JONES. We keep body an' soul together and that's the limit.
(Enter R. Job Alcott, another workman, quite roughly dressed and apparently of the most poorly paid class. He looks ill.)
ALCOTT. Good evening.
LIVESEY. Tha doesn't look so rosy to-neeght, lad. What's oop wi' thee?
ALCOTT (wearily, hanging his cap up, then sitting in chair R. by table). Oh, th' usual thing. You all know. Can't relish my food an' yeadache an' faint feelin'. Rum taste in my mouth, an' all.
LIVESEY. Aye. We all know that taste.
PULLEN. Beer's th' stuff to wash it out o' your mouth. (Crosses to fire and sits R. of it.)
ALCOTT. A saw doctor last neeght.
JONES. Aye. What's 'e say?
ALCOTT (bitterly). Tould me A'd no chance if A went on 'ere. Get soom fresh air for a month or two, 'e says. Get away out o' this into country, 'e says. Country! Likely isn't it? A'm a labourer. Ask off for a month, supposin' A'd got th' brass to keep me which A've not, an' A'll get sack sharp. They've only to send to the next big town an' a thousand poor chaps as is out o' collar 'ull coom trampin' out after my bloomin' eighteen bob a week an' be damned glad to get it an' all.