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