 Act 1 of The Wasters by Arthur Adams This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wasters. Comedy in 3 Acts. Act 1. Reception Hall at Aladala, Potts Point, Sydney, Sunday morning. Act 2. The Underscirt Department in the Shop of John Dengar and Co., Sydney, Monday morning. Act 3. The Same as Act 1. Monday evening. Persons in the Comedy. John Dengar. Read by Josh Kibbe. Baby Dengar. Read by Lianya. Guy Dengar. Read by Campbell Shelp. Butler. Read by Todd. Kenny Claiborne. Read by Aaron White. Lindsay Thong. Read by Thomas Peter. Tossie Quark. Read by Devorah Allen. Jay Charteris Maggs. Shop Walker. Read by Son of the Exiles. Mrs. Goodser. Read by Ulrike Deni. Mrs. Meggit. Read by Betsy Walker. Cronk. Read by T.J. Burns. Elizabeth Hebbeltweeth. Read by Phong. Mrs. Clibbon. Read by Pauline Latournerie. Stage Directions. Read by Sonia. Act 1. Scene. The Reception Hall of Aladala, the residence of John Dengar, Potts Point, Sydney, Australia, is furnished as a living room with comfortable chairs, tables covered with spring flowers, etc. The entrance is from the vestibule through an archway draped by a portier. Further up in the same wall is a door, giving access to John Dengar's dressing room. There is another door opposite to the vestibule entrance. In the fireplace, in this warm Australian spring weather, there is no fire. At the back are two tall French windows, both of which are now open, to let in the bright morning sunlight. Through these windows can be discerned a stone balustrade, down which stone steps evidently lead to the waterfront. Over the balustrade can be seen the waters of Sydney Harbour, Garden Island, and the red roofs of North Shore. It is Sunday morning. The room is empty. The voice of a man is heard from another room. Baby, baby! There is no answer. John Dengar enters from his dressing room. He is a keen-eyed, dry, clean-shaven, alert businessman of fifty-one. He is in his shirt-sleeves and carries his tie in his hand. He has evidently been worried over his stud. Confound the stud! Baby! Where's the devil as my wife? Mrs. Dengar enters from the garden to the French window. She is in morning costume, a charming and costly dress. She is of the usual married woman's age, thirty-nine, a pretty woman with a figure carefully attended to. At first appearance she suggests a frivolous, useless type. Her face, with its almost childish charm, explains why the epithet of baby, given her as a girl, has stuck to her so long. What's the matter, John? The usual trouble, studs. Only that? Come here, dear. I've had breakfast half an hour ago. I've been down in the garden looking at the marquee. Stand still. What helpless things you men are. There now. Thanks, baby. Don't know why somebody can't invent a stud that works itself. Give me your tie. Now! Not that way, baby. You and men can't even tie a tie properly. Always do the thing the wrong way. I believe every woman is left-handed. Right about face, sir. Am I doing it, or you? Now! Um, looks a bit lopsided. But it'll do. Seeing that I've tied your tie and fixed your studs for... Oh, don't let us count up the years. It ought to do. Yes, a man must grumble, baby. He kisses her. Every man grumbles before his breakfast. I don't really know what I'd do without you, dear. Ha! We women are of some use, after all. Yes, for tying ties. Thank you, lord and master. Now be a good little boy and run away and put on your coat. You can't be trusted to do that by yourself, can't you? Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. I thought I'd just run down and look at the marquee. Not before your breakfast. John goes up to French window and looks out. Sure it's big enough? It will hold every employee in the shop. This dance tomorrow ought to be a big success. It was a great idea, wasn't it? To celebrate the 20th anniversary of the establishment of John Danger & Company by a big ball to our employees. It'll be a great advertisement. It's really a kind of copper wedding of the shop, isn't it? A copper wedding? Yes. But that reminds me. How long have we been married, baby? Twenty-three years last October. Twenty-three? Then... No. We didn't celebrate our own copper wedding. Never crossed my mind, baby. But I remembered the anniversary last year, didn't I? The inevitable brooch. I counted them up. That's how I knew. Baby. Oh, I didn't mind, really. You're such a busy man, John. Besides, our marriage doesn't require an advertisement, and the shop does. By the way, John, do you know where I went yesterday? Shopping, of course. But another hat? No. I was motoring down Ridfern to see that poor sales girl who got into trouble. You remember? And the motor was passing through one of those dirty, mean little streets when it struck me as familiar. I stopped and got out and went into a little draper shop. Oh, a dingy little draper shop. And a dingy old woman came to the counter and I bought a reel of cotton. Oh, I can stand that. It's your hats that... Guess whose shop that was. Not before breakfast, baby. Ours. Ours? Not now, of course. It was ours once. It was the very shop we began from. Our first shop? So it's still there? Just the same. Just as hopeless and mean and cheap and dingy as when it was Danger and Clib and Draper's. Well, old girl, we've got past that, haven't we? Yes, thank God. But when I came away, I made simps and take me right round the big block of Danger and Co. And when I looked up at our enormous store with its acres of floor space, its miles of plate glass, its hundreds of sales girls, its long line of motors waiting in front, I just thought... That we got on, eh? I was humbly thankful. That old dingy snuffling woman in the old shop. If it hadn't been for you, your ambition and energy and business ability? Well, that was what I would have been by now. Oh, it was just luck. Luck? No, John. It was genius. Seriously, baby, looking back on it all, I see now that it was just chance that I went ahead. No, you were bound to succeed. Not if those first investments had gone wrong. Not if Clipperton had been right. But Mr. Clipperton wasn't right. You were. Yes, as it turned out. But I took risks, and it happened that I won. Clipperton wouldn't come in with me and what he called my rash speculations. And really, they were nothing but speculations. But Clipperton was always absurdly overcautious. A businessman must be a bit of a buccaneer, and yet it was touch and go that I didn't come to smash. But I pulled through, and since then everything has come my way. The form of Dengar simply built itself up with the expansion of Sydney. Begun where it was, on that corner site, it was bound to become the biggest drapery business in the state. While Clipperton, my old partner in that little hopeless shop in Redfern. But you gave him his chance to come in with you as partner in those speculations. Yes, I needed him. Then, I needed his ready cash to stiffen up my promises. But he was too cautious. It was at his own request that we dissolved partnership. But he's sorry now. And I've got up and up and he's never done anything. I'm glad though, that you didn't forget him. That was the least I could do for my first partner. And he's useful as my accountant. He's slow, but he's safe. I can depend on him. But lately I've begun to think that the business is getting too big for his little peddling ways. He won't have any of these new labor-saving devices. Card indexes, loosely pledges and all that. He's too old-fashioned for modern business methods. I'll have to retire him on a pension. Retire Mr. Clipperton? Yes, I know it won't be easy. You can't forget that once he was my partner in that little shop in Redfern. And do you know what he had the cheek to suggest, or rather to hint the other day? He wanted you to take him into partnership. How did you know that? Oh, I've always known. He wanted it from the first. As soon as he saw the business was going to succeed, he feels very bitter against you. Failures always do. That's the reason why Mr. Clipperton has never set foot in this house. I've asked him often enough, but I thought there was something to do with his wife. His wife? A sales girl? Oh, she's impossible. Socially impossible. I couldn't ever take her up. But that wouldn't prevent him from dropping over, say, on a Sunday morning like this, just to see you and me. I'd be glad enough to see him. I don't like anybody to hate you. And I can't forget that once he was your partner in those dear old days in Redfern, he used to come to our stuffy little house often enough then. And, really, I don't see why you couldn't take him in, even now, as your partner, a junior partner. You needn't let him have any real power. Baby, I'm always amused at your idea of business. You seem to think that money makes itself and that I could afford to let Clipperton in without risk. I'm sure Dangers just runs itself. It wouldn't run long if Clipperton got hold of it. My dear, this is business, and I never let sentiment interfere with business. Business? Men talk of business more reverently than they talk of God. And they always tell women that we poor things can't understand business. Well, can they? Can you run your own, baby? My own? You've got your own private banking account, and I'll