Twill. Ha, ha! By the powers o’ war, when you get them on your back, sir, you’ll be like Mulligan’s dog, your own father wouldn’t know you.
Widgetts carries the coat and waistcoat into his bed-room, R., Twill is going towards door, L., when MARY WHITE, the laundress, enters, carrying a basket of clothes under her arm.
Mary. Here, Twill, take my basket, good chap. Is master at home?
Twill. (Takes basket.) Yes, he is at home. (Aside.) Take my basket, good chap. Well, there’s no bearing the impudence of the lower orders. (Sets down basket, R., and calls at door, R.) Please, sir, here’s the laundress come for your clothes. (Crosses to door, L. Aside.) Good chap!
[Exit, R.
Wid. (entering, R., aside.) She always comes at an awkward crisis. (Mary takes off her shawl and sits, L.) Mary, my dear, you’re rather late this evening.
Mary. Oh dear, yes! I’ve been half over the town for my customers’ washing, and I’m almost tired to death, but I left yours for last, that we might have a comfortable chat together. Stop a minute though till I take off my clogs.
[She goes into the kitchen passing through the folding-doors.
Wid. (Apart.) The poor creature loves me to distraction, but she’s painfully familiar; she forgets that our positions are materially altered since I was a journeyman tailor in a two pair back, struggling to make love and trousers for the small remuneration of fifteen shillings a week. Mary White is an uncommon nice girl—as a laundress, but my sentiments is changed respecting her as a wife.
MARY WHITE re-enters and comes down, L.