PR 6027 E 85 U6 CopV 1 THE UPSTROKE THE UPSTROKE A ONE-ACT PLAY By F. J. NEWBOULT COPYRGIHT, 1914, BY SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. New York London SAMUEL FRENCH 1 SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd Publisher 26 Southampton Street 28-30 WEST 38TH STREET j STRAND XssUc mi JAN 27 1914 ©C1.D 35807 THE UPSTROKE Produced by Milton Rosmer, at the Theatre Royal, Leeds, December 8, 191 3. CHARACTERS. Matthew Slowitt Sarah Slowitt Emma . P.C. Scruton Mrs. Jerniman Joseph Jerniman Joe Slowitt. Mr. Charles Groves. Mrs. A. B. Tapping. Miss Doris Bateman. Mr. Eric Barber. Miss Beatrice Smith. Mr. J. H. Roberts. Mr. Herbert Lorn as. The scene is the kitchen living-room of Mr. Jerniman's house, 7 5, Asquith Avenue, Woolford. The Fee for each and every representation of this play by Amateurs is Fifteen Shillings, payable in advance to— * Messrs. Samuel French, Ltd., 23 Southampton Street, Strand, London, or their authorized representatives. No performance may be given unless a written permission has first been obtained. All the costumes, wigs, and properties used in the performance of plays contained in French's list may be hired or purchased reasonably from Messrs. Charles H. Fox, Ltd., 27, Wellington Street, Strand, London. THE UPSTROKE The characters in the play should not be burlesqued. Sarah Slowitt is dressed rather sumptuously, as befits a visit to the better -off brother, and in the fashion of the year before last. She is a woman on the wrong side of forty, rather fat and easiful in movement, and her corpulence is accentuated by a tight-fitting costume. Matthew is a thickset man, rather under the middle height, awkward in movement, but rather swaggering. He is dressed in a new tweed suit, with a rather gorgeous tie. Occasionally he remembers to be careful of this suit, but circumstances are too much for him. Mrs. Jerniman is a woman of a superior class. She is handsome, in the queenly style, with an impressive dignity and graciousness of speech and manner which, though lost in the excite- ment of her first entrance, are quickly recovered. She is dressed quietly, in skirt and blouse of good material and well-fashioned. Mr. Jerniman is a jovial good fellow, rather tall and well set-up. He wears a black frock coat and dark trousers, and carries gold-rimmed pince-nez. He is not very drunk, and the spelling in the text rather exaggerates the defect of his enuncia- tion. Joe Slowitt is a good deal brisker and more assured in manner than his brother, his spesch is not so rough, and he has the bearing of a man of affairs. He is dressed in dark tweeds or blu-: serge. 7 THE UPSTROKE. As to Mr. Scruton and Emma no comment seems needed. They are quite ordinary specimens of their classes. As to all the characters the author wishes to emphazize his view that they will be presented best if no attempt is made to exaggerate their comic stage possibilities at the expense of a natural rendering. He has endeavoured to describe a thing that might have happened, and he would like to have it presented in that spirit, rather than in the spirit of stage farce. It is about half -past eight o'clock on a Saturday evening in early autumn. Mr. Jerniman's kitchen is deserted, and the light — a single gas-jet, hanging from the ceiling — is turned low. A door on the extreme right opens on the cellar-head, where there is a sink, with hot and cold water, and shelves for pans : and thence a stainvay leads to the cellar. Between this and the fireplace, which is about the middle of the rear wall, another door leads to the hall. When it is open, as at present, the lower part of the . bedroom stairway is visible. There is a window to the left, looking on the back yard, and the back door is further to the left again. The fireplace is an ordinary kitchen range, and the tipper ribs are let down, forming a rest for the kettle, which is singing there. A table, covered with a coloured cloth, stands in the middle of the room. There are two easy-chairs, one on each side of the fire, and several smaller ones. A kitchen dresser, with white deal top, stands beneath the window. The blind of buff Holland is drawn down. The window is slightly open at the top, and a light breeze occa- sionally puffs in, bellying out the blind. The rustling which this produces, and the light click of the. blind- lath as it falls lazily back against the window-frame, are for a time the only sounds to be heard. Then there is a murmur of voices from the yard, growing more distinct. After a time the door is tried, first gently, then vigorously. Then there is a loud knocking, followed by kicks. THE UPSTROKE. 9 Matthew (without). It's locked, right enough, an' ther's noab'dy in. Sarah. Then we'll ha' to go back. Ay dear. An' ah feel that faint, ah doan'f hnaw wheer to put misen. Ah'll just sit dahn on t' steps a minnit, happen it'll pass off. Matthew. Well, it's a bonny come-off is this, an' right. . . . Tha'll get thy deeath o',cowd, lass, cahrin' o' t' stones. Hearken, what's that noise ? Aw' t' winda's open at t' top, sitha. T' wind's flappin' t' blind abaht. Come on, we can get in at t' winda. (He pushes up the lower sash, puts the blind aside, and looks in.) Matthew. Well, nah : that lewks reight com- fortable. Come on wi' tha, lass. Aw'll gi'e tha a leg up. Tha's nowt to do but climb in onto t' dresser. Sitha, ther's t' kettle singing on t' ribs an' all. Sarah (looking in, her shoulders just visible above the sill). Nay, we'll noan do that, Mattha. We'll go back. Ah'm feelin' a bit better, nah. But ah sud like a cup o' teea. Matthew. Ave, an' tha sail ha' one, lass. Up wi' tha. (He attempts to lift her, but she clutches the sill.) Sarah. Nay, na doan't, Mattha. What does it lewk like ? Brekkin' into folk's hahses, that road. An' suppose t' bobby copt us ? Matthew (pushing her aside, impatiently). Here, stand aht o' t' gate then. Ah'm balm in, whether tha does or noa. (He clambers in at the window, first throwing in his billycock hat. He throws his legs over the edge of the dresser, and sits, looking round.) 