bet you don't know how much it is overdrawn at this minute. Is it overdrawn? Don't you know? Why should I? I just write checks and don't bother. Well, of course I can afford it, dear. But I would rather you didn't overdraw any more this week. Got any big bills to pay? Lots. Bills are always with us. Well, let them wait for a week. I'm rather short of myself just now. Too many irons in the fire. John, did you ever know me in a hurry to pay bills? Baby, I wish you'd just take a little interest in my business. You've never even asked me what schemes I'm putting my money into. Silly boy. You're always dinning into my ears that women are mentally incapable of understanding business. I've often wondered why. I'll tell you. It's because you men never try to interest us in business. A woman wants only to be interested in the things that interest her man. And there was a time, do you remember, before we were married? When you used to explain all your wonderful money-making schemes to me. And I thought that when we were married I would become part of your business interests too. But you shut me out. You men are always shutting us women out. And so, when I saw you in a discussed business with your wife, I just lost interest. Oh, and I've often thought since that if you'd trained me, I could be such a help to you. I'm afraid it's too late now, baby. No, women can't understand. Why, look at your shop. There's your secretary, Ms. Hebelthwaite. Isn't she your right hand? Ms. Hebelthwaite has got the man's brain. She wears a woman's skirts. And how horribly they hang. John, if you'd only taken the trouble, I might have been in her place. I might have been your right hand, instead of that scarecrow who wears wool underneath. Baby, I'm quite content with you as you are. And you really do help me. And tomorrow you'll help me by looking your nicest. The success of the ball depends on you. A decorated figurehead. A nicely dressed doll. That's all the use you've ever made of me. Well, here's your chance. I don't like this ill-feeling of Clebrans. I want every person in the shop to be on good terms with me. I treat them all fairly enough. Now, couldn't we conciliate Clebran a little? But you won't have him for a partner. No, that's business. But outside business we might flatter him a little. He feels that I think that you won't take up his wife. Why shouldn't you invite Mrs. Clebran tomorrow? But she is invited, with the rest of the employees. Oh, not as the wife of an employee, as a personal friend, as a member of your house party, to help you receive your guests. As a guest? That woman. She's the wife of my accountant. She was a shop girl. My dear, did we start much higher up? Mrs. Clebran, a common thing like her. But we're common too. Yes, but we are successful. We're rich. Society simply had to take us up, though it took long enough about it. But I've snobbed that woman. She can come as the wife of an employee, or not at all. But surely if I ask you as a favour, baby? No, because this is business. Business? Women's business. Society is our business. The only business you let women run. Why, if I took that woman up and attempted to foist her upon my society, friends, they might drop me. And I've struggled too long and too desperately to get in, to risk being dropped again. But, there, your breakfast is getting cold. Run away, you poor starving boy, and put on your coat. Lindsay said he'd be over this morning to help you with your arrangements. Then you won't invite Mrs. Clebran. No, dear. You don't understand. Unless, of course, you take Mr. Clebran into partnership. Then my friends would recognise that I had to. And, in time, they might even take her up. There's only one partner that I'll ever take, and that's our son. But you know Guy doesn't like the business. He will when I'm done with him. This idea of mine, of sending him to learn the whole business by starting from the bottom, will make him quite capable of taking over the reins when I drop them. It's that that made me my first-hand knowledge of every department. And the boy's getting on. Clebran tells me that Guy has done very well in the accountant's office. In fact, he's got on so quickly that tomorrow I'm shifting him into the shop. Into the shop? But what for? To learn how things are sold. That's the whole art of drapery. Selling women things they don't want but must have. And the things they wouldn't on any account buy, we label bargains. So tomorrow morning our boy starts his brief career as a shopwalker. Guy a shopwalker? Oh John, surely that's not necessary. He won't like it. He doesn't like it. I told him yesterday. Our boy a shopwalker? Oh John, it isn't fair. He's got to go through three months of it before I send him to our buyer in London. It's disagreeable I grant. But I was a shopwalker once, shopwalker and salesman and delivery van. And the boy who sweeps out the shop. I know John, but now things are different. I won't dare to be seen in the shop. Fancy Guy, having to ask our society friends to step this way madam. It's cruel to Guy, cruel to me. It's business, and he'll be in good hands. I've put him in charge of mags. Oh John, if he grows like mags. He's the most beautiful shopwalker that ever walked a shop. But Guy is a shopwalker. It's business. Of course. But you're forgetting your breakfast. Run away. Here's Guy. I want to speak to him. You want to spoil him some more I suppose. I wonder why women are entrusted with the bringing up of children. We provide them dear. With a gesture recognizing the hopelessness of argument with baby John retires to his dressing room. Guy Dengar enters from the garden. He is a weak-looking but harmless boy of twenty with a strong family likeness to his mother. He is well dressed in a lounge suit and enters smoking a cigarette. Well Guy, what do you think of the Marquis? I hate it, Mum. I hate the whole thing. But think of the advertisement for the shop. I hate the shop. But you're going to be a partner. And when John retires you'll have sole control. A draper. A rag-seller. I want to be a man. Have you heard the latest, Mum? I've got to go into the shop. Shop walking. I told Father I'd see him dead first. But it's for your own good, Guy. You will? Father says so. I suppose I must. But he knows I'm unfitted for the whole job. Why can't he let me chuck the whole thing and go out west? He wants me to spend my life selling hats and corsets and things. And out back there are horses to ride and cattle to round up and... I'd love to go out back. Fancy a man having to sell woman stockings. But you must go through with it, dear. It's no work for a man, Mum. Mum, I want you to do something for me. Where's Father? Eating a cold breakfast, I'm afraid. What's the trouble, child? You've got to lend me two hundred pounds. What on earth do you want with two hundred pounds? I've... I've been betting. Bidding? Oh, Guy. It was a sure thing, a dead cert. Only the silly horse didn't start. Surely if the horse didn't start, you couldn't lose any money on it? Fat lot you know about racing. But, Guy, since your father increased your allowance, you ought to have plenty of money. Even for betting. Oh, that... that wasn't enough. Surely twelve pounds a week? That went quick enough. And, Mum, I'm in a bad hole. I must have that two hundred by tomorrow. Tomorrow? First thing. If you must, of course. I'll give you a check. Oh, no, I forgot. John says I'm barely overdrawn and asked me not to pay anything for a week. But, Mum, it's serious. I simply must have it by tomorrow morning. You'll have to tell your father. If it's so serious, he must see you through. No, I couldn't ask Father. Why not? Oh, he wouldn't stand my betting and all that. I see, dear. Well, I'll get it from him, somehow. He won't know what it's for. I'll tell it is for the last dress I got. Say that Madame insists. I can't have you in trouble, child. But you must promise me you won't ever bet again. At least only on horses that do start. Get me that two hundred quid and I'll never, never bet again. But Father must know. I'll womb it out of him, somehow, dear. I can't have you worried. That's a good, Mum. He kisses her and goes out, whistling, watched anxiously by Baby. I do wish John would let the boy go on the land. He's not safe here. The butler shows in a visitor. I'll inform Mr. Dangar, sir, if you kindly wait here, sir. Anthony Clibbon enters. He is an oldish man, dressed carelessly. His face is lined and made bitter by ill success. His manner is gruff and uncompromising. Baby is surprised to see him. Tony! Good morning, Mrs. Dangar. Mr. Clibbon, you. You said you'd never come here. I didn't come to call, Mrs. Dangar. This is a business matter. Business? On Sunday? It won't wait. About the shop? About Mr. Guy. Tony? Not that. That is done with. Dead. Oh, it's, it's nothing to do with that. We, we buried that. You needn't fear any resurrection, Mrs. Dangar. But you said, but of course it's about Guy's new position. He's to be a shopwalker tomorrow. Fancy Guy, a shopwalker. It is to settle what Mr. Guy is to be tomorrow. But I'm interested. It's sure that you could tell me, his mother. No. This is business. Private business with my employer. Always business. Oh, well. He'll