LIVESEY. Shame!
JONES. It's a cryin' shame. Why, look at me wi' eighteen bob a week same as him, an' the mouths A've got to fill. Ma missus as 'ad eleven of 'em in 'er time. A were wed at eighteen, A were.
PULLEN (quarrelsomely). Tha's never got eleven childer. Don't try to kid me.
JONES. Not livin', A haven't. Some of 'em's dead—thank God.
LIVESEY. Coom, draw it mild, lad. Yon's blasphemy.
JONES (sullenly). No, 'tisn't, neither. A do thank God for it. Poor little beggars, they're better dead nor alive an' starvin' wi' th' rest. A man can pull his belt oop a hole an' suck a pebble if he's hunger-mad. Th' kids can't do that.
LIVESEY. They wouldn't need if tha'd keep off the booze.
JONES (fiercely). A don't drink. A don't like beer. It turns my'stomach. (Up stage round R.)
PULLEN (rising disgustedly and walking away as if from a portent). Call thasel' a mon and don't like beer? (He turns to light his pipe at a gas, but fails to get it through the wire, mutters "Blast," and takes a match out and lights up.)
LIVESEY. Then what dost take It for.