10 THE UPSTROKE. Sarah (in urgent whispers). Come back, Mattha ! Mattha ! Does ta heear ? Ah believe ther's sumb'dy comin'. Matthew (with a jocular, air). Lewk sharp in wi' tha, then, afore they come. Here, if tha just pops thy heead under t' winda, ah can lift tha right through. Deng this blind ! (He lets up the blind, halfway.) Nah then, come on. Sarah (tempted, but timid). Mattha, hah can ta fashion ? What 'ud they think on us ? Matthew. Aw, let 'em think what they like. They sud be in, when they ass fowk up to see 'em. (He takes her by the arms, and tries to lift her in.) Sarah. Nay, ad could niver get up theer. Nay, let's go back, Mattha. Matthew. Ah'm bahn to ha' summat to eyt afore ah goa back. Tha wor i' such a fuss to get off, ah'd noa teea to meean owt. Here, what are we thinkin' on ? Ah can let tha in at t' door. (He slides off the dresser, and goes to the door. It is locked, and there is no key.) Matthew (shouting through the keyhole). Ther's no key i' this door. Tha mun go rahnd to t' front, an we'll try that. Sarah (still at the window). Ah doan't like, Mattha. (Coaxingly.) Let's go back home. Matthew {irritated). Sewt thisen. Goa back if tha likes. Ah'm stoppin' a bit. (He goes to the fireplace, puts the kettle on the fire, and then begins to search in the cupboards for teapot and cups, whistling as he does so. Sarah stands irresolutely watching him awhile, then says.) Sarah. Well, tha will be stewpid. Ah'll goa rahnd to t' front then. THE UPSTROKE. 1] Matthew. All right, lass. Nah tha'rt talkin' sense. (He goes out alone the passage, and lets her in.) Matthew (speaking as they come in). Na, Sarah, dew shut up abaht it. Tha knaws well enough 'at, if it wor ahr hahse, an' them 'at wor comin', tha'd niver ha' gone aht, an' left 'em wi' a locked door. Sarah. No, nor noab'dy wouldn't It isn't deacent. Matthew. Well, if ther's owt wrong, that's what it is. It isn't us gettin' in at t' winda. It's a poor look-aht if a chap can't mak a bit free wi' his awn brother. (Sarah has taken possession of an easy chair, and Matthew during this speech, has closed the window, adjusted the blind, and picked up his hat. He pro- ceeds to set the table.) Sarah. Well, ah feel right uneeasy abaht it, Mattha. . . . See, that cloth goes t'other way rahnd. (She adjusts the table-cloth.) Matthew. Na then : ah'd as lief tha did it as me. Sarah. Mattha ! Does ta think we've getten to t' wreng hahse ? Matthew (mocking her tone). Sarah ! Does ta think ahr Joa knaws whecr he lives, hissen ? Sarah. Softheead ! Matthew. Well, tha puts me reyt aht o' patience wi' tha, Sarah. (He .pulls a letter out of his pocket.) Didn't it say " 73 " on t' door ? An' didn't we cahnt t' numbers as we come up t' street ? Sarah. Aye, but Matthew. Well, nah then. Is that " 73 " o' that theer letter, or isn't it ? 12 THE UPSTROKE. Sarah. It lewks like it. Matthew. Well, what the hengment more does ta want ? Sarah. Well, it lewks so queer of 'em bein' aht when they've written an' assed us to come. Matthew {going on with his preparations). They'll ha' gone aht to do a bit o' shopping, happen. Sarah. Aye, ah expect that'll be it. They'd be wait in' an' waitin', an' think we wor niver comin'. Ah wish we'd come i' t' afternoon, same as they assed us. Matthew (pausing in the act of -filling the teapot, teapot in one hand, kettle in the other). Aye,ahthowt it 'ud come to that i' a bit. It's alius t' same wi' thee, Sarah. Whativer goes wreng, it makes no matter what it is, it's my fault. Sarah. Well, ah dew think tha might ha' missed thy football for a odd week, for t' sake o' thy awn brother, 'at tha hasn't seen this monny a year. Matthew. Ah wodn't ha' missed yon match, sitha, for all t' Joas 'at iver wor. What the hengment differ does it mak ? We can stop that much longer. Ther's a tram back at half -past twelve, an' it's Sunday i* t f mornin'. . . . Nah then (setting the teapot on the table), get a drink o' that into tha, wol ah tak a lewk rahnd, an' see what ther is to eyt. (He takes a candle from the mantelpiece, and lights it.) Sarah (pouring herself a cup ot tea). Nay, na doan't, Mattha. If ah just get a drink o' teea Matthew. Ah tell tha ah'm bahn to ha' summat to eyt. Tha can sewt thisen. (He brings a loaf and butter from the cellar-head.) Tha can be cuttin' a slice or two o' that, wol ah tak a lewk rahnd t' cellar. (He goes down the cellar stairs.) Sarah (calling after him). Mattha! Tha mustn't! Does ta heear ? Tha can do wi' bread an' butter till thev come. THE UPSTROKE. 