be here in a minute. The butler returns. Mr. Dangar isn't in the house, sir. I think he's just gone out into the garden to look over the marquee, sir. I'll go to him, then. Excuse me, Mrs. Dangar. Clibbon goes out. The butler coming down to the door is met by another visitor. Lindsay Thong comes in. He is a man of middle age, carefully preserved and scrupulously dressed, evidently a society man, and obviously, with his experienced heir, attractive to women. Lindsay? Mr. Clibbon's here. Clibbon? Thought he never came here. But why? I tried to find out. He wouldn't tell. No, Lindsay. It isn't that. Nonsense. That? That's all done with. Paid for. Yes, it's been paid for. I've paid for it for over twenty years. Every day of twenty years. I'm foolish to think. But the shock of seeing him actually here. I can't get away from the fear that— Oh, it was some trifling business matter that couldn't wait till Monday. Lindsay, I'm frightened. I know it's impossible, but still— Now, baby, you mustn't be a little silly. That secret is safe. Safe with Clibbon and me. All right, we three are the only persons in the world who know that secret. And there isn't one of us who hasn't everything to lose by telling it. The past does not give up its debt. Life hurries on. Enumerable busy feet have trod in that little grave long ago level with the earth. What was it after all? Clibbon was in love with you before you met John, and you naturally chose John. And then after your marriage— Oh, I was weak. Horribly weak. But I never told you how it happened. What made it happen? I never excused myself to you. You didn't even ask me. It wasn't my place to ask. No. You were always too true a friend. You never even blind me, I believe, even in thought. Playing you? Playing you, baby? You were young. You wanted love, and John neglected you. Well, these things happen. But it needn't have happened. And yet— When I married John, I loved him. In a light way a young girl takes a man's love as her right, who takes all, and gives merely her beauty, her youth. Oh, I didn't know then that love means giving. Giving everything. Giving always. But I have learnt now, and the love that I have for John is a greater love, the real love. But after that first wonderful year, when John got absorbed and worried over those speculations of his, when he seemed to forget me, when I felt myself thrust out of his life, not wanted even to play with, and all my soul was hiking to help him, even only to be asked to help him, I grew bitter. Oh, I don't blame him. His soul was in his business. He was more in love with his business than he ever was with me. It's that sort of soul. The business soul. Only I was young and passionate and spoiled, and in my loneliness I told myself that I was neglected, forgotten. And Tony was always there. He was John's partner then, you remember? Why? John used to send Tony with messages to say that he was detained in town on business night after night. He used even to scribble notes to me telling me he couldn't get home to dinner. Dinners I'd specially cooked for him, asking me to make Tony stay to dine, to take his place, in case I felt lonely. Lonely! And then? The inevitable. No, it needn't have been. But that man worked on my weakness. He never said anything that I couldn't pin him down to. But he left the devilish suggestion that it wasn't business that kept John in town so often, that there was another woman, other women. And I was jealous. I didn't understand. I had been brought up on sentimental novels that told me that love was the only thing in the world. It might be for us women, but for men? Oh, it's a big world, and women don't play much part in a man's world except for his relaxation. And so I was only too ready to believe. And how fatally easily I believed. But it came out all right in the end. John never suspected. You saw your mistake. In time? Yes, yes. I came to my senses. Too light. And it was you who pulled me through. It hadn't been for you, Lindsay. I didn't do much. I guessed how things were going because, well, naturally I took an interest in you, baby. I just dropped a hint. You saved me, Lindsay. You saved yourself. And it all ended. Those few months of madness passed, and John never had a suspicion. That has been my torture ever since. It's incredible that he's never guessed. I watch him and wonder. And wonder. You were wrong, Lindsay. Wrong in not letting me confess. He might have forgiven me, in time, when I had paid and suffering. And then he would have taken me back. Freely. Forgiven. And the torture would have been ended. The debt forever paid off. But now? Now? I am paying every hour. I must go on paying. PAYING! Baby, you mustn't give away to these foolish fancies. I tell you, John hasn't a suspicion. When a man's soul is given to business, he takes his wife on trust. And it isn't the you that you are now that went wrong twenty years ago. It was another you. A passing phase of you. You've grown out of that phase. It is no more to you now than a passing fit of anger. That you is dead. Your boy. Yes, my boy. Whenever I've goaded myself to tell, it has been that baby that closed my mouth with his pretty little innocent talk, his trusting eyes. Oh, Lindsay, why does God give children such innocent eyes? What good would it have done? He couldn't have been so mad as to ruin John's life. I couldn't ruin Guy's life. Guy? Lindsay, I can trust you. I never told. She masked us her impulse. It was because I was a mother. Well, it's all right now. But Tony here, now, after all these years. Only business. But I'm frightened. Well, to set your absurd fears at rest, I'll see Clibbon. Where is he? Waiting for John in the garden. I'll have a word with Clibbon before he... You would never be so mad. And yet, a bitter disappointed man. Baby goes swiftly to the French window before him. Tony's coming now. With John. Steady baby, it's all right. It must be all right. Song and baby go out through the side door. John and Clibbon come in from the garden. All right, eh? That floor is perfect for dancing. Just my wife were doing her share of it properly. It was decent of you to drop over and see it, Clibbon. It wasn't for that. It's a matter of business. I couldn't mention it in the presence of the workmen down there. Business? On Sunday? Too important to wait. I'm sorry to say that I've discovered a serious discrepancy in my books. A theft? How much? Two hundred pounds. Oh, I can stand that. I pay more than that every year for my wife's hats. Any clue to the thief? It's only two plain. One of my employees? His name? Guy Dangar. Guy? My son? Take care, Clibbon. This is not the time to joke. It is the truth. I have ample proof. The proof, men. Quick. I'll show you at the office tomorrow. I couldn't bring the ledgers here. Guy? Impossible! It was easily enough found out. The boy didn't know enough to cover his tracks. I can't understand how he imagined he wouldn't be found out. Unless he meant to put it back tomorrow. I never thought of that. Yes. He might have escaped detection then. It just happened that I was looking over his work on Saturday afternoon. You know he's finished up in my office now to go into the shop. I like the boy. I thought you would like a personal report from me as to how he's shaped. If I had waited until next week, he could have put that two hundred pounds back. And I would never have known. At least never have been sure enough to accuse him. The guy had access to all the books and the safe according to your instructions. I don't think you can blame me, Mr. Dangar. But what could he want with two hundred pounds? That's what I can't make out, though he's been spending a lot of money lately. I had a hint from Maggs that he'd been to the races rather often. Betting, I suppose. But then he had plenty of money of his own. I spoke to him about his expenses a fortnight ago, but he set my doubts at rest. Otherwise I would have spoken to you. That big increase in your private allowance to him surely gives him enough to gamble on race-horses. Increase in his allowance? What do you mean? Didn't you increase his allowance? Haven't you been giving him an extra twelve pounds a week since he came into my office? No. Twelve pounds a week. He distinctly told me you were. Oh, his mother must have done it from a private account. He's so fond of the boy. Denies him nothing. He definitely told me that the increase came from you. Ah, you must be mistaken. The whole thing's absurd. Steal. My boy? But my proofs. And this, this lie about his allowance explains it all. Baby, we'll soon settle about his increase. And the other matter will be as easily explained. Baby Danga enters. Baby, have you been giving Guy an extra allowance? To Clibbon. How much did you say? Twelve pounds a week. What is it, John? Did you give Guy any money lately? An increase in the allowance I made him? Yes. I've been giving him twelve pounds a week. The boy needed it. For how long? Oh, two months or so. I can't remember. How much has he had altogether? I couldn't tell exactly. But your checkbook, that would tell. I, I didn't draw checks. Not specially for him. Just a lump sum. And I gave it to him in gold. He, he specially asked me for it in gold. John, to