Don't be late for dinner. There's liver.
HOBSON. It's an hour off dinner-time. (_Going_.)
MAGGIE. So that, if you stay more than an hour in the Moonraker's
Inn, you'll be late for it.
HOBSON. "Moonraker's?" Who said--? (_Turning_.)
VICKEY. If your dinner's ruined, it'll be your own fault.
HOBSON. Well, I'll be eternally--
ALICE. Don't swear, father.
HOBSON (_putting hat on counter_). No. I'll sit down
instead. (_He moves to_ R. C. _and sits in arm-chair_
R.
C. _facing them_.) Listen to me, you three. I've come to conclusions
about you. And I won't have it. Do you hear that? Interfering
with my goings out and comings in. The idea! I've a mind to take
measures with the lot of you.
MAGGIE. I expect Mr. Heeler's waiting for you in "Moonraker's,"
father.
HOBSON. He can go on waiting. At present, I'm addressing a few
remarks to the rebellious females of this house, and what I say
will be listened to and heeded. I've noticed it coming on ever
since your mother died. There's been a gradual increase of
uppishness towards me.
VICKEY. Father, you'd have more time to talk after we've closed
to-night. (_She is anxious to resume her reading_.)
HOBSON. I'm talking now, and you're listening. Providence has
decreed that you should lack a mother's hand at the time when
single girls grow bumptious and must have somebody to rule. But
I'll tell you this, you'll none rule me.
VICKEY. I'm sure I'm not bumptious, father.
HOBSON. Yes, you are. You're pretty, but you're bumptious, and I
hate bumptiousness like I hate a lawyer.
ALICE. If we take trouble to feed you it's not bumptious to ask
you not to be late for your food.
VICKEY. Give and take, father.
HOBSON. I give and you take, and it's going to end.
MAGGIE. How much a week do you give us?
HOBSON. That's neither here nor there. (_Rises and moves to
doors_ L.) At moment I'm on uppishness, and I'm warning you
your conduct towards your parent's got to change. (_Turns to
the counter_.) But that's not all. That's private conduct, and
now I pass to broader aspects and I speak of public conduct. I've
looked upon my household as they go about the streets, and I've
been disgusted. The fair name and fame of Hobson have been
outraged by members of Hobson's family, and uppishness has done
it.
VICKEY. I don't know what you're talking about.
HOBSON. Vickey, you're pretty, but you can lie like a gas-meter.
Who had new dresses on last week?
ALICE. I suppose you mean Vickey and me!
HOBSON. I do.
VICKEY. We shall dress as we like, father, and you can save your
breath.
HOBSON. I'm not stopping in from my business appointment for the
purpose of saving my breath.
VICKEY. You like to see me in nice clothes.
HOBSON. I do. I like to see my daughters nice. (_Crosses_
R.) That's why I pay Mr. Tudsbury, the draper, 10 pounds a year a
head to dress you proper. It pleases the eye and it's good for trade.
But, I'll tell you, if some women could see themselves as men see
them, they'd have a shock, and I'll have words with Tudsbury an'
all, for letting you dress up like guys. (_Moves_ L.) I saw
you and Alice out of the "Moonraker's" parlour on Thursday night
and my friend Sam Minns--(_Turns_.)
ALICE. A publican.
HOBSON. Aye, a publican. As honest a man as God Almighty ever set
behind a bar, my ladies. My friend, Sam Minns, asked me who you
were. And well he might. You were going down Chapel Street with a
hump added to nature behind you.
VICKEY (_scandalized_). Father!
HOBSON. The hump was wagging, and you put your feet on pavement
as if you'd got chilblains--aye, stiff neck above and weak knees
below. It's immodest!
ALICE. It is not immodest, father. It's the fashion to wear
bustles.
HOBSON. Then to hell with the fashion.
MAGGIE. Father, you are not in the "Moonraker's" now.
VICKEY. You should open your eyes to what other ladies wear.
(_Rises_.)
HOBSON. If what I saw on you is any guide, I should do nowt of
kind. I'm a decent-minded man. I'm Hobson. I'm British middle
class and proud of it. I stand for common sense and sincerity.