13 Matthew (calling from, cellar). What does ta say to a bit o' cowd boiled ham ? Sarah. Mattha ! Did anybody iver heear t' like? (He brings up a boiled ham, a plum cake, and an assort- ment of pastry.) Sarah. Not a bite. For shame o' thisen, Mattha. Tak 'em dahn agean. Matthew (sitting to the table, and beginning to carve the ham). Just gi'e me a cup o' teea, lass, an' if tha wean't ha* noa ham, try what t' cake's like. Sarah (pouring the tea) . Ah wean't ha' nowt but a bit o' bread an' butter. Eh, but ah feel a lot better, by nah. Ah do hoap Joa's wife '11 tak it t' reyt road. It maks it all t' awk'arder us not knawin' her. Matthew. 'Course she will. Ah haven't tasted such a nice bit o' ham, ah can't tell when. It's spiffin'. Nah, just let me cut tha t' leeast little bit, lass. It'll do tha good. Sarah (hesitating). Nay . . .ah. Matthew. Nah, ah'll cut tha a nice bit o' leean, sitha. (He does so.) Sarah. Well, just a taste. . . . That'll dew. Nay, ah can't eat all that. Matthew (transfering a piece to his own plate). Na then. Ther's nowt wasted wheer they keep a pig. . . . Nah, isn't it champ ? Sarah. It's grand. An wonder if she's done it hersen. It's been done wi' a bit o' mace. Matthew. Yon cake lewks middlin' an' all. Let's see what t' inside's like. (He is about to cut it.) Sarah (holding his arm). Nay, Mattha. Ah wodn't, when it hasn't been cut into/ She'll be savin' it for t' Sunday teea. Matthew. Nowt o' t' soart. She'll ha' made it o' purpose for us. (He cuts it.) 14 THE UPSTROKE. Sarah. Eh, tha art a wrengheead. What to say to 'em when they come, ah don't knaw. Ah sail want to run aht o' t' door as soon as ah hear t' key i' t' lock. Matthew. By gow, lass, ah've hit it ! We'll have a bit of alark wi' 'em. When we hear 'em comin' we'll turn t' leet dahn, an' hide o' t' cellar-head. Ah'd right like to tak a rise aht o' Joa. He alius wor too clever to live. Sarah. Well, he has summat to be clever abaht, Mattha, gettin' on as he has. Matthew. Aw aye. Luck's nowt to do wi't, has it ? Ah wish ah'd half t' chances he's thrawn away. Sarah. Hah long is it sin' he went to Manchester, Mattha ? Matthew, Let's see. . . . It's three year sin' he got wed Sarah. Fower. 'Cos it wcr when ah wor laid up wi' t' quinseys. That wor why we couldn't go to t' weddin'. An' tha knaws Matthew. Aye, it will be fower, come to think. Well, he'd been i' Manchester just a twelvemonth when he got wed. An' he'll ha' been back i' Woolford nah very near six month. Sarah. Is it so long ? It doesn't look it. Fancy an' us never been, nor them to us. It doesn't look descent. (There is a noise from the yard, and a key turns, after some fumbling, in the lock. Matthew and Sarah start up, and with a whispered, " Come on " Matthew hustles his wife, half -laughing, half -protesting, to the cellar-head. He closes the door just as Emma, who has had some difficulty with the lock, comes in with nervous haste at the back.) Emma {speaking as she comes in). I haven't been out a minute, ma'am. I just went to post a letter, an' — — THE UPSTROKE. 15 (She sees the table spread, and the empty room, and stands amazed. She goes to the passage door. Emma (calling). Are you upstairs, ma'am ? (There is no answer, and after a pause she comes back. ■ There is a smothered cough from the cellar-head.) Emma. Oh-h, it's burglars ! Oh-h ! (She rushes out at the back door, and locks it after her. After a pause, the cellar door is opened again, and Matthew comes out.) Matthew (whispering). She's goan. (He steals forward on tiptoe, and tries the door.) Matthew. She's locked t' door after her. Crikey ! To think o' Joa hevin' a sarvent lass ! An' he niver let on. Sarah (coming out fearfully, and speaking in a whisper). Mattha ! She'd ha' gone to fetch a bobby. Ee, whativer sail we do ? Matthew. Do ? What is ther to do ? We can tell him who we are, can't we ? Sarah. Let's slip aht at t' front, an' goa home. Matthew. Gow ! It 'ud serve 'em right. Joa'd think they'd had t' burglars i' t' hahse. An' we could keep t' joke up as long as we'd a mind. Sarah. Come on then. Ah don't feel as if ah could face it aht, nah. (They are moving towards the passage when the front door bangs. They start back.) Mrs. Jerximax (from the passage). It's me Emma. I'll be down in a minute. Put the kettle on , 16 THE UPSTROKE. and we'll have supper. The~master may be late." (She goes upstairs to " take off her things.") Matthew. That's be Joa's wife. She sahnds like a bit of a toff. Ah wonder wheer Joa is. Did ye heear what she said: — " T' maister may be late."? Sarah. Mattha, ah don't think it is Joa's wife. We've getten into t' wreng hahse. Matthew. Ah wish tha'd talk sense, Sarah. He said " 73 " an' it is 73. What more does ta want ? All t' same, it 'ud eba bit awk'ard explaining to her, an' him not theer. Come on, we'll hook it. Sarah. Ee, ah darsen't, nah. If she copt us i' t' passages (A policeman's whistle is heard at the back. Matthew and Sarah start first one way, then the other, and at last, with a muttered curse from Matthew, they again go to the cellarhead. The back door is opened, and Emma, closely followed by Mr. Scruton, who has the air of a gallant protector of distressed beauty, comes in. They have no sooner entered than Mrs. Jerniman comes in from the passage. She looks from the spread table to the interesting couple at the door, first with incredulity, then with amazed horror.) Emma. Oh, ma'am, there's burglars in the house Mrs. Jerniman. You shameless hussy ! Well — I — never — did ! You-you — oh-h ! (She takes Emma by the arm, shakes her violently, and ends by giving her a box on the ear. Emma screams, bursts into tears, and sinks into a chair, sobbing.) Scruton. Come, come, missis, draw it mild ! Mrs. Jerniman (turning to him, angrily). You get THE UPSTROKE. 