Clibbon. You see? What is it, John, about Guy? Only a trifling business matter, baby. Mr. Clibbon has made a mistake. It was necessary to trouble you to clear it up. And it's all right now? Thanks to you it is all right. But you can tell me, John. No. It's just business. Business? But surely his mother might help? You have helped. Now run away like a deer. My business with Mr. Clibbon will not take two minutes, and then we'll go and settle about the decorations. I'm so glad it is all right about the, the allowance. She goes out, slowly. So Guy's extra pocket money is explained, and this preposterous charge of yours is another mare's nest. That money of Mrs. Dangos was paid in gold. Why not? Women don't like checks. No. Check-bots can always be looked up. You mean? You have the damn dividends to suggest that Mrs. Dangos was not telling the truth? Women don't always tell the truth. And she is his mother. John suddenly threatens him with a lifted fist. Wait! Do you think truth matters a tuppence to a mother when she is shielding her child? I'll kill you for that, Clibbon. Take it back. Apologize, or...? All right. She was speaking the truth. But still that doesn't explain away the fact that your son stole two hundred... Two hundred fiddle-sticks! My boy isn't a thief. Yet he lied to me about your allowance to him, and it came as we've just seen from Mrs. Dangos. Yes, but there I only have your bare word. You'll have to prove it. I shall prove it in a court of law. What? You wouldn't dare. It may be necessary to subpoena your wife. I consider it is my duty to bring this theft before the police. Nonsense! Even if it were so, mind you, I'm not admitting it, not for one instant. It is all in the firm. Nobody's concerned about mine. And if the boy has been so foolish, I choose to overlook it. It shall go on no further. I shall deal with my son myself. But you're forgetting that I'm not in the firm. You are, unless you mean to leave. I'm in the firm as an employee, but once I was your partner. Oh, and that tuppany happening business well. If I were your partner now, I should see the advisability of overlooking this mistake for the sake of the firm. I see. Blackmail. You dare to bribe me. If you put it in that crude way. Yes. Then I refuse to be bribed. You. His father. I am more than that. I am the firm. I must consider the firm. I must consider myself. You've got my terms. You refuse them, then your son will have to prove his innocence before a jury. You'll lay in information? It would be my duty. You couldn't do it. You're merely an employee. I shall not be tomorrow. After all, Cliburn, you may be mistaken. I don't make mistakes about money. But if tomorrow you find that you're mistaken about my son. Yes. I shall increase your salary. I have had it in mind for some time. Quite a considerable increase. Or else retire you with a comfortable pension. So you can bribe too. But your bribe isn't big enough. My terms are a partnership with full powers. Blackmail. Never. Then your son will be arrested. By God, Cliburn, you'll have to prove it in black and white before I... I may lie. The books can't. Then you can go to hell. Yes. To hell. But I'll take your son with me. Honestly. I hate to expose that boy. He's only a boy yet. I like him. You could make a fine chap of him, but not in the drapery business. But he has got in my way. I can't afford to consider anyone. Have your proofs ready at your office tomorrow morning. I'll examine this thing myself. Good day. Till tomorrow morning, men. Good morning, Mr. Dangar. Anthony Cliburn goes out. My boy. It's like a nightmare. No. But if... Baby. It'll break her heart. Baby. Baby Dangar comes in. Did you call me, John? Did I? I don't know. What is it about Guy? You must help him, John. Stand by him. He's in trouble. He spoke to me just now. He might be promised to get him some money tomorrow. He must have it by tomorrow morning. John, he's been a little foolish. He's only a boy yet. Bitting. He lost some money. He must pay it back tomorrow. How much? How much? Two hundred pounds. Two hundred? John, you help him out, our son? I must wait until tomorrow. You can tell me, his mother? You? No. This is a business matter. You shut us out. Always you men shut us women out. Curtain. End of Act 1. Act 2 of The Wasters by Arthur Adams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 2. Scene. In the underskirt department in the shop of John, Dangar and Co. An L-shaped counter runs along one side of the room and round the corner at the back. This counter ends to allow entrance to the next department, which is by an arched opening. At the back there is another archway leading to a lift. Along the other side of the room runs an opaque glass partition, shutting off the offices from the shop. A door situated in this partition is marked Accountant Private. Opposite the archway mentioned, there is another. Behind the counter is a background of polished wood lockers, the doors of some of which are open, swinging downwards, allowing the contents of these lockers, piles of luxury, to be disclosed. Above the lockers, the walls are paneled with narrow mirrors. Near the middle of the floor there is arranged a group of shaped stands, upon which underskirts and corsets are fitted. This group is so placed that it practically shuts off from view any customer occupied in the angle of the counter from any person near the accountant's office. The room is lit by electricity. It is nine o'clock on the following morning. Tossi Quark, a meek, pathetic-looking, pretty little sales girl in elegant black, is engaged in shutting up the lockers behind the counter. This done, she comes out from behind the counter with an underskirt in her hands and drapes it round the shape in the centre. Then she stands off and rapturously admires it. Wouldn't I just like one like you, you dear? You're heavenly. She goes to the corset stand and arranges a corset. And you, you darling? Oh, to feel you round my waist. I do believe I'd rather have you than a man's arm. Looking cautiously round to see that she is alone, she produces from the bosom of her dress a tiny buttonhole bouquet. I wonder if he will take it. Oh, if he only would. He takes buttonholes quick enough from that scraggy secretary, Eliza Hebelthwaite, and he can't see anything to admire in that scarecrowing specs. She's not pretty enough to be a sales girl. All she can do is to type letters and walk through here as if she owned the shop. Stuck-up thing. It's such a love of a buttonhole. It will become his darling frock coat. Oh, if he'd only let me pin it in. She kisses it. Here he is. She hastily hides the flower in her dress and busies herself at the underskirt. J. Charteris Maggs makes his imposing entrance. He is the head shop-walker at Dengars, a gorgeous and superb being. A man of forty-five, with the intimate knowledge of woman, gained by a long and honorable career in shop-walking. He is quite satisfied with himself, and, not observing Tossie, strolls over and inspects himself in a mirror. Oh, good morning, Mr. Maggs. Oh, good morning, Miss Quark. Nothing doing this morning, of course, with this strike of tram-guards on. I had to walk, actually walk, all the way from Bondi. There wasn't a single tram running. I bet there's not half a dozen customers in all day. My trouble's whether this tram strike goes on for a week. You do look nice, Mr. Maggs. For the credit of Dengars, I have to look, uh, nice, Miss Quark. You know the whole shop is proud of you, Mr. Maggs. But it seems to me, if you'll pardon my presumption, that the effect is a bit severe. Now, wouldn't a tricky little buttonhole relieve that beautiful frock coat? Possibly, Miss Quark. But a perfect buttonhole is as rare as a perfect soup. I have never come across either. I selected three buttonholes this morning. I had to sacrifice them all. In my position, a clashing buttonhole would be a catastrophe. And I'm not sure that Mr. Dengar would altogether like me to wear a flower in my coat. It might convey the impression to my clients that I took my profession lightly. Well, you wore one on Saturday, and the day before, Mr. Maggs. Ah, those were dull, overcast days. They need a touch of colour. I supplied it. But a bright day like this? It seems an impertinence. You know Mr. Dengar never comes into the shop. An old clibber in there in his stuffy office don't count. Mr. Dengar lets you do as you like. He knows that his whole business hangs on you. I am proud to say that Mr. Dengar appreciates my value. I'd be so proud, Mr. Maggs, if you'd wear this. She produces the flower which Maggs takes condescendingly. A trifle gay, perhaps, but tasty, yes, tasty. Holds it to his coat in front of the mirror and hands it back in silence. Oh. You may pin it in. Oh, that's nice of you, Mr. Maggs. Pins it in. No trouble, I assure you, Miss Quark. Very thoughtful of you. Very loyal to the interests of the firm. The firm? What do I care for the rotten old firm? I did it for you. It is a distinct improvement, Miss Quark. Indeed, Mr. Maggs. I don't think you need any improvement. Naughty, naughty. I say, Miss Quark, if you like, you can call me Charterous. I prefer it to Maggs. I think Maggs is a most distinct name, Mr. Charterous, and, if