You're affected, which is bad sense and insincerity. You've
overstepped nice dressing and you've tried grand dressing--
(VICKEY _sits_)--which is the occupation of fools and such
as have no brains. You forget the majesty of trade and the
unparalleled virtues of the British Constitution which are all
based on the sanity of the middle classes, combined with the
diligence of the working-classes. You're losing balance, and
you're putting the things which don't matter in front of the
things which do, and if you mean to be a factor in the world in
Lancashire or a factor in the house of Hobson, you'll become
sane.
VICKEY. Do you want us to dress like mill girls?
HOBSON. No. Nor like French Madams, neither. It's un-English, I
say.
ALICE. We shall continue to dress fashionably, father.
HOBSON. Then I've a choice for you two. Vickey, you I'm talking
to, and Alice. You'll become sane if you're going on living here.
You'll control this uppishness that's growing on you. And if you
don't, you'll get out of this, and exercise your gifts on some
one else than me. You don't know when you're well off. But you'll
learn it when I'm done with you. I'll choose a pair of husbands
for you, my girls. That's what I'll do.
ALICE. Can't we choose husbands for ourselves?
HOBSON. I've been telling you for the last five minutes you're
not even fit to choose dresses for yourselves.
MAGGIE. You're talking a lot to Vickey and Alice, father. Where
do I come in?
HOBSON. You? (_Turning on her, astonished_.)
MAGGIE. If you're dealing husbands round, don't I get one?
HOBSON. Well, that's a good one! (_Laughs_.) You with a
husband! (_Down in front of desk_.)
MAGGIE. Why not?
HOBSON. Why not? I thought you'd sense enough to know. But if you
want the brutal truth, you're past the marrying age. You're a
proper old maid, Maggie, if ever there was one.
MAGGIE. I'm thirty.
HOBSON (_facing her_). Aye, thirty and shelved. Well, all
the women can't get husbands. But you others, now. I've told you.
I'll have less uppishness from you or else I'll shove you off my
hands on to some other men. You can just choose which way you
like. (_He picks up hat and makes for door_.)
MAGGIE. One o'clock dinner, father.
HOBSON. See here, Maggie,--(_back again down to in front of
desk_)--I set the hours at this house. It's one o'clock dinner
because I say it is, and not because you do.
MAGGIE. Yes, father.
HOBSON. So long as that's clear I'll go. (_He is by door_.)
Oh no, I won't. Mrs. Hepworth's getting out of her carriage.
(_He puts hat on counter again_. MAGGIE _rises and opens
door. Enter_ MRS. HEPWORTH, _an old lady with a curt manner
and good clothes_.)
Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. What a lovely day. (_He
crosses_ R. _and places chair_.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (_sitting in arm-chair_ R. C.). Morning,
Hobson. (_She raises her skirt_.) I've come about those
boots you sent me home.
HOBSON (_kneeling on_ MRS. HEPWORTH'S R., _and fondling
foot_. MAGGIE _is_ C.). Yes, Mrs. Hepworth. They look
very nice.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Get up, Hobson. (_He scrambles up, controlling
his feelings_.) You look ridiculous on the floor. Who made
these boots?
HOBSON. We did. Our own make.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Will you answer a plain question? Who made these
boots?
HOBSON. They were made on the premises.
MRS. HEPWORTH (_to_ MAGGIE). Young woman, you seemed to have
some sense when you served me. Can you answer me?
MAGGIE. I think so, but I'll make sure for you, Mrs. Hepworth.
(_She opens trap and calls_.) Tubby!
HOBSON (_down_ R.). You wish to see the identical workman,
madam?
MRS. HEPWORTH. I said so.
HOBSON. I am responsible for all work turned out here.
MRS. HEPWORTH. I never said you weren't.
(TUBBY WADLOW _comes up trap. A white-haired little man with
thin legs and a paunch, in dingy clothes with no collar and a
coloured cotton shirt. He has no coat on_.)
TUBBY. Yes, Miss Maggie? (_He stands half out of trap, not
coming right up_.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Man, did you make these boots? (_She rises and
advances one pace towards him_.)
TUBBY. No, ma'am.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then who did? Am I to question every soul in the
place before I find out? (_Looking round_.)
TUBBY. They're Willie's making, those.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then tell Willie I want him.
TUBBY. Certainly, ma'am. (_He goes down trap and calls_
"Willie!")
MRS. HEPWORTH. Who's Willie?
