LIVESEY. What's to do?
PULLEN. A dunno. Thowt o' that champagne, A reckon.
(Enter R. Mrs. Jones—a slight careworn woman of about thirty with pinched features and wears clogs, and a drab cloth skirt, blouse and a shawl over her head, all well worn. She crosses quickly to Jones shakes his should, violently, speaking in a shrill voice.)
MRS. JONES. Thee coom whoam, Bob Jones. Coom 'ome, A tell thee.
ALCOTT. Eh! missus, what's to do? Mrs Jones (turning on him). Thee shut tha ugly mug, and don't put thy spoke in atween man an wife. (To Jones.) Now then, art coomin.
JONES. What's oop wi' thee, lass?
MRS. JONES. Tha knows. A tould thee A'd coom an' fetch thee whoam if tha dared to shove tha nose in at meetin'. Strike indeed, tha great leatherhead! Wait till A get thee to whoam. A'll give thee strike.
LIVESEY. Leave 'im be, missus. Tha don't know what tha's talkin' about.
MRS. JONES. Don't A, ma lad? (Her arms go akimbo.) Maybe A knows more than the lot o' you put together. Ma faither were on strike onct when A were nobbut a young wench. A knows what strikes means. Strikes means clemmin', and ma childer shallna clem as A'd to clem then if A can 'elp it. Now, then, ar't coomin'?
JONES (rising). Leave be. This 'ere's not wimmen's business.