you like, you can call me Tossie. My real name, of course, is Euphemia. Euphemia to Tania Quark. Quark? I don't like Quark. Oh, Quark don't really matter. That's only temporary. Have you any particular preference for another name Tossie? I'm always trying in the directory. You know, you just open a page anywhere and put your finger on a name. But he's usually Macalester or Matthews and he's always married. It's a funny thing, Mr. Charterous, but all the directories I've tried always open at M. She moves shyly away. Tossie, I... He puts out his arm to encircle her waist without looking at her. But owing to Tossie having moved away, it is a corset stand that he embraces. He discovers his mistake and steps briskly down after her when Mrs. Goodser enters from the lift. She is a middle-aged lady of an almost skittish manner. Tossie hastily retreats behind her counter. Your pleasure, madam. Good morning, Mr. Macs. Good morning, Mrs. Goodser. Your pleasure this morning. Stockings. Yes, madam. This way, madam. And how is Mr. Goodser this morning? Livery, Mr. Macs, livery. It's this dreadful tram-strike. Nah. Leaning over the back of a chair and in his desire to be ingratiating, almost embracing her. We all suffer, Mrs. Goodser. If you only knew how I suffer myself. And it is so difficult for a man occupying my position. I have always to preserve an appearance of suavity with all my customers. Of course with you, Mrs. Goodser, it is a pleasure, a little ray of sunshine in my daily round. She beans. But some of my clients, madam, you can't guess how sensitive my soul is to a manor. Sometimes I'd give a weak salary. Just to—to explode if you'll pardon me, Mrs. Goodser. Of course with Mr. Goodser it must be much easier. He needn't suffer in silence. He doesn't. This morning at breakfast. Well, I just had to come straight out and buy a dozen pairs of stockings. I can sympathise, madam. Breakfast is the breaking point of matrimony. But fortunately we're showing some very smart things in stockings. Ah, yes, you're so entertaining, Mr. Max, that I was forgetting what I came for. This way, you said. This way, madam. He waives her obsequiously out. Thank you, Mr. Max. I really don't know what I would do without you. Good morning. My pleasure, Mrs. Goodser. A real pleasure. Good morning, madam. Mrs. Goodser disappears. Tossi, who has been watching Max's demeanour with Mrs. Goodser, jealously— The way you do go on, Charteris, making love to every woman that comes into the shop. I must Tossi. They expect it. They demand it. They like it. And you mustn't forget Tossi that I'm paid for it. But my real love—ah, I keep that in a thermos flask. Mrs. Maggot and Mrs. Cronk arrive from the lift. Mrs. Maggot is a tall, thin woman, and Mrs. Cronk a short and abundant one. From their dress it is evident that they are both from a cheap suburb, and that their husbands, if they have husbands, are clerks or small tradesmen. Your pleasure, madams. Underskirts. Underskirts matter more under underskirts. The sort I want to see are under, under underskirts. You know the ones with— Ninomadam, blue. Pink. Pink ribbons, of course. More tricky. Silt you, madam. To Tossi. Under underskirts. Two customers. Take a seat, madams. Tossi goes to the end of the counter to fetch samples. Mrs. Maggot and Mrs. Cronk go up and sit in the angle of the counter. Delightful weather, isn't it, madams? Pity there's that tram strike, though. The idea of those tram guards striking? My brother-in-law is a tram conductor. What, with the wages he's getting and his five children? I say he's quite right to. Quite right, madam. The way the tram conductors are ground down. That's what I say. Now this class of goods will just suit this weather. Though just now blue is being more worn. I prefer pink. Certainly, madam. We have all the new shades. And pink is so much more attractive. By gaslight. Tossi has returned with underskirts which the customers examine. Maggs moves away and titivates the underskirt on the stand. No, I want something of a better quality. These look very calm and don't they, Mrs. Cronk? I'm surprised at a shop like this selling these rags. Certainly, madam. I'll show you all the latest creations. Going off, she meets Maggs. They don't look much, do they? Still, you can't ever tell. They may be rich. I'll fetch the old guys something gaudy that'll get them all right. Better keep your eyes on them, though. Calypters? No, not well enough dressed. Tossi goes off. What I like, Mrs. Magget, at my time of life, and my tender feet, is a real good morning shopping. Of course I never buy anything. I always get my things from a cheaper shop. I believe in getting value for my money. But I do like to see the latest things. And these underskirts. I've never seen them on any of my friends I'm thankful to say. I've never seen them anywhere, but on the stage. And everybody seems to wear them on the stage. And they always let you know. I wouldn't be seen dead in them. I can't see why any decent woman wants to wear these things. A shameful waste of good money, I call it. Because what's the good of wearing expensive material like this when you can't show it to anybody but the washerwoman? And we do our own washing. If I had one of them on, I'd simply have to show it to somebody. And my poor husband's dead. Disgraceful waste, I call it. If you want to wear lace like this, wear it somewhere where your neighbors can see it. Oh, Mrs. Cronk, I wouldn't say that. I've got on a pair of open-work stockings. No, I can't show them to you till that man turns his back. And I always have my skirts made long and respectable. But you know, I get quite a lot of pleasure out of the mere fact that I've got them on. Even though I'm a widow. How poor Absalon would have liked to have seen them, too. What a time that girl takes. Tane as if there'd be any other customers in here till the trams start running. But you'd think we'd had all the morning to waste. Well, so we have. Yes, but that girl don't know it. Lazy, simmering, good-for-nothing, I call them. She rises and notices the corsets stand. Are these the new corsets? Yes, madam, just a sample pair. The corset department is on the next floor. You take the lift, madam. Yes, madam, everybody is wearing them. Mrs. Meggott, who has followed Mrs. Cronk down. How do you know? By the charming figure it gives, madam. Quite time, too, there was a new figure. There's far too many of these ips about. Ips are necessary in reason, I grant you, but ips is at their day. Max is called to the lift by another customer, with whom he speaks, and then directs into the lift again. I don't agree with you, Mrs. Meggott. I think ips are becoming and womanly. If these new corsets do away with ips, you mark my solemn words, Mrs. Meggott. ips will come back. It says here, Mrs. Cronk. She takes the newspaper clipping from her bag. In this advertisement, which I cut from the morning's paper, it says here that we are to banish the generously developed ips. We are to have the ips that's flat. Well, I simply can't, and that's flat. If it comes to a question of ips or unhappiness, my money goes on ips. You might as well be dead as not in the fashion. I'd rather be dead with my own ips and be alive without them. Tossie returns, laden with boxes. These are the latest importations, Madam. Now this would just suit you, I'm sure. The customers examine them minutely during the following scene. Guy Dengar enters through the archway. He is frock-coated, ready for his apprenticeship to the shop-walking profession. He looks pale and worried. Good morning, Mr. Dengar. Mr. Dengar's senior has done me the great honour of putting you under my tuition, sir. And as there won't be any customers in this morning owing to the tram strike, we can start now on the preliminaries, sir. All right, Max. Fire away. I hate the whole show. Hate shop-walking, Mr. Dengar? I hope you'll pardon me, sir. But you shock and pain me. Shop-walking is an exacting profession, sir. Not one man in a hundred is fit to shop-walk. In fact, sir, the shop-walker, as compared with the rest of humanity, is a sort of superman. You have read Nietzsche, sir? Night-sher, what's that? Sounds like a sneeze. To humanity, sir, Nietzsche is a sneeze. A good, healthy sneeze, sir, clearing the head. He is my favourite author, sir. I say, Max, is night-sher necessary for shop-walking? Nietzsche is necessary for everyone, sir. I get much comfort and encouragement from Nietzsche. Well, get ahead. What have I to do first? Don't run away with the idea, sir, that it's easy to shop-walk. The most difficult thing is to acquire a manner. Fortunately, sir, I was born with one. I claim no credit for it, sir. I was destined to be a shop-walker. Shop-walkers are born not made. My father was a butcher. He is still a butcher. If fate had not interposed, I should have been a butcher. But quite early in life I gave signs of my genius for shop-walking. It began with playing at keeping-shops with other children. Ever considered, sir, how fond children are of playing at keeping-shops? It shows, sir, that the shop-walking instinct is implanted in the human race. Every child wants to shop-walk, but few manage to attain their ambition. And when I