MARY. Well, she'd like to have it, of course—they're so dreadfully poor themselves—but she says she won't turn us out. And I'm going to-morrow to her daughter's upstairs—she makes matchboxes, you know—and I don't see why I shouldn't try—I could earn nearly a shilling a day.
JOE. A shilling a day! Princely! [His pipe goes out. He takes a last puff at it, squints into it to make sure all the tobacco is gone, then lays it down with a sigh.] I reckon I'll try making 'em too. I went to the Vestry again, this morning, to see whether they'd take me as sweeper—but they've thirty names down, ahead of me. I've tried chopping wood, but I can't—I begin to cough the third stroke—there's something wrong with me inside, somewhere. I've tried every Institution on God's earth—and there are others before me, and there is no vacancy, and I mustn't beg, and I mustn't worry the gentlemen. A shilling a day—can one earn as much as that! Why, Mary, that will be fourteen shillings a week—an income! We'll do it!
MARY. It's not quite a shilling, Joe—you have to find your own paste and odds and ends. And of course it takes a few weeks to learn, before you begin to make any money.
JOE. [Crestfallen.] Does it though? And what are we going to do, those few weeks? I thought there was a catch in it, somewhere. [He gets up and stretches himself.] Well, here's a free-born Englishman, able to conduct correspondence in three languages, bookkeeping by double entry, twelve years' experience—and all he's allowed to do is to starve. [He stretches himself again.]
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations—
[With sudden passion.] God! I wish I were a Zulu!
MARY. [Edging to him.] Joe—
JOE. [Turning.] Well?
MARY. Joe, Joe, we've tried very hard, haven't we?
JOE. Tried! Is there a job in this world we'd refuse? Is there anything we'd turn up our nose at? Is there any chance we've neglected?