17 out of my house ! And you'll be reported, sir. You will, so. First thing on Monday morning, if I live to see it. And you stand there and face it out ! Impudence ! Get out of my house. This minute ! Scruton. Oh, I'll get out fast enough. If you ask her, she'll tell you she fetched me because there were burglars Mrs. Jerniman. She'll tell me ! I've — no- doubt — she will ! (She turns savagely to Emma.) And I suppose the burglars have been eating the ham ? And the cake that you very well knew was for to- morrow's tea — and the minister coming ? Nothing less would suit you for your fancy man. Scrutox. I'll trouble you to keep a decent tongue in your head, missis. I'm a married man, With a — — ■ « Mrs. Jerniman. More shame to you ! More shame to you ! And I'm sorry for your wife. Scruton. I've touched none o' your stuff. I've only just come in this minute to Mrs. Jerniman. I want none o' your lies. Oat you go. We'll see what the chief constable says to this. Scruton. See who you like. I've touched no- thing o' yours, an' I don't want Mrs. Jerniman (stamping). Get out. Scruton. Oh I'll go fast enough. (He goes.) Mrs. Jerniman. Yes, and you'll go too, in tfc morning. Not another day will I have [you in the house. Shameless, brazen, good-for-nothing! Oh, I have been deceived in you ! And I wondered how it was that we were using three pounds of butter a week, and four. pounds of sirloin in two days. I wondered. Silly, simple, trusting woman that I was ! And the liberty you've had ! And the things I've given you. But I'll tell you what, Miss, you'll never get another place as easy. No, indeed. Prison is the place for you. And if I didn't think of your mother, it's where you'd go now. But you leave in the morning. You do so. 18 THE UPSTROKE. .(This harangue is thrown at Emma over Mrs. Jerni- man 's shoulder, as that lady marches to and fro across the kitchen in angry excitement. Dumg the course cf it Emma's sobbing gradually subsides, and she sits sullenly, biting the hem of her handkerchief. But at Mrs. Jerniman's last words she starts up suddenly.) Emma. I'll go now. Pay me my month's wages an' I'll go. Mean suspicioning old thing you are ! I wouldn't stay, not if you was to go down on your bended knees, so there \ Give me my wages, an' I'll go now. Mrs. Jerniman. Wages? Not a penny ! Wages for thieving and lying ! Prison is the wages you de- serve. Emma (half-crying but defiant). I don't care what you say. I'll have my wages or else. . . . Well see who goes to prison. FU go straight down to the police office this minnit. (She makes for the door.) Mrs. Jerniman {standing in her way, and speaking with control and decision). You don't go out of this door to-night, Emma. In the morning, when I've had a look in your boxes, you can go where you please. (Emma attempts to push past her. Mrs. Jerniman sets her foot against the door, and seeks the key.) Mrs. Jerniman. Where's the key to this door ? (Emma, without reply, again attempts to push past Iter. Mrs. Jerniman takes her by the shoulders, and pushes her back into her chair.) Mrs. Jerniman. You'll stay there and do as I bid you. Where's the key to this door ? (Emma makes no reply.) THE UPSTROKE. 19 Mrs. Jerniman. Did yon hear me} Where's the key to this door ? Emma. Seek it. (Mrs. Jerniman, with a withering look at Emma, turns io do so. After looking about the floor, she notices the end of the barrel of the key protruding from the lock. She opens the door, and takes out the key.) Mrs. Jerniman. Oh, so you (She hesitates, considering.) So you hadn't (She closes the door, locks it, and then stands doubt- fully awhile, the key in her hand. Then she draws up a chair beside the girl, and sits down facing her.) Mrs. Jerniman (speaking gently and gravely). Emma, what does it all mean ? (Emma, without reply, bursts into tears again). Emma, I've tried to do my duty by you as if you were my own daughter, and I thought you were a good girl. I'd never ha' thought this of you. Now, it's no use carrying. on that way, like a great baby. If it was a little thing I'd overlook it, an' glad. And, as I told you when you came, Emma, if it was a respectable man you weie engaged to be married to, you could bring him into tea when it was convenient, and you'd asked me beforehand. But to bring a man in on the sly when I was out ! And a married man, too ! Emma, you must be a downright bad girl. (Emma remains silent, sobbing occasionally, but looking sullen and defiant.) Mrs. Jerniman. If you'd tell me the whole truth about it, Emma, and if there was anything to excuse it 20 THE UPSTROKE. Emma. You won't believe me, so what's the good ? Mrs. Jerniman. I'll believe you if you tell the truth, Emma. It's no use telling cock-and-bull stories that a child could see through. Here I go out to the meeting, and it's quite understood that you're not to leave the house till I come back. I suppose you'll say that you never did go out ? Emma. Yes I did. Mrs. Jerniman. Oh you did ? I can quite be- lieve • that, Emma. Where did you go ? Emma. To ... to post a letter. Mrs. Jerniman. Oh indeed, I thought you'd been out to