played with other children, anybody could be behind the counter? I shop-walked. And as I grew up my imagination was fired by the sight of shop-walkers. I watched them at their profession, sir. I followed them reverently through the street. The crisis in my life came when one day I saw a shop-walker reeling home drunk. But the shop-walking temperament is invulnerable to fate. Next day I peeped into the shop, and I saw my shop-walker genial and impassive again. It was a lesson to me, sir, a spur to my ambition. My father attempted to interest me in chops. He even sent me out with the cart, sir. But I found that a manor is lost on a servant-girl at the back door. No personal charm could prevail on a servant-girl toward a one extra chop. I tried it, and failed. Henceforth I knew that butchering was not my forte. No doubt there are estimable butches. My father is one. But butchering is merely a trade, sir, shop-walking as an art. I entered this shop as a shop-sweeper. Mr. Danga devined my genius one morning when I was sweeping out and an early customer had come in. He promoted me on the spot. Since then I have never looked back, and now you see, sir, I am at the top of my profession. You see, sir, you cannot suppress the shop-walking flair. My father is a small butcher. I am head shop-walker at Danga's. Please, God, my son and my son's son will be shop-walkers. I mean to establish a dynasty of shop-walkers. Generation after generation of charterous mags will shop-walk down the centuries until, perhaps, there will come the super-shop-walker that Nietzsche predicts. To me it all seems badly wrought, unless there don't seem anything useful for me to do just now. I'll run out and see a chap at the Australia. He turns to go. John Danga enters. A guy? Starting your new work, mags will put you through. Morning, God. Good morning, sir. Tossi, who is behind the counter, to customers. I'll show you another in that style, only cheaper, madam. She goes out. John to mags. Is Mr. Cliburn in yet? He is in his office, sir. You're going to see the accountant, father. Just a little business matter. But you always send for Cliburn. Oh, I want to examine the books. The books? Yes. Nothing important, my boy. It'll be all right. Don't go far away. I may want you. Me? Yes. John Danga goes into the office. I can't stop here while he's examining the books. But no, he can't have found out. To mags. I'll be back in ten minutes if the governor wants me. He goes out. I think Mrs. Maggett. I'll make one like this for my little airmanter. Elizabeth Habeth-wait enters. She is a scraggly little woman of twenty-nine. Clever, spectacled, mannish. She is John Danga's private secretary and has an idea of her own importance. Judging by her straight raked sandy hair and her ill-fitting dress, she cares little for her appearance. Good morning, Mr. Maggs. Morning, Miss Habeth-wait. It's a pleasure to see you here. A little ray of sunshine in the shop. Eliza, producing a buttonhole bouquet. I was wondering, Mr. Maggs, if you'd care to wear this. Seeing that he has already a flower in his coat. Oh! I see I've come too late. And I took such care in making this up for you. No, this. He sees that Tossie is not present. Just a poor, scraggly thing I stuck in anyhow. It is of no consequence, Miss Habeth-wait. He takes the flower out and drops it behind the corset stand. Oh! Mr. Maggs, that is so gallant of you. A buttonhole picked by your fingers, Miss Habeth-wait. You may pin it in. It's a pleasure to meet a real gent these days. Of course, you'll be at the ball tonight. She pins it in. It is my duty to the firm. But you? Oh! I just don't on dancing. I could waltz all night. I thought, Miss Habeth-wait, that an important official like you, the private secretary to the head of the firm, wouldn't care for such frivolity. That's hardly nice of you, Mr. Maggs. Why shouldn't I care for frivolity? I'm a woman, aren't I? A woman? Why, of course, certainly. Only it didn't occur to me that you... Simply because I'm a good businesswoman, you imagined I don't frivel. Did you ever discover a woman who really cared for anything else than being a woman? I have always looked on you, Miss Habeth-wait, as being above that sort of thing. Above waltzing? There's nothing above waltzing. You ask me for one tonight. I will, my dear Miss Habeth-wait, too. Oh! you flatter me, Mr. Maggs. No trouble, I assure you. A pleasure. Tossie enters, burdened with underskirts. There he is again, making love to that scrag in specs, rabbit face. She flings down the underskirts angrily on the counter. But, there, I'll have to run. I've got twenty letters to type. Waving her hand cook catishly to Maggs. Till tonight, Charteris. Till tonight, Eliza. Elizabeth goes out. Let me see. He makes a pencil note on his cuff. One hundred and eighty pounds plus two hundred and fifty pounds. She must be getting two fifty in her confidential position. Makes three hundred and thirty pounds a year. A tidy little income to set up house on. And I know a nice little cottage in Mosman that we could get for thirty shillings a week. Mrs. Claiborne enters from the lift. She is a young woman, frivolous and cheaply pretty. Good morning, Mrs. Claiborne. And what is your pleasure this morning? I'm not shopping this morning. I just run in to see my husband. I'm afraid Mrs. Claiborne is engaged with Mr. Danga. In there, but surely he can see his own wife? I'll inquire, madam. He knocks. The door is opened by Anthony Claiborne, who does not advance from the door of his office. Maggs goes off, shielding his new buttonhole from Tossi. Tony, I must see you for a minute. Sorry, dear, but I'm very busy. Oh, that can wait. With Mr. Danga. He can wait. It's about him, I came. I want you to be sure to ask Mr. Danga for an invite for the ball tonight. But we've got invitations. How stupid you are, Tony. We are invited as employees, just like the factory hands. We've got a right to go as guests, as Mrs. Danga's friends, to be with her when she receives. But you know that's impossible. She is impossible. Always trying to snub me. But I'll get even with her yet. Mr. Danga's got no false pride. He's an old friend of yours. You can easily warm an invite out of him. I've got no claim on Danga, now. Excuse me, I'm busy. He shuts the door. Mrs. Claiborne waits a moment, non-plussed, then wanders away, and inspects the corsets. Baby Danga arrives from the lift. Good morning, Mrs. Danga. Delightful weather, isn't it? Yes, delightful. She sweeps past her to the office, and knocks. She's only a shopkeeper's wife, anyhow. Mrs. Claiborne goes out. The office door is opened by John Danga. You, John? Yes, baby. What did you want me for? I... I didn't want to see you. I came... er... to see Mr. Claiborne. Claiborne, what do you want to see him for? It's for Guy. I must see Mr. Claiborne. Claiborne is engaged with me just now in important business. We are in the middle of our, er... our investigations. We can't possibly let him be called away now. What is it, John? What are you doing to Guy? Surely you're not going to punish him for a trifling bit. No. There's something behind all this. Something you're both keeping from me. It isn't... proved yet. Proved? You must leave this matter to me, baby. You can trust me to do the best for Guy. Now run away. I'll tell you all about it when... if there is anything to tell. By the way, if you see Guy, tell him I want to see him here at once. Guy? What hateful secret thing are you and that man in there doing to my boy? It's like a torture chamber to me, and I must stand outside. Baby, you'll be side yourself. I'm his father. I'll do all I can in honor. He retires to the office. Honor. And they're torturing my boy. Guy Dengar comes in. Mother, have you got that two hundred pounds? That'll be all right, dear. Isn't your father's hands? You told father? I had too. Surely you can trust your father? It's all up. Nothing can save me now. But your father will pay it for you. It's too late. They're in there finding out. They know. Know? Know what? Clibbon appears at the office store. M-Mr. Guy, your father wishes to see you here. Mother, don't believe them. Promise you'll never believe them. Guy, you're my boy. How could I ever believe anything against my little baby? He follows Clibbon into the office. Lindsay Thong enters. Baby, you here? You've come to see Mr. Clibbon? I've come to find out to set your foolish doubts at rest. Lindsay, you're too late. He's in there now with Guy and John. With his father? Then he'll be all right. Guy's done something bad. I don't know what. No, Lindsay, it isn't that. I'm sure it isn't that. There's nothing to do with me. But I'm afraid that Tony will tell and then—oh, my poor boy! It's only business. And even if it wasn't, Clibbon's no fool. He has nothing to gain by raking up the past and everything to lose. Mrs. Clibbon returns. What charming things you have in your shop, Mrs. Dengar! I'm glad you found what you want. Good morning. She turns deliberately to Thong. Good morning, Mrs. Dengar. I'm sorry I won't be able to get to a dance you are giving, I understand, to your employees this evening. An unfortunate prior engagement. Good morning. She sweeps out. I don't think that woman