TENNANT comes in and looks round. CHARLEY comes to the window with a spade.
TENNANT. You—er—busy?
CHAR. [lighting his pipe.] Um! Want a job? There’s a nice little lot of squirming devils under that flower-pot that want killing. Take your time over it.
TENNANT. Thanks. My fancy doesn’t lie in gardening.
CHAR. Filthy soil, this.
TENNANT. Mrs. Wilson would like to keep chickens.
CHAR. Not if I know it! I’d rather go into a flat. [Leaning against the door and smoking thoughtfully.] I could chuck the lot sometimes. These two-penny-halfpenny back yards make me sick.
Pause.
I’d give something for a piece of good land. Something to pay you for your labour. [Rousing.] Well—going out?
TENNANT. [uneasily.] Yes—presently.