post your letters in the afternoon. Who have you been writing to again, Emma? . . . Did you hear me ask a question ? If you want me to believe you, you must tell me all about it. Emma. / don't care. Pay me my wages and I'll go. | Mrs. Jerniman. I shall pay you no wages, Emma, as things are. Not a penny. And you can't make me. Not with a tale like that. Burglars ! W T hen I come home earlier than you thought, because the meeting was put off, and find you with your hat and coat on, and a policeman with his arm round you Emma. That's a lie ! So there. He never did. Only I was frightened of the burglars, and he just took hold of my arm, like. Mrs. Jerniman. Burglars indeed ! And just look at this table ! You went out to post a letter — it wouldn't take you five minutes — and when you came back, the burglars had made the tea, and the burglars had laid the table, and the burglars had eaten half the cake and two plates of ham — yes, two plates. (There is a crescendo of anger in this speech, and at the end of it she takes up the two dirty plates, bangs them down on the table before the girl, and concludes, bitterly . . .) THE UPSTROKE. » 21 Mrs. Jerniman. It's pretty plain who the bur- glars were, Emma. You and your fancy man. Emma (furious). You old pig! (What she really s " bitch," but that is not allowed on the stage.) Mrs. Jerniman (in a dreadful voice). Emma ! Emma. You are ! Nasty-minded old thing. TV: ink everybody's like yourself. Mrs. Jerniman. Silence, you — you abominable hussy. Emma No, nor I won't silence neither I've had enough of you I'm as good as you an' better I don't go about making up nasty lies about people to tell at the mother's meeting. But you can tell 'em what you like. Mrs. Jernimax (rising, with recovered dignity). That will do, Emma. I won't talk to you any more. Take off your hat and coat, clear that table, and take t the things into the cellar. (Emma, in whom the habit of obedience is strong, rises and slowly takes off her hat and coat, and hangs them on a hook behind the door. Mrs. Jerniman in the meantime sets the pots in order for removal.) Mrs. Jernimax. A nice cake to put on the table to-morrow ! (Emma brings the trav, then recollects her first alarms. She makes a movement towards the cellar door, then comes back and sits down.) Emma. I'm not going in that cellar. Mrs. Jerximax. Is the girl crazy ? Take the things down as I bid you. Do you hear me ? Take the things down. 22 THE UPSTROKE. 'Emma. You can take 'em down yourself. Then you'll see who's lying. An' if they m-murder you (sob) it's your own fault (sob) an' a good riddance. Mrs. Jerniman (impressed, but unwilling to show it). Oh, I suppose this is to brazen it out. Very well. I'll take them. (She opens the cellar door. As she does so, a loud crash of breaking glass is heard from the cellar.) Emma (terrified). Oh, don't go, ma'am. They'll murder us both. Oh don't. (She runs first to the back door, then into the passage calling, " Police, Police/" Mrs. Jerniman -, who is quite cool, listens a moment at the cellar-head, then calmly locks the cellar door, takes the distracted girl by the arm, makes her sit down again, and sits beside her.) Mrs. Jerniman. Now, Emma, I've locked them in, if they're there, and they can't come to hurt us. Try to calm yourself. Don't be a baby. Come now, tell me all about it. If I've judged you wrong I'm sorry, but you can see yourself how bad it looks. Emma. . . . Come. You went out to — post a letter, was it ? ... an then ? Emma (quite coived). Please, ma'am, I will tell the truth, ma'am. Oh-h, they're coming ! Mrs. Jerniman. Be quiet, you foolish child. Can't you see, I want to know all about it, so's I shall know what to do. Nobody can hurt you. Well, you went out to ? , Emma. I went to the pictures, ma'am. Only for ten minutes. Mrs. Jerniman. No. Half an hour, at least, Emma. The truth ! Emma. P'r'aps it was a bit longer than I thought, but it didn't seem no time, hardly. An' when I got THE UPSTROKE. 23 back there was a light in the kitchen, an' I thought it must be you come home, an' I just unlocked the door an' Mrs. Jerniman. Are you sure you'd locked the door when you went out ? Emma. Oh yes, ma'am. Certain sure. An' I looked in, an' the table was like it was when you came, an' nob.'dy there. An' I went in the passage an' called, thinking you might be upstairs, an' nob'dy answered. An' then there was a noise on the crllar head like somebody coughing. An' I ran out again, an' locked the door behind me, an' fetched a police- man. Oh-h ! (The scream responds 10 another crash from the cellar.) Mrs Jerniman (quite cool) Well, you'd better go and fetch him again, Emma. (Emma rises with alacrity, then sits dozen again.) Emma. He wouldn't come. (Tragically). Not after what's passed. Mrs. Jerniman. H'm. Well I suppose it would be rather awkward. I'd better go myself. (She is preparing to do so, when Emma falls on he/ knees beside her, grabbing her skirts.) Emma. Oh no, ma'am. Please, please don't go. ma'am. Don't leave me by myself.- Oh, whatever. shall we do ? Mrs. Jerniman. Get up, you silly girl. They wouldn't hurt you. It isn't you they want. And ten to one they're as frightened as you are. Didn't you hear them breaking the cellar window, trying to get out ? Come, come, Emma. Well, we'll both go, then. Will that satisfy you ? Come along. 