s?

LEMMY. In one word: "Kindness." Daon't mistyke me, nao sickly
sentiment and nao patronizin'. Me as kind to the millionaire as 'im
to me. [Fills his mug and drinks.]

PRESS. [Struck] That's queer! Kindness! [Writing] "Extremes
meet. Bombed and bomber breathing the same music."

LEMMY. But 'ere's the interestin' pynt. Can it be done wivaht
blood?

PRESS. [Writing] "He doubts."

LEMMY. No dabt wotever. It cawn't! Blood-and-kindness! Spill the
blood o' them that aren't kind--an' there ye are!

PRESS. But pardon me, how are you to tell?

LEMMY. Blimy, they leaps to the heye!

PRESS. [Laying down-his note-book] I say, let me talk to you as man
to man for a moment.

LEMMY. Orl right. Give it a rest!

PRESS. Your sentiments are familiar to me. I've got a friend on the
Press who's very keen on Christ and kindness; and wants to strangle
the last king with the--hamstrings of the last priest.

LEMMY. [Greatly intrigued] Not 'arf! Does 'e?

PRESS. Yes. But have you thought it out? Because he hasn't.

LEMMY. The difficulty is--where to stop.

PRESS. Where to begin.

LEMMY. Lawd! I could begin almost anywhere. Why, every month
abaht, there's a cove turns me aht of a job 'cos I daon't do just wot
'e likes. They'd 'ave to go. I tell yer stryte--the Temple wants
cleanin' up.

PRESS. Ye-es. If I wrote what I thought, I should get the sack as
quick as you. D'you say that justifies me in shedding the blood of
my boss?

LEMMY. The yaller Press 'as got no blood--'as it? You shed their
ile an' vinegar--that's wot you've got to do. Stryte--do yer believe
in the noble mission o' the Press?

PRESS. [Enigmatically] Mr. Lemmy, I'm a Pressman.

LEMMY. [Goggling] I see. Not much! [Gently jogging his mother's
elbow] Wyke up, old lydy!

[For Mrs. LEMMY who has been sipping placidly at her port, is
nodding. The evening has drawn in. LEMMY strikes a match on
his trousers and lights a candle.]

Blood an' kindness-that's what's wanted--'specially blood! The
'istory o' me an' my family'll show yer that. Tyke my bruver Fred
--crushed by burycrats. Tyke Muvver 'erself. Talk o' the wrongs o'
the people! I tell yer the foundytions is rotten. [He empties the
bottle into his mother's mug] Daon't mind the mud at the bottom, old
lydy--it's all strengthenin'! You tell the Press, Muvver. She can
talk abaht the pawst.

PRESS. [Taking up his note-book, and