HOBSON'S CHOICE
A Lancashire Comedy in Four Acts
By Harold Brighouse
Hobson's Choice was originally produced in America. Its first English production took place on June 22, 1916, at the Apollo Theatre, London, with the following cast:
ALICE HOBSON . . . . . . . . Miss Lydia Bilbrooke.
MAGGIE HOBSON . . . . . . . . Miss Edyth Goodall.
VICKEY HOBSON . . . . . . . . Miss Hilda Davies.
ALBERT PROSSER . . . . . . . . Mr. Reginald Fry.
HENRY HORATIO HOBSON . . . . . . Mr. Norman McKinnel.
MRS. HEPWORTH . . . . . . . . Miss Dora Gregory.
TIMOTHY WADLOW (TUBBY). . . . . . Mr. Sydney Paxton.
WILLIAM MOSSOP . . . . . . . . Mr. Joe Nightingale.
JIM HEELER . . . . . . . . . Mr. J. Cooke Beresford.
ADA FIGGINS . . . . . . . . . Miss Mary Byron.
FRED BEENSTOCK . . . . . . . . Mr. Jefferson Gore.
DR. MACFARLANE . . . . . . . . Mr. J. Fisher White.
The play produced by MR. NORMAN McKINNEL.
The SCENE is Salford, Lancashire, and the period is 1880.
ACT I. Interior of HOBSON'S Shop in Chapel Street.
ACT II. The same scene.
ACT III. WILL MOSSOP'S Shop.
ACT IV. Living-room of HOBSON'S Shop.
CONTENTS
PUBLISHER'S NOTE.
Acknowledgements are made to Mr. William Armstrong, Director of the Liverpool Repertory Company, for allowing his prompt copy to be used in preparing this acting edition.
{Illustration} Red Walls, Brown oaken dado. T. gas bracket over counter. Turkey red curtains half up window. No carpet. Small rug at door R. Shoes on counter and showcases. Hanging laces. Advertisements. Boot polishes. Brushes. Brown paper on counter. Clogs in rows under shelves R. C. Black cane furniture and rush-bottomed. Heavy leather armchair. Piece of rough leather on shelves.
The trap is eminently desirable. However, should the stage used have no trap, the work-room may be supposed to be off-stage, with a door up Right.
HOBSON'S CHOICE
ACT I
The SCENE represents the interior of HOBSON'S Boot Shop in Chapel Street, Bedford. The shop windows and entrance from street occupy the left side. Facing the audience is the counter, with exhibits of boots and slippers, behind which the wall is fitted with racks containing boot boxes. Cane chairs in front of counter. There is a desk down L. with a chair. A door R. leads up to the house. In the centre of the stage is a trap leading to the cellar where work is done. There are no elaborate fittings. Gas brackets in the windows and walls. The business is prosperous, but to prosper in Salford in 1880 you did not require the elaborate accessories of a later day. A very important customer goes for fitting into HOBSON'S sitting-room. The rank and file use the cane chairs in the shop, which is dingy but business-like. The windows exhibit little stock, and amongst what there is clogs figure prominently. Through the windows comes the bright light of noon.
Sitting behind the counter are HOBSON'S two younger daughters, ALICE, R., who is twenty-three, and VICTORIA, L., who is twenty-one, and very pretty. ALICE is knitting and VICTORIA is reading. They are in black, with neat black aprons. The door R. opens, and MAGGIE enters. She is HOBSON'S eldest daughter, thirty.
ALICE. Oh, it's you. I hoped it was father going out.
MAGGIE. It isn't. (She crosses and takes her place at desk L.)
ALICE. He is late this morning.
MAGGIE. He got up late. (She busies herself with an account book.)
VICKEY. (reading). Has he had breakfast yet, Maggie?
MAGGIE. Breakfast! With a Masons' meeting last night!
VICKEY. He'll need reviving.
ALICE. Then I wish he'd go and do it.