24 THE UPSTROKE. (She soothes Emma, who wipes hey eyes, and puts on her hat. Mrs. Jerniman takes a tweed cap from behind the door, and they both go out at the back, locking the door after them. There is a short interval of silence, then the cellar door is tried front within, at first gently, then with sJtaking and kicks.) Matthew {front the cellarhead). Hellow ! Hellow ! Hellow there ! Let us aht. It's all a mistak. We aren't burglars at all Sarah. Please let us aht. We'll go to t' lock-up if you like. Is ther noab'dv theer ? Hellow ! (The front door bangs, and the voice of Mr. Jerniman is heard from the passage.) Mr. Jerniman (calling). 'S all ri'. 'S me. 'Ve come home early. (He comes into the kitchen, steadying himself occasion- ally by clutching the furniture. He reaches the table by a rather erratic route, and inspects, with amused surprise, the laden tray.) Mr. Jerniman. Thash funny. 'S that tea, or is it shupper ? (He sings.) " I feel like one who treadsh alone A banquet hall dezhe-e-e-ek." (In his natural voice.) "Deserted." 'Sh funny. (He goes across to the passage, and calls up the stairs.) Mar-i-a ! (The last syllable quavers off ridiculously. He tries again, producing a startling volume of sound. There is more noise at the cellarhead. He raises his hand, asking silence.) THE UPSTROKE. 25 Sh-h ! . . . Listen ! . . . Mush be out. (He returns to the table.) Maria, whash thish I find ? Thish the way you carry on when I go out ? Nice way to shet a table ! Call thish tea, or call it shupper ? Whatimesh it ? (He steadies himself with his back to the table, pulls out his watch, and examines it gravely.) Mr. Jerximax. Small hand saysh nine, large hand saysh — which ish larzhan' ? Thatsh not a watch. 'Sh a barometer. (He taps the faec.) 'Sh going up. Shet fair. (The kicking at the door is resumed. He drops the watch, which dangles from, its chain.) Hello! Whatsh that ? Whosh there ? Thash wrong door. (He goes to the door, and tries to speak through the keyhole, securing his balance with difficulty. He takes out the key, and lets it drop on the floor.) Matthew. Hellow ! Let us aht. Oppen t door. (Mr. Jerxtmax very carefully gets down on to his knees, in order to speak through the keyhole. He shouts at the top of his voice.) Mr. Jerximax. Go 'way. 'Sh wrong door. Visitors front, tradespeople back. Go 'way. Oh I shay — stop a minute ! . . . Hello ! — are you there ? 'Sh that the exchange ? Hello ! Matthew. Hellow ! For God's sake let us aht o' this. Mr. Jerximax (very politely). I shay, would you mind telling me whash tifnesh ? Wash . . . watchek . . . gone wrong. Turned into a b'rometer. Matthew. Ah can't mak aht what ye say. Oppen 26 - THE UPSTROKE. t' door an' then. (Kicking.) It isn't Joa, is it ? Joa ! Is it thee, Joa ? It's Mattha an' Sarah. Mr. Jerniman (to himself) . Thash nice way to talk. {Imitating Matthew.) " Jo-ah . . . 'Sh Mattha." Dam f'miliar. Comesh of educating lower classes. (Shouts at the keyhole.) You're very rude person. Teach you to call me " Jo-ah " My namesh Jerni- man. Misther Jerniman. Joseph Jerniman csh-quive. Call me Joah again, fetch policeman. Go 'way, Mattha ! Matthew. Damn it, let us aht yc druffen fooil, whoiver ye are ! Mr. Jerniman (on his feet). Naughty — oh, naughty ! L heard you say it. Oh you naughty man. 'Sh lucky for you my wife's not in. Can't allow that sort of language you know, Matthew. Musht be a low fellow, Matthew. Don't want t' make your 'quain- tance. Go 'way. (Putting his thumbs in his waist- coat armholes, and adjusting his pince-nez.) Any c'munications mush be made through my sholishtor. Sarah (shouting through keyhole). Please, Mr. Jerlyman, do let us aht. It's all a mistake. We've got into t' wrong hahse. Mr. Jerniman (chuckling) . Oh-h ! 'Sh a lady (Stoops to keyhole.) All ri' ma'am. Anything I can do, 'm sure. Delighted. Sorry Mrs. Jerniman's not at home. 'Spect her back shortly. (Stands aside, bowing.) Come in. Come in. (Bursts into song.) " Come into the garden, Maud." Matthew. Oppen t' door, can't ye ? Sarah. Please open the door ! Mr. Jerniman. Allri'. Wait a minute. Wheresh key ? (He goes on his knees to seek it, groping with wide sweeps of the arms. The search soon becomes languid, and by the time he reaches the table he has forgotten all about it.) Mr. Jerniman (sleepily). 'Sh all ri', Maria. THE UPSTROKE. 27 (He rolls under the tabic and begins to snore. The kicking at the door is renewed. Matthew attempts to force it open, and at last succeeds, and he and Sarah tumble into the room. Matthew's coat is covered with patches of whitewash, his trousers are torn. There is an angry swelling over his temple, and his left hand is bound in a bloody handkerchief. Sarah is in rather better plight, but she is also covered with whitewash, her hat is awry, and her hair in disorder.) Matthew. Come on, let's get aht o' this. (Sarah is attempting to make herself more presentable, when the back door oqens. She rushes after Matthew into the passage. Joe Slowitt enters at the back, followed by Mrs. Jerniman and Emma.) Joe (looking round). They've got oat, seemin'ly Mrs. Jerniman. He How, they've smashed t' lock- (The front door bangs.) Emma. Oh-h, they're at the front ! Joe. It's all right, lass. T' policeman '11 dealwi' 'em there. Aw, ther's one of 'em here, any way m (He takes Mr. Jerniman by the protruding legs, and pulls him from under the table.) Mr. Jerniman. AOW ! Leggo my leg ! Joe. Aw, it's Jerniman. (He lifts him, struggling, on to a chair.) Mr. Jerniman. Let me 'lone. Go 'way. 