Enter Mrs. O’Brien, loaded up with bundles.
Mrs. O’Brien [drops bundles on table and mops brow]: The saints presarve us, it is a hot day and it’s the loikes of me that knows it, bendin’ over the washboard ivery day of me loife, ceptin’ the blissed howly-day, doin’ other folk’s worruk while they dressin silks and satin. Shure and Oim afther thinking things ain’t avenly divided in this worruld, they ain’t. [Fans herself with hat.]
Jack [aside]: She’s a living eight-day clock. [Aloud.] They sure aren’t, Mrs. O’Brien, I agree with you there.
Mrs. O’Brien: And be yez a socialist loike meself?
Jack: Sure thing. I’ve never been anything else.
Mrs. O’Brien: Then yez belave the rich should share with the downtrodden poor?
Jack [aside]: Rule 4. Always agree, etc. [Aloud.] Certainly they should share and share alike I say.
Mrs. O’Brien [Throws arms around him.]: Shure and yez is a bohy afther me own heart. [Jack frees himself.] It be a pity that yer father ain’t afther belavin’ the same as yez. But he’s a harrud skin-flit, he is and Oi’m only afther hopin’ that yez don’t be takin’ afther him.
Jack [goes to door L and says aside]: Get that dad? The shoe’s on the other foot now. [Aloud.] I don’t. He was just telling a customer a few minutes ago that I wasn’t the least bit like him. And what can I sell you today? [As Mrs. O’Brien talks, he gets behind her and pretends to wind her up.]