will cringe to me any more. She sees it's no use. Thong, noticing Tossie, who has come out from her counter— I say, baby, what a pretty girl. Now, Lindsay, know for landering with our sales girls. I won't have it. You must go for that sort of amusement to another shop. Still, she is a pretty girl. That reminds me, I promised a friend I'd buy some—some things. Not underskirts, surely? I'm not sure they weren't underskirts. I'll have a look at them anyway. My dear man, if you're contemplating buying underskirts, you've let yourself in. These things cost fortunes. Thong fingering the edge of the underskirt on the stand. Flimsy things like this. Yes, you pie for the holes in them. Still, they seem worth inspecting. Remember, no philandering. My dear lady, could a man philander amongst these things? They give the whole show away. He strolls across and speaks to Tossie. After a few words, she shows him out and follows him, leaving the two customers still engaged in discussing underskirts. Guy appears from the office. He is pale and distressed. Mother, they found out! Found out? About you? Yes, that I stole that money. Oh, only that! Mother, can't you understand? I took the money, the two hundred I told you about. I didn't mean to keep it. I just borrowed it. I told you father had given me a thumping allowance. That's a lie. He never gave me a penny extra. And they needed money. I go about with chaps who've got hundreds a year of their own. So I got into the hands of moneylenders. Then betting. It seemed so easy. And then I was in the office, handling all the money. And it seemed a sure thing to borrow two hundred and put it on a horse. But I meant to pay it back. Only the horse never started. And then that suspicious beggar, Cliburn, got grubbing away at the books on Saturday afternoon and discovered it. I could have fixed it all up and nobody would have known if you had got me the money. That was why Cliburn came to our place yesterday to tell father, and now father is going to send me to jail. To jail? Your father? He isn't a father. When it's business, he's a firm. But my boy, that's impossible. John couldn't disgrace his name. Oh, if he had only himself to consider, he'd hush it up quick enough for the sake of the firm. But it's that brute Cliburn. He's got some sort of pull on father. Cliburn accuses you? Cliburn? Yes, it's all him. I'll talk to John. He spoke to you like that before Mr. Cliburn just to impress him. Perhaps to make it a lesson to you. But he won't do anything so outrageous. Mother, it's no use pleading with father. He's helpless. He'd let me off, but he can't. It's Cliburn. Cliburn? He knows something. Impossible. What could he know? He's holding something over father. Mother, get me out of this. I've been a fool, but if only I get away from all this. Send me out onto the land away from all these rags. And there'll never be a fool again. Mother, there's only one way you must see Cliburn. Cliburn? He's bitter against father for something. He really likes me, and I like him in spite of his rough ways. But he's got to use me to strike father with. Cliburn? Mother, you know him. You used to be friends with him. You could appeal to him. Appeal to Mr. Cliburn? No. I couldn't do that. You think Mrs. Cliburn beneath you? I know you snub her. But give me this one chance to go straight. Plead to Mr. Cliburn? Tossi and Song reappear. You're my boy. I'll save you, dear. I'll humble myself to that man. I'll... I'll die for you. Seeing Lindsay Song, who is obviously impressed with Tossi... Lindsay! Song takes no notice. It'll be all right, Guy, by tonight. You're my boy. Only my little baby that's been naughty. And you belong to me. Only to me. And trouble shan't touch you. Once I was all to you. But when boys grow up, the world thrusts their mothers aside. We see you grow away from us. You have no need for our useless love. And then you get into some little trouble. And we mothers almost thank God for it. For it brings you back to us. And you creep to our knees just as you used to do when we were a helpless little child. And oh, how glad we are just to put our arms around you and shield you from hurt. Mother, you won't do anything wrong. You won't put yourself in any danger. Danger? No, no. But if there were, I'd save you. But if it depends on you humiliating yourself to Clibber and I'll take my gruel, they can't give me very long, can they? My boy. My own boy. She turns with him, her arm round him, comforting him. I shall see you at the dance tonight, Tossi. Oh, yes, sir. But you mustn't ask me for a dance. Why not? Gents don't ask a sharp girl to dance with them. Oh, don't they, when a girl is as pretty as you? I say, Tossi, do you get any commission on the seals you make? Oh, yes, sir. We get our spiffs. They go to you, not to that gorgeous bounder who bows you in? Yes, to me. I'll take this, and this, and this. He grabs three underskirts, haphazardly. Oh, thank you, sir. Where shall I send them? Lindsay Thong, McClay Street. See you at the dance tonight, Tossi. Till then. Hello, Guy. Maybe he sends him a glance of appeal. I say, Guy, if you're not too busy asking females to step this way, madam, what about a round before lunch? I'll give you seven holes. Yes, do, Guy. It'll do you good. I'll tell John I've given you a holiday. It'll be all right by tonight, dear. All right, Lindsay. Guy and Thong go out. Baby watches them off and comes slowly down to the office door, hesitating whether she will knock. Lindsay Thong! That bad man! Oh, and I did think him such a nice gent. But I can't dance with him. Everybody knows how he looks upon girls like us. To her customers. Now, this one looks just sweet. And considering the quality, it's quite absurdly cheap, isn't it? No. I can't say I exactly like any of these. Haven't you got any newer models? Baby knocks at the office door and waits. Tossi is surrounded by now with towering piles of underwear. We've got hundreds of other models, but we can't keep them all in this showroom. In the next department, madam, if you'll kindly come this way. Leads the way down. We'd better see them if it's not too much trouble. To Mrs. Cronk. It's quite early yet. I do enjoy a good morning shopping, don't you? They follow Tossi out. John Dengar comes from the office. You've seen Guy. Oh, it can't be true. I thought it impossible, too. But you harsh it up. The boy's suffer for this childish fault. He's not grown up yet. I am helpless, baby. You? The firm? His father? You don't understand these things. Clebur knows. Knows? Knows what? That Guy is... I can scarcely say it. Is what? A thief. Oh, that. Isn't that enough? Can't you women see the seriousness of anything? I can't slip, John. I can't regard it that way. But for Guy's sake, I would overlook it. If it wasn't for Cleburne... Always that man. He's got me in his power. I've tried all I know to prevent him making this public. Legally he has no case. I'm his employer. He's merely my agent. But he swears I'll make this a fair public somehow. He'll set a rumour that will be most damaging to the firm. And a Guy. How could Guy take my place when it is known to the whole shop that he was a thief? I've pleaded to Cleburne. I've threatened him. He refuses. Unconditionally. He must be mad. There is one condition. I knew there was a way out. Then it is easy. All you have to do is to accept his condition. Unfortunately, that is just what I cannot do. But to save our boy. I cannot save Guy at the sacrifice of my honour. At the sacrifice of the firm. His condition is nothing but blackmail. A dirty bribe. Then pay his blackmail. Take his bribe. Baby, you don't understand. All my life I've tried to go straight as a businessman. If now I gave way to this temptation, and God knows it's hard enough to resist, I'd be as weak as Guy. I would forfeit my self-respect. I would forfeit your respect. You wouldn't forfeit my love. I will save him in any way that is not dishonourable. But not that way. Oh, you businessmen. You make a cruel, bitter God of business. I'm only a woman. But I'd save my son anyway. I'd save him by a lie, by any conceivable sort of meanness, by the disclosure of any damning secret, by a crime. Only I'd save him. You don't understand, baby. I'm not blaming you. But yesterday you told me and Clyburn a lie about Guy's allowance. I can forgive you because you're his mother. There was no other way. For a woman. But for a man. What is Clyburn's blackmail? A full partnership in the firm. Only that? Blackmail. But it will save Guy. By a bribe. You men. Women. Women. Baby, I love you, but how can I respect you? Your sex is only half civilised. We men have made this world. We men have built up a code of honour in this world so that man can live with man. But you are outside this world. Outside the code of honour. Outside the clean, fine machinery of civilised life. You women are the pretty parasites of the world. We men have committed to our homes as we admit our cats. Because you're graceful and faithful and we can need protection. We love you, we take you, we dress and adorn you. We give you half our possessions. We entrust you with the training of our children. We build cities for you. A city is only a row of shops and shops are only