Mrs. Atkins: The H’ante-suffragette? Why, ’ee told me it was the Pankhurst and—
Mr. Wilson [looks surprised]: Why, Jack, however could you make such a mistake as that? The Pankhurst is a different shoe, altogether. Only dowdy people wear them. I wouldn’t think of trying to sell that shoe to you, Mrs. Atkins. But you’ll have to make allowance for my son, here. You see, this is his first day in selling and he really doesn’t know one style from the other. But he’ll soon learn.
Jack [aside as he tidies up the tables]: Not in a thousand years, believe me!
Mrs. Atkins: I ’ope so, but ’ee doesn’t look any too bright, Mr. Wilson. [Jack shakes fist in her direction.]
Mr. Wilson: Everyone says he takes after his mother. [Holds up boot.] Now, this is the very latest thing we have, worn by all the fashionable and sensible ladies who are against this tomfoolery of women voting and entering into politics. It does nothing but break up homes and—and—would you like to try it on?
Mrs. Atkins [hurriedly]: Oh no, I’m sure it’s the right size by the looks of it. [Aside.] I wouldn’t for h’anything let him see the ’ole where my big toe ’as worked through my stocking. [Aloud.] I’ll tike them, Mr. Wilson if they’re not too expenses.
Mr. Wilson: The price is ten dollars and forty-five cents, but I’m only charging you ten-forty on account of the trouble you have had with my son. [Wraps boots up.]
Mrs. Atkins: H’all right, Mr. Wilson, Atkins will be in to piy for them Saturday night when ’ee gits his week’s wages. [Takes parcel.] Good h’afternoon, sir. [Turns towards Jack.] And to you too, sir. I ain’t ’olding any ’ard feelings agin you. You didn’t know any better. [Exit.]
Jack [wildly rumples hair as he strides back and forth]: Good heavens, this is awful. [Stops in front of Mr. Wilson.] Do you see any change in my hair, dad?
Mr. Wilson: No, why?