VICKEY. Are you expecting anyone, Alice?
ALICE. Yes, I am, and you know I am, and I'll thank you both to go when he comes.
VICKEY. Well, I'll oblige you, Alice, if father's gone out first, only you know I can't leave the counter till he goes.
(ALBERT PROSSER enters from the street. He is twenty-six, nicely dressed, as the son of an established solicitor would be. He crosses to R. and raises his hat to ALICE.)
ALBERT. Good morning, Miss Alice.
ALICE. Good morning, Mr. Prosser. (She leans across counter.) Father's not gone out yet. He's late.
ALBERT. Oh! (He turns to go, and is half-way to door, when MAGGIE rises.)
MAGGIE (coming C.). What can we do for you, Mr. Prosser?
ALBERT (stopping). Well, I can't say that I came in to buy anything, Miss Hobson.
MAGGIE. This is a shop, you know. We're not here to let people go out without buying.
ALBERT. Well, I'll just have a pair of bootlaces, please. (Moves slightly to R.)
MAGGIE. What size do you take in boots?
ALBERT. Eights. I've got small feet. (He simpers, then perceives that MAGGIE is by no means smiling.) Does that matter to the laces?
MAGGIE (putting mat in front of arm-chair R. C.) It matters to the boots. (She pushes him slightly.) Sit down, Mr. Prosser.
ALBERT (sitting in arm-chair R. C.) Yes, but—
(MAGGIE is on her knees and takes off his boot.)
MAGGIE. It's time you had a new pair. These uppers are disgraceful for a professional man to wear. Number eights from the third rack, Vickey, please.
ALICE (moving down a little). Mr. Prosser didn't come in to buy boots, Maggie.
(VICKEY comes down to MAGGIE with box which she opens.)
MAGGIE. I wonder what does bring him in here so often!
(ALICE moves back to behind counter.)
ALBERT. I'm terrible hard on bootlaces, Miss Hobson.
(MAGGIE puts a new boot on him and laces it.)
MAGGIE. Do you get through a pair a day? You must be strong.
ALBERT. I keep a little stock of them. It's as well to be prepared for accidents.
MAGGIE. And now you'll have boots to go with the laces, Mr. Prosser. How does that feel?
ALBERT. Very comfortable.
MAGGIE. Try it standing up.
ALBERT (trying and walking a few steps). Yes, that fits all right.
MAGGIE. I'll put the other on.
ALBERT. Oh no, I really don't want to buy them.
MAGGIE (pushing him). Sit down, Mr. Prosser. You can't go through the streets in odd boots.
(ALICE comes down again.)
ALBERT. What's the price of these?
MAGGIE. A pound.
ALBERT. A pound! I say—
MAGGIE. They're good boots, and you don't need to buy a pair of laces to-day, because we give them in as discount. (VICKEY goes back to counter.) Braid laces, that is. Of course, if you want leather ones, you being so strong in the arm and breaking so many pairs, you can have them, only it's tuppence more.
ALBERT. These—these will do.
MAGGIE. Very well, you'd better have the old pair mended and I'll send them home to you with the bill. (She has laced the second boot, rises, and moves towards desk L., throwing the boot box at VICKEY, who gives a little scream at the interruption of her reading. ALBERT gasps.)
ALBERT. Well, if anyone had told me I was coming in here to spend a pound I'd have called him crazy.
MAGGIE. It's not wasted. Those boots will last. Good morning, Mr. Prosser. (She holds door open.)
ALBERT. Good morning. (He looks blankly at ALICE and goes out.)
ALICE. Maggie, we know you're a pushing sales-woman, but—
MAGGIE (returning to R. she picks up old boots and puts them on rack up R.). It'll teach him to keep out of here a bit. He's too much time on his hands.
ALICE. You know why he comes.
MAGGIE. I know it's time he paid a rent for coming. A pair of laces a day's not half enough. Coming here to make sheep's eyes at you. I'm sick of the sight of him. (Crosses in front of counter to L.)
