[In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm!
[UNDERWOOD goes out.]
SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils!
WILDER. It's their own fault, Scantlebury.
EDGAR. [Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them, according to the Trenartha News.
WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views. They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought to be shot.
EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing amongst their work-people during this strike"
WILDER. Well, we have come.
EDGAR. [Continuing.] "We cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton hearts would remain untouched."
[WANKLIN takes the paper from him.]
WILDER. Ruffian! I remember that fellow when he hadn't a penny to his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself.
[ANTHONY says something that is not heard.]
WILDER. What does your father say?
EDGAR. He says "The kettle and the pot."
WILDER. H'm!
[He sits down next to SCANTLEBURY.]
SCANTLEBURY. [Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don't get that screen.
[UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before the fire. ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is twenty-eight years old.]
ENID. Put it closer, Frank. Will that do, Mr. Wilder? It's the highest we've got.
WILDER. Thanks, capitally.
SCANTLEBURY. [Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah! Merci, Madame!
ENID. Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his head.] Edgar—anything?
EDGAR. You might give me a "J" nib, old girl.
ENID. There are some down there by Mr. Scantlebury.
SCANTLEBURY. [Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses "J's." What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.] What does your husband use, Mrs. Underwood?
UNDERWOOD. A quill!
SCANTLEBURY.
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