When trade is bad--and it's rotten bad just now--and the
employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me.
THE WOMAN. What's your name?
THE MAN. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usually called Snobby
Price, for short.
THE WOMAN. Snobby's a carpenter, ain't it? You said you was a
painter.
PRICE. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too
uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist
and a reading, thinking man: a stationer, too. I'm none of your
common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and don't you forget
it. [He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug].
Wots YOUR name?
THE WOMAN. Rummy Mitchens, sir.
PRICE [quaffing the remains of his milk to her] Your elth, Miss
Mitchens.
RUMMY [correcting him] Missis Mitchens.
PRICE. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman, Rummy,
gittin rescued by the Salvation Army by pretendin to be a bad un.
Same old game!
RUMMY. What am I to do? I can't starve. Them Salvation lasses is
dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to
think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldn't they av a
bit o credit, poor loves? They're worn to rags by their work. And
where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on
we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and
gentlemen are.
PRICE. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job, Rummy, all the same.
Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name props?
RUMMY. Short for Romola.
PRICE. For wot!?
RUMMY. Romola. It was out of a new book. Somebody me mother
wanted me to grow up like.
PRICE. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got
names that nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and
you're Rummy because Bill and Sally wasn't good enough for our
parents. Such is life!
RUMMY. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara?
PRICE. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre
O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll
tell em how I blasphemed and gambled and wopped my poor old
mother--
RUMMY [shocked] Used you to beat your mother?
PRICE. Not likely. She used to beat me. No matter: you come and
listen to the converted painter, and you'll hear how she was a
pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used
to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs,
an lam into er with the poker.
RUMMY. That's what's so unfair to us women. Your confessions
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