ALICE. It's all very well for an old maid like you to talk, but if father won't have us go courting, where else can Albert meet me except here when father's out?
MAGGIE. If he wants to marry you why doesn't he do it?
ALICE. Courting must come first.
MAGGIE. It needn't. (She picks up a slipper on desk L.). See that slipper with a fancy buckle on to make it pretty? Courting's like that, my lass. All glitter and no use to nobody. (She replaces slipper and sits at her desk.)
(HENRY HORATIO HOBSON enters from the house. He is fifty-five, successful, coarse, florid, and a parent of the period. His hat is on. It is one of those felt hats which are half-way to tall hats in shape. He has a heavy gold chain and masonic emblems on it. His clothes are bought to wear.)
HOBSON. Maggie, I'm just going out for a quarter of an hour. (Moves over to doors L.)
MAGGIE. Yes, father. Don't be late for dinner. There's liver.
HOBSON. It's an hour off dinner-time. (Going.)
MAGGIE. So that, if you stay more than an hour in the Moonraker's Inn, you'll be late for it.
HOBSON. "Moonraker's?" Who said—? (Turning.)
VICKEY. If your dinner's ruined, it'll be your own fault.
HOBSON. Well, I'll be eternally—
ALICE. Don't swear, father.
HOBSON (putting hat on counter). No. I'll sit down instead. (He moves to R. C. and sits in arm-chair R. C. facing them.) Listen to me, you three. I've come to conclusions about you. And I won't have it. Do you hear that? Interfering with my goings out and comings in. The idea! I've a mind to take measures with the lot of you.
MAGGIE. I expect Mr. Heeler's waiting for you in "Moonraker's," father.
HOBSON. He can go on waiting. At present, I'm addressing a few remarks to the rebellious females of this house, and what I say will be listened to and heeded. I've noticed it coming on ever since your mother died. There's been a gradual increase of uppishness towards me.
VICKEY. Father, you'd have more time to talk after we've closed to-night. (She is anxious to resume her reading.)
HOBSON. I'm talking now, and you're listening. Providence has decreed that you should lack a mother's hand at the time when single girls grow bumptious and must have somebody to rule. But I'll tell you this, you'll none rule me.
VICKEY. I'm sure I'm not bumptious, father.
HOBSON. Yes, you are. You're pretty, but you're bumptious, and I hate bumptiousness like I hate a lawyer.
ALICE. If we take trouble to feed you it's not bumptious to ask you not to be late for your food.
VICKEY. Give and take, father.
HOBSON. I give and you take, and it's going to end.
MAGGIE. How much a week do you give us?
HOBSON. That's neither here nor there. (Rises and moves to doors L.) At moment I'm on uppishness, and I'm warning you your conduct towards your parent's got to change. (Turns to the counter.) But that's not all. That's private conduct, and now I pass to broader aspects and I speak of public conduct. I've looked upon my household as they go about the streets, and I've been disgusted. The fair name and fame of Hobson have been outraged by members of Hobson's family, and uppishness has done it.
VICKEY. I don't know what you're talking about.
HOBSON. Vickey, you're pretty, but you can lie like a gas-meter. Who had new dresses on last week?
ALICE. I suppose you mean Vickey and me!
HOBSON. I do.
VICKEY. We shall dress as we like, father, and you can save your breath.
HOBSON. I'm not stopping in from my business appointment for the purpose of saving my breath.
VICKEY. You like to see me in nice clothes.
HOBSON. I do. I like to see my daughters nice. (Crosses R.) That's why I pay Mr. Tudsbury, the draper, 10 pounds a year a head to dress you proper. It pleases the eye and it's good for trade. But, I'll tell you, if some women could see themselves as men see them, they'd have a shock, and I'll have words with Tudsbury an' all, for letting you dress up like guys. (Moves L.) I saw you and Alice out of the "Moonraker's" parlour on Thursday night and my friend Sam Minns—(Turns.)