for women. These miles and miles of plate glass. Miles of allusion for women. We spend our money on necessities and fulfilling the rest to you to waste on useless things. Why, as you stand before me now, you are only a collection of tawdry adornments. This and this and this. Fripperies, bangles, rags. There isn't one bit of your clothing for all you pay for it as useful as the clothes of a navvy. There is not one of your rags that will protect you from the wind or the sun or the rain. Why, if you were left exposed to the rain for an hour, this beautiful dainty thing would be nothing but a draggled sop. Your hats, do they protect your heads? Your shoes, do they support your feet? Your dress, does it cover you? No, you produce nothing, you spend everything. You do nothing, you waste everything. Your parasites, useless parasites upon men. Women, women! Parasites and efficient wasters, wasters! My dear John, we may be useless, but what are you? Where would you be if it wasn't for us? We may be parasites, but you have made us parasites. We may be wasters, but you prey on us. I didn't make the world, I merely made use of it. You men, you've got your pretty little codes, your precious honour, the God you call business. You pet us and despise us, you love us like equals and treat us like children. Who made women a parasite? You, who wanted a parasite? You are the wasters, for you have wasted our womanhood. You do not know the sympathy and kindness we could have brought into your harsh business world. Teach us, train us, and we will pay you back in something finer than mere love. Why? What employer would deliberately allow half as employees to be left untrained? We are made for bigger things than love. When I married you, I wanted nothing so much as to be part of your business, for that would have been part of you. And I could have helped you, but you sent me back to my fripperies. I asked you for companionship. You gave me a new hat. Because you could not help. Why, what could you do now to save Guy except lie? I could save him now. You talk like this at this moment when Cliburn is in there preparing his proofs. At any moment he will open that door and pass out to ruin Guy. I can't prevent him. I've tried everything possible to a man. Then let me try everything possible to a woman. More lies? No. It may be worse than a lie. It may be the truth. Baby, what secret is it you keep from me? What secret that makes you cry out in your sleep? Do I cry out? What do I say? I cannot make out, but sometimes I hear you moan. You are in some trouble, but I never dare to speak of it. Dreams, only absurd dreams. But that man in there, he must be stopped. He must never come out of that door. He must be silenced. Baby, I'm done. I'm beaten. Help me. I can silence him. Wait here. I must see him alone. As she is going to the office, John interposes. What are you going to do? Tell him. Tell him what? What have you to tell him? John, I can stop him. No, I forbid you. This is my affair. You have failed. You refuse to sacrifice yourself. I, his mother, must. No. What hold have you got over Clyburn that I have not? By God, baby, what have you got to do with that man? Let me see him before it's too late. Baby, I... I don't trust you. You have lied to me. What lie are you going to tell Clyburn? I am going to tell him something that neither he nor you know. Something that will change our lives forever. She tries to reach the door, but John stands with respect to it. Oh! Well, since you refuse. She turns away hopeless. Then suddenly pauses struck with a new thought. Yes! Lightly controlling her agitation. What an idiot I was. It really isn't at all necessary for me to see Clyburn. I shall see his wife. See his wife? What good will that do? John, you must see Mr. Clyburn. Tell him to wait till tomorrow. Tell him I am trying to persuade you to give him his partnership. You know that's impossible! I know. But we must have a die. Put him off, oh, on any pretext. Keep him silent for a day. Ask him, if you like, ask him for my sake, to wait a day. What good will it do? Listen, this afternoon I shall call on Mrs. Clyburn. Call? What foolery is this? You men are just stupid babies. You never thought of the way out. It's the simplest thing in the world to a woman. Pay an afternoon call. I shall ask her to come to the ball as my personal friend. That man, of whom you're so afraid, adores his foolish wife. She can make him do what she likes. Her one ambition is to get into society. She can do that only through me. If I personally invite her to be one of my house party tonight, her name will appear in the society columns. Sydney will know that I have taken her up. She will have realised her life's ambition. And what husband can stand against his wife's ambition? She will come tonight and bring her husband. And if he comes, his mouth will be forever shut. You mean to say that a mere invitation will stop him? Of course. Any woman could have told you that. But you big, stupid babies never think of consulting us. There is always one way out of every difficulty and that is the woman's way. The woman's way? An invitation to a dance? You've failed for all your man's wits. Yes. Have you any other clever schemes to try? No. Then let me try. Tonight, you'll see her and her husband at our dance, gagged. He won't come. He will. Ah, baby, if you're right. If you only could, to save Guy with honour. No, it won't work. Wait till tonight. And that reminds me. I must go home at once and put on my smartest dress. I must impress Mrs. Clibbon. And the only way to impress a woman is to be better dressed. You'll persuade Clibbon to give me time? Yes, I can promise that. I think I shall wear my fawn. Don't you think I'll look at my smartest and my fawn with my new model hat? She goes out. John sees her into the lift, then comes down, pauses a moment to collect himself, then enters the office. Mrs. Maggot, Mrs. Cronk and Tossie return. Tossie is loaded up with more underskirts and looks quite worn out. Really, I can't decide whether I like this pink one or this heliotrope. This rose de berry looks smartest to me. Yes, it does look sweet. Now I look at it again. It is really so difficult to decide. Why, it's past twelve, I do declare. It's past twelve and I've got to get home to get lunch for the children. How the time has flown. I think, after all, I'll take this one. It will become you beautifully, madam. Oh, I'm not choosing it for myself. And really, now I come to think, I fancy I like this one best, after all. But perhaps I'd better not decide today. You see, I'm choosing it for my aunt. Your aunt? Oh. Yes, and she's that crotchety and difficult to suit, you know. I think it would be more satisfactory if I brought her along and let her pick one out for herself. We would change it, madam, if you sent it home and it didn't suit. No, you don't know my aunt, and it's lucky you don't. She flies into such tempers with her bad back, you know. No, I'll wait for some fine day when this tramp strike is over and the old lady is able to get about and bring her along and let her see all these and choose for herself. After all, she's got to wear it, you know. Thank you so much, miss. Good morning. She rises and comes down with Mrs. Meggott. We've had such an exciting morning, Mrs. Meggott, haven't we? Why, I've got quite an appetite. Shall I put these two by for you, madam? Oh, no, please don't trouble. I couldn't think of troubling you, miss. Anything else this morning, madam? Let me see. Ah, yes, I do want something, a hair-pad. Baby ate mine yesterday. Hair-pads, they're on the third floor, madam. You take the lift. Thank you so much. Pads are such indigestible things for babies. Mrs. Meggott attracted once more by the corsets, then. How any decent woman, let alone a widow, could be seen dead in one of these shameful things beats me. Mrs. Cronk, leading her away to Tossi. Good morning. Good morning. They go out. Good... Ah! Damn! Buns! Mrs. Neverbye. I knew them. All my morning wasted, not a sale. Her aunt. She hasn't gotten aunt. Not a spit for all my work. And all these things to put back. Megg's returns. An ass sales Tossi? Buns. Knife filled, sir. We'll see you at the bowl, Tossi. He goes out. He's wearing somebody else's buttonhole. My Charteris. My Maggs. Oh! Hysterically she sweeps the boxes and underskirts off the counter, comes excitedly out from behind the counter, knocks over the corset stand, tears the underskirts from their stands, and suddenly pauses in her frenzied rush. She has discovered the buttonhole she gave Meggs, lying discarded on the floor. She picks it up, dazed. My buttonhole on the floor. Flung down, thrown away. And he's flaunting some other girls. That rabbit face of a secretary likely is not. Oh! I will dance with that wicked Mr. Thong tonight. I'll... I'll sit out with him. In the dark. I'll... I'm going to have hysterics. I know I'll have him. I don't care. Nobody cares. I will have him. I will. Breaking into hysterical tears and losing all control of herself. She completes the ruin of the room by knocking over the remaining stands and collapses weekly, sobbing on top of the bundles of lingerie and cardboard boxes on the floor. Curtain. End of act two.