'Sh wrong door. Vishtors front, trade (He catches Mrs. Jerniman 's look, fixed sternly upon him, and becomes at once quiet and submissive.) 28 THE" UPSTROKE. Mr. Jerniman 's 'S all right, Maria. Come home early, clear. Very pleasant evening. Mrs. Jerniman. Disgusting ! I'm ashamed vou should see him in this state, Mr. Slowitt. Joe. Oh, it's novvt fresh, Mrs. Jerniman. Ah mean Mrs. Jerniman. I'm afraid you're right. Joe Ah didn't mean that. What ah meant was 'at anybody maybe overta'en, once i' away. Come, pull yourself together, old chap. Ye're goin' to loise your watch see ye. {He puts Mr. Jerniman's watch in its pocket. Mr. Jerniman pulls it out again.) Mr. Jerniman. Thash funny thing, Slowitt. / thought it was a watch. You thought it was a watch. Tishn't a watch. 'Sh a b'rometer. (He taps the face.) Jush look at it. Shet fair, an' goin' up like . . . like a damned aeroplane. Beg ' pardon, Maria. Shlipped out. Meant to shay, an ek-egshlent aeroplane. (A policeman's whistle sounds without.) Joe. Ah, he's got 'em. He's blawin' for help. Ah'd best go an' see, Mrs. Jerniman. Ah'll come back, an' let ye knaw how we go on. Mrs. Jerniman. Do, please, Mr. Slowitt. (Joe goes out by the passage.) Mr. Jerniman (pointing to the table). Maria, 'sh that tea, or is it shupper ? What timesh shupper ? Mrs. Jerniman. Take those things away, Emma. (Emma looks at her, appealingly.) Oh well, never mind. Clear the pots, at any rate. Mr. Jerniman. Maria, I ashed you shivil quesh THE UPSTROKE. 29 Mrs. Jerniman (cold and impressive). I think you'd better go straight upstairs to bed. (He moves towards the passage with an injured, crest- fallen air. At the door he turns, and says, gravely.) Mr. Jerniman. Maria, theresh lady in cellar. Might let her out. (He goes out, and, stumbling up the stairs, reclines on them. Emma shuts the door.) Mrs. Jerniman. Oh-h ! EmmA (running to her). Oh, ma'am, whatever is it ? Mrs. Jerniman (who has sunk into a chair, gasping.) There were no burglars, Emma. It was my — husb — husband and a wo — wo — oh-h ! (She sinks her head on her anus on the table, sobbing. Emma goes on her knees beside her, and timidly tries to console her.) Emma. Don't take on like that, ma'am. Don't ma'am, don't. I'm sure it isn't what you think,. Mrs. Jerniman (raising her face, and speaking with dry, quivering lips.) Oh, Emma, never, never, never- get married. Emma. Now, don't, ma'am. Mrs. Jerniman. It's all heartache and misery. Emma (sobbing in sympathy). Oh, ma'am, and him that fond of you. Mrs. Jerniman. I th-thought he Moved me. Emma. Oh, ma'am. Mrs. Jerniman. I knew he was weak and — and Emma. Oh, don't ma'am. Please ma'am. It'll all come right. Mrs. Jerniman. But I never thought he'd bring ' a wo -woman. 30 THE UPSTROKE. (She breaks down sobbing.) Emma. It'll all come right, ma'am, like it did wi' me. Look what you thought o' me, ten minutes since. 1 Oh, ma'am, I'm sure the master isn't that kind. Girls can tell, ma'am. He never so much as offered to kiss me, nor anything. There is a sound of scuffling from the passage. Mrs. Jerniman and Emma start up, and try to compose themselves.) Matthew (from the passage). Wheer's my wife ? Ah telled ye ah'd come quiet. What's t' use o' shovin' fowk abaht, that road ? Joe. Get on wi' tha. Folia thy noas. T bobby's lookin' after t' woman. (Joe runs Matthew t into the kitchen, holding him by breeches and scruff . Sarah and P. C. Scruton follow, and Mr. Jerniman, over whose legs they have stumbled, brings up the rear.) Joe. This chap says he can explain things, Mrs. Jerniman, so I thought we'd happen best give him t' chance. Sarah. Please ma'am, can ah sit dahn a minute ? Ah'm feelin' reyt faint. (She puts her hand to her side, reeling. Mr. Scruton supports her. Emma, on a nod from Mrs. Jerniman, places a chair. Matthew is mopping his temple with his unwounded hand.) Joe. Nah then , lad. What has ta to say for thisen ? . . . Well — ah'll . . . goa . . . to blazes! If it isn't ahr Mattha ! Tha gurt gawmless fooil. What i' t' name o' creation has ta had up nah ? TH^ UPSTROKE- 31 Matthew. It's all thy fault, Joa, an' nab'dy else's. Joe (laughing). Na then, lad. Putitdahn to me, if tha's a mind. Ah didn't knaw ah'd gi'en tha that black e'e, but it's a reyt un. It does me credit. Mrs. Jerniman. Are these people friends of yours, Mr. Slowitt ? Joe (turning, sees Sarah). An' Sarah an' all! Nay, Sarah, Ah did think Sarah. It is thy fault Joe. Joe. Aw, aye ? . . . It's my brother Mattha an' his wife, Mrs. Jerniman. They should ha' come to our house to tea, but what they're doin' here is more nor I can ted ye. Matthew. Ah'm reyt sorry to put ye abaht like this, ma'am, but Scrutox (coming forward, and producing a note- book). Before you begin, my man . . . anything you say may be used in evidence against you. Matthew (sullen). All reyt. Ah'll say nowt. Sarah. Mattha, tha hesn't a bit o' sense. Joe. By gow, Sarah, it's ta'en tha a time to finnd that aht. Ah could ha' telled tha that twenty year sin'. Sarah. Well, it is your fault Joe. He directed us wrong, ma'am Joe. Ah directed ye wrong ? What does ta meean, Sarah ? (Mr. Scrutox has been standing awkwardly, note-book in hand. Mrs. Jerniman, during this conversation beckons to him. She whispers something, there is the chink of a coin, and he goes out.) Sarah. Yes, ye said number 73. This is 73, isn't it ? Mr. Jerniman (waking up). He's forgot the number. Losh people do. There'sh a song about it. 32 THE UPSTROKE. (Turning to Joe, gravely.) Slowitt, you should do like me — have a meenomonic-ek. Mrs. Jerniman. Joseph ! Mr. Jerniman. 