ALICE. A publican.
HOBSON. Aye, a publican. As honest a man as God Almighty ever set behind a bar, my ladies. My friend, Sam Minns, asked me who you were. And well he might. You were going down Chapel Street with a hump added to nature behind you.
VICKEY (scandalized). Father!
HOBSON. The hump was wagging, and you put your feet on pavement as if you'd got chilblains—aye, stiff neck above and weak knees below. It's immodest!
ALICE. It is not immodest, father. It's the fashion to wear bustles.
HOBSON. Then to hell with the fashion.
MAGGIE. Father, you are not in the "Moonraker's" now.
VICKEY. You should open your eyes to what other ladies wear. (Rises.)
HOBSON. If what I saw on you is any guide, I should do nowt of kind. I'm a decent-minded man. I'm Hobson. I'm British middle class and proud of it. I stand for common sense and sincerity. You're affected, which is bad sense and insincerity. You've overstepped nice dressing and you've tried grand dressing—(VICKEY sits)—which is the occupation of fools and such as have no brains. You forget the majesty of trade and the unparalleled virtues of the British Constitution which are all based on the sanity of the middle classes, combined with the diligence of the working-classes. You're losing balance, and you're putting the things which don't matter in front of the things which do, and if you mean to be a factor in the world in Lancashire or a factor in the house of Hobson, you'll become sane.
VICKEY. Do you want us to dress like mill girls?
HOBSON. No. Nor like French Madams, neither. It's un-English, I say.
ALICE. We shall continue to dress fashionably, father.
HOBSON. Then I've a choice for you two. Vickey, you I'm talking to, and Alice. You'll become sane if you're going on living here. You'll control this uppishness that's growing on you. And if you don't, you'll get out of this, and exercise your gifts on some one else than me. You don't know when you're well off. But you'll learn it when I'm done with you. I'll choose a pair of husbands for you, my girls. That's what I'll do.
ALICE. Can't we choose husbands for ourselves?
HOBSON. I've been telling you for the last five minutes you're not even fit to choose dresses for yourselves.
MAGGIE. You're talking a lot to Vickey and Alice, father. Where do I come in?
HOBSON. You? (Turning on her, astonished.)
MAGGIE. If you're dealing husbands round, don't I get one?
HOBSON. Well, that's a good one! (Laughs.) You with a husband! (Down in front of desk.)
MAGGIE. Why not?
HOBSON. Why not? I thought you'd sense enough to know. But if you want the brutal truth, you're past the marrying age. You're a proper old maid, Maggie, if ever there was one.
MAGGIE. I'm thirty.
HOBSON (facing her). Aye, thirty and shelved. Well, all the women can't get husbands. But you others, now. I've told you. I'll have less uppishness from you or else I'll shove you off my hands on to some other men. You can just choose which way you like. (He picks up hat and makes for door.)
MAGGIE. One o'clock dinner, father.
HOBSON. See here, Maggie,—(back again down to in front of desk)—I set the hours at this house. It's one o'clock dinner because I say it is, and not because you do.
MAGGIE. Yes, father.
HOBSON. So long as that's clear I'll go. (He is by door.) Oh no, I won't. Mrs. Hepworth's getting out of her carriage.
(He puts hat on counter again. MAGGIE rises and opens door. Enter MRS. HEPWORTH, an old lady with a curt manner and good clothes.)
Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. What a lovely day. (He crosses R. and places chair.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (sitting in arm-chair R. C.). Morning, Hobson. (She raises her skirt.) I've come about those boots you sent me home.
HOBSON (kneeling on MRS. HEPWORTH'S R., and fondling foot. MAGGIE is C.). Yes, Mrs. Hepworth. They look very nice.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Get up, Hobson. (He scrambles up, controlling his feelings.) You look ridiculous on the floor. Who made these boots?