HOBSON. Name of Mossop, madam. But if there is anything wrong I
assure you I'm capable of making the man suffer for it. I'll--
(WILLIE MOSSOP _comes up trap. He is a lanky fellow, about
thirty, not naturally stupid but stunted mentally by a brutalized
childhood. He is a raw material of a charming man, but, at
present, it requires a very keen eye to detect his
potentialities. His clothes are an even poorer edition of_
TUBBY'S. _He comes half-way up trap_.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (_standing_ R. _of trap_). Are you
Mossop?
WILLIE. Yes, mum.
MRS. HEPWORTH. You made these boots?
WILLIE (_peering at them_). Yes, I made them last week.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Take that.
(WILLIE, _bending down, rather expects "that" to be a blow.
Then he raises his head and finds she is holding out a visiting
card. He takes it_.)
See what's on it?
WILLIE (_bending over the card_). Writing?
MRS. HEPWORTH. Read it.
WILLIE. I'm trying. (_His lips move as he tries to spell it
out_.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Bless the man. Can't you read?
WILLIE. I do a bit. Only it's such funny print.
MRS. HEPWORTH. It's the usual italics of a visiting card, my man.
Now listen to me. I heard about this shop, and what I heard
brought me here for these boots. I'm particular about what I put
on my feet.
HOBSON (_moving slightly towards her_). I assure you it
shall not occur again, Mrs. Hepworth.
MRS. HEPWORTH. What shan't?
HOBSON (_crestfallen_). I--I don't know.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then hold your tongue. Mossop, I've tried every
shop in Manchester, and these are the best-made pair of boots
I've ever had. Now, you'll make my boots in future. You hear
that, Hobson?
(MAGGIE, _down_ L. C., _is taking it all in_.)
HOBSON. Yes, madam, of course he shall.
MRS. HEPWORTH. You'll keep that card, Mossop, and you won't dare
leave here to go to another shop without letting me know where
you are.
HOBSON. Oh, he won't make a change.
MRS. HEPWORTH. How do you know? The man's a treasure, and I
expect you underpay him.
HOBSON. That'll do, Willie. You can go.
WILLIE. Yes, sir.
(_He dives down trap_. MAGGIE _closes it_.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. He's like a rabbit.
MAGGIE. Can I take your order for another pair of boots, Mrs.
Hepworth?
MRS. HEPWORTH. Not yet, young woman. But I shall send my
daughters here. And, mind you, that man's to make the boots.
(_She crosses_ L.)
MAGGIE. (_Up at doors and opening them_.) Certainly, Mrs.
Hepworth.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Good morning.
HOBSON. Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. Very glad to have the honour
of serving you, madam. (_Following her up_.)
(_She goes out_.)
(_Angry_.) I wish some people would mind their own business.
What does she want to praise a workman to his face for? (_Moves
down_ L. _and then to_ C.)
MAGGIE. I suppose he deserved it.
HOBSON. Deserved be blowed! Making them uppish. That's what it
is. Last time she puts her foot in my shop, I give you my word.
MAGGIE. Don't be silly, father.
HOBSON. I'll show her. Thinks she owns the earth because she
lives at Hope Hall.
(_Enter from street_ JIM HEELER, _who is a grocer, and_
HOBSON'S _boon companion_.)
JIM (_looking down street as he enters_). That's a bit of a
startler.
HOBSON (_swinging round_). Eh? Oh, morning, Jim.
JIM. You're doing a good class trade if the carriage folk come to
you, Hobson. (_Moves down_ L. C.)
HOBSON. What?
JIM. Wasn't that Mrs. Hepworth?
HOBSON. Oh yes. Mrs. Hepworth's an old and valued customer of
mine.
JIM. It's funny you deal with Hope Hall and never mentioned it.
HOBSON. Why, I've made boots for her and all her circle for...
how long, Maggie? Oh, I dunno.
JIM. You kept it dark. Well, aren't you coming round yonder?
(_Moving up_ L.)
HOBSON (_reaching for his hat_). Yes. That is, no.
JIM. Are you ill?
HOBSON. No. Get away, you girls. I'll look after the shop. I want
to talk to Mr. Heeler.
JIM. Well, can't you talk in the "Moonraker's"!
(_The girls go out_ R. _to house_, MAGGIE _last_.)
HOBSON. Yes, with Sam Minns, and Denton and Tudsbury there.
JIM. It's private, then. What's the trouble, Henry?
(HOBSON _waves_ JIM _into arm-chair_ R. C. _and sits
in front of counter_.)