'Sh all right, Maria. 'Sh a good thing. Mrs. Jerniman. Joseph, be silent. Mr. Jerniman. Slowitt, I appeal t' you, as man to man, ish this proper way to treat a fellow ? 'Sh disgraceful. Joe {with a knowing glance round). Out with it lad. Let's have your nimmonic, or whatever ye call it. Mr. Jerniman. 'Sh this way. I'm thirty-seven, house is seventy-three. Just turn it round. Joe. It 'ud be no good to me, lad. Mine's thir- teen, an' ah shall never see thirty-one again, more's t' pity. Mr. Jerniman. Thirteen's unlucky. Matthew. It is an' all. Ah niver believed i' that afore, but ah do nah. Mrs. Jerniman. But I don't understand Matthew. Well, wi' him sendin' us to 73 Joe. Who ? Me ? Ah niver did. Matthew. Tha did, an' ah '11 prove it. Joe. Tha'll have a job. Mrs. Jerniman. But how did you (She finds the question awkward to put, and merely indicates the ham and cake, with a nod and a wave of the hand.) Sarah. Well ye see, Mrs. Jerlymum, we should ha' come i' t' afternoon, an' if we had, as ah telled Mattha, this wouldn't ha' happened. But ye knaw what men is, he would be contrary, an' he went to t' football match Joe (to Matthew). Tha went to t' match ? That's one to me. T' wife wanted me to stop at home, 'cos ye wor comin' to yer tea, an' ah telled her ah'd bring ye back wi' me. Ah lewkt aht for ye an' all, but ah couldn't spot ye. Mrs. Jerniman (to Joe, smiling). I'm not getting any nearer to an explanation, Mr. Slowitt. . . . THE UPSTROKE. 33 Emma, run down in the cellar, and fetch a bottle of the rhubarb wine. (Emma goes.) You'll have a glass of wine, Mrs. Slowitt ? It's my own make. I'm sure you must be quite upset. Sarah (rather overcome). Thank you, it's verv kind of ve, Mrs. Jermymum, but happen ye won't feel t' same when ye've seen yon cellar. Ther's a winda broken wheer we tried to get aht an' couldn't, for t' grate bein' soddered up, an' a big bottle o' scahrin' likker Matthew. Do hod thv din, Sarah. We'll make owt good 'at we've damaged. Mrs. Terniman. I daresay it isn't very serious, but I don't understand Matthew. Ye see ma'am it wor this way. We didn't ha much of a tea wi' bein' i' such a hurrv to get off, an* we got to t' wrong hahse, an' fun' a locked door Mr. Terniman. It wash wrong door "Resh- pectable peonle don't come to cellar door. Vishtors front, tradesh — (He meets his wife's eye.) 'Sh all right, Maria. Mrs. Tfrniman. Go on, Mr. Slowitt. Matthew. Well, she hasn't been so well for a bit, hasn't t' wife here, an' what wi' comin' fower mile o' t' tram — ye see we live right at t'other end o' t' tahn (Dvr ; ng Matthew's speech, sounds of sneezing from t l e cellar have increased in volume. At this point Emma comes in, set* the candle and a bottle of wine on the foor, and holds her apron to her face.) Emma. It's that — atisha — ammonia — atisha. . . T cellar's full of it. Matthew. Ah'm reyt sorry, lass. Ah knocked t' bottle over when ah wor tryin' to get aht o' t' winda. 34 THE UPSTROKE. an' it started rollin' off t* sink, an' ah collared hod on it, an' ah slipped an' fell wi' my head a?ean t' mangle. Joe. Ah'll be bahnd for tha. If ther is a clumsy way o' doin' owt, tha'll find it. Matthew. 'Na, Joa, thee shut up wol ah've done, an' ah'll leave it to them 'at 's here to say who's fault it is. As ah wor sayin' mum, t' wife wor that upset she wanted to sit dahn a bit, an' t' winda wor oppen at t' top, an' ah thowt ther'd be nowt wrong — niver dreamin' but what it wor Joa's hahse, an' them slipped aht for a bit o' shdppin' or summat o' that —if we just got in an' sat us dahn wol they come back. An' then ther wor t' kettle o'' t' hob>. an' she wor faint an' ah wor peckish Joe. Tha wor niver owt else sin' ah've knawn tha. Mrs. Jerniman. But how did you get into the cellar, Mr. Slowitt ? Matthew (sheepishly). It wor a bit of a joak. Ah thowt we'd ha' Joa on, an' make him think ther wor burglars i' t' hahse. Joe. Aye, it wor a bright idea o' thine, wor that. Tha'll try that on agean, ah sud think. Matthew (pulling out letter). Na, Joa, tha's had a deeal to say, just thee look here. Is that thy writin' ? Joe. It looks like it. Mathew. What number does ta call that at t' top? Joe. Thirteen, what does tha call it ? Matthew. Thirteen ! Thirteen ! (Holding the letter up for general inspection). He calls that thir- teen ! What's that theer mark at t' front o' t' one for, then ? Joe. Wha, tha cawfheead, it's nobbud t' upstroke. Matthew. He calls that a supstroke ! Joe (with his hand on Matthew's shoulder). Niver heed, lad. Ah'll give in to thee i' upstrokes. This here job is t' upstroke of all. Tha's getten a upstroke o' that e'e o' thine, 'at beats owt ah iver did. Come on dahn to number thirteen, wi' tha, thee THE UPSTROKE. 30 an' Sarah, an' we'll see if we can't fettle ye up a bit an' tha can lig t' blame o' me if tha likes. * Matthew (as Sarah (staking leave of Mrs Jerni- man). T upstroke, begow I T upstroke ! (Curtain. L:. . Printed by Butler & Tanner, Fronc ani London LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 709 360 3 •