HOBSON. They're the trouble. (_Indicates door to house_.) Do
your daughters worry you, Jim?
JIM. Nay,--(_sits_ R. C.)--they mostly do as I bid them, and
the missus does the leathering if they don't.
HOBSON. Ah, Jim, a wife's a handy thing, and you don't know it
proper till she's taken from you. I felt grateful for the quiet
when my Mary fell on rest, but I can see my mistake now. I used
to think I was hard put to it to fend her off when she wanted
summat out of me, but the dominion of one woman is Paradise to
the dominion of three.
JIM. It sounds a sad case, Henry.
HOBSON. I'm a talkative man by nature, Jim. You know that.
JIM. You're an orator, Henry. I doubt John Bright himself is
better gifted of the gab than you.
HOBSON. Nay, that's putting it a bit too strong. A good case
needs no flattery.
JIM. Well, you're the best debater in the "Moonraker's" parlour.
HOBSON. And that's no more than truth. Yes, Jim, in the estimation
of my fellow men, I give forth words of weight. In the eyes of my
daughters I'm a windbag. (_Rises and moves down_ L.).
JIM. Nay. Never!
HOBSON. I am. (_Turns_.) They scorn my wisdom, Jim. They
answer back. I'm landed in a hole--a great and undignified hole.
My own daughters have got the upper hand of me.
JIM. Women are worse than men for getting above themselves.
HOBSON. A woman's foolishness begins where man's leaves off.
JIM. They want a firm hand, Henry.
HOBSON. I've lifted up my voice and roared at them.
JIM. Beware of roaring at women, Henry. Roaring is mainly hollow
sound. It's like trying to defeat an army with banging drums
instead of cold steel. And it's steel in a man's character that
subdues the women.
HOBSON. I've tried all ways, and I'm fair moithered. I dunno what
to do. (_Scratches his head_.)
JIM. Then you quit roaring at 'em and get 'em wed.
(_Rises_.)
HOBSON. I've thought of that. Trouble is to find the men.
JIM. Men's common enough. Are you looking for angels in breeches?
HOBSON. I'd like my daughters to wed temperance young men, Jim.
JIM. You keep your ambitions within reasonable limits, Henry.
You've three daughters to find husbands for.
HOBSON. Two, Jim, two.
JIM. Two?
HOBSON. Vickey and Alice are mostly window dressing in the shop.
But Maggie's too useful to part with. And she's a bit on the ripe
side for marrying, is our Maggie.
JIM. I've seen 'em do it at double her age. Still, leaving her
out, you've two.
HOBSON. One'll do for a start, Jim. (_Crosses to_ R.) It's a
thing I've noticed about wenches. Get one wedding in a family and
it goes through the lot like measles. (_Moves round chair to
up_ R.)
JIM. Well, you want a man, and you want him temperance. It'll
cost you a bit, you know. (_Sits in chair below_ L. _side
of counter_.)
HOBSON (_going to him_). Eh? Oh, I'll get my hand down for
the wedding all right.
JIM. A warm man like you 'ull have to do more than that. There's
things called settlements.
HOBSON. Settlements?
JIM. Aye. You've to bait your hook to catch fish, Henry.
HOBSON. Then I'll none go fishing. (_Sits_.)
JIM. But you said--
HOBSON. I've changed my mind. I'd a fancy for a bit of peace, but
there's luxuries a man can buy too dear. Settlements indeed!
JIM. I had a man in mind.
HOBSON. You keep him there, Jim. I'll rub along and chance it.
Settlements indeed!
JIM. You save their keep.
HOBSON. They work for that. And they're none of them big eaters.
JIM. And their wages.
HOBSON. Wages? Do you think I pay wages to my own daughters?
(_Rises and goes to desk_ L.) I'm not a fool.
JIM. Then it's all off? (_Rises_.)
HOBSON (_turns_). From the moment that you breathed the word
"settlements" it was dead off, Jim. Let's go to the "Moonraker's"
and forget there's such a thing as women in the world. (_He
takes up hat and rings bell on counter_.) Shop! Shop!
(MAGGIE _enters from_ R.)
I'm going out, Maggie.
MAGGIE (_She remains by door_). Dinner's at one, remember.
HOBSON. Dinner will be when I come in for it. I'm master here.
(_Moves to go_.)
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