HOBSON. We did. Our own make.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Will you answer a plain question? Who made these boots?
HOBSON. They were made on the premises.
MRS. HEPWORTH (to MAGGIE). Young woman, you seemed to have some sense when you served me. Can you answer me?
MAGGIE. I think so, but I'll make sure for you, Mrs. Hepworth. (She opens trap and calls.) Tubby!
HOBSON (down R.). You wish to see the identical workman, madam?
MRS. HEPWORTH. I said so.
HOBSON. I am responsible for all work turned out here.
MRS. HEPWORTH. I never said you weren't.
(TUBBY WADLOW comes up trap. A white-haired little man with thin legs and a paunch, in dingy clothes with no collar and a coloured cotton shirt. He has no coat on.)
TUBBY. Yes, Miss Maggie? (He stands half out of trap, not coming right up.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Man, did you make these boots? (She rises and advances one pace towards him.)
TUBBY. No, ma'am.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then who did? Am I to question every soul in the place before I find out? (Looking round.)
TUBBY. They're Willie's making, those.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then tell Willie I want him.
TUBBY. Certainly, ma'am. (He goes down trap and calls "Willie!")
MRS. HEPWORTH. Who's Willie?
HOBSON. Name of Mossop, madam. But if there is anything wrong I assure you I'm capable of making the man suffer for it. I'll—
(WILLIE MOSSOP comes up trap. He is a lanky fellow, about thirty, not naturally stupid but stunted mentally by a brutalized childhood. He is a raw material of a charming man, but, at present, it requires a very keen eye to detect his potentialities. His clothes are an even poorer edition of TUBBY'S. He comes half-way up trap.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (standing R. of trap). Are you Mossop?
WILLIE. Yes, mum.
MRS. HEPWORTH. You made these boots?
WILLIE (peering at them). Yes, I made them last week.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Take that.
(WILLIE, bending down, rather expects "that" to be a blow. Then he raises his head and finds she is holding out a visiting card. He takes it.)
See what's on it?
WILLIE (bending over the card). Writing?
MRS. HEPWORTH. Read it.
WILLIE. I'm trying. (His lips move as he tries to spell it out.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Bless the man. Can't you read?
WILLIE. I do a bit. Only it's such funny print.
MRS. HEPWORTH. It's the usual italics of a visiting card, my man. Now listen to me. I heard about this shop, and what I heard brought me here for these boots. I'm particular about what I put on my feet.
HOBSON (moving slightly towards her). I assure you it shall not occur again, Mrs. Hepworth.
MRS. HEPWORTH. What shan't?
HOBSON (crestfallen). I—I don't know.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then hold your tongue. Mossop, I've tried every shop in Manchester, and these are the best-made pair of boots I've ever had. Now, you'll make my boots in future. You hear that, Hobson?
(MAGGIE, down L. C., is taking it all in.)
HOBSON. Yes, madam, of course he shall.
MRS. HEPWORTH. You'll keep that card, Mossop, and you won't dare leave here to go to another shop without letting me know where you are.
HOBSON. Oh, he won't make a change.
MRS. HEPWORTH. How do you know? The man's a treasure, and I expect you underpay him.
HOBSON. That'll do, Willie. You can go.
WILLIE. Yes, sir.
(He dives down trap. MAGGIE closes it.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. He's like a rabbit.
MAGGIE. Can I take your order for another pair of boots, Mrs. Hepworth?
MRS. HEPWORTH. Not yet, young woman. But I shall send my daughters here. And, mind you, that man's to make the boots. (She crosses L.)
MAGGIE. (Up at doors and opening them.) Certainly, Mrs. Hepworth.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Good morning.
HOBSON. Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. Very glad to have the honour of serving you, madam. (Following her up.)
(She goes out.)
(Angry.) I wish some people would mind their own business. What does she want to praise a workman to his face for? (Moves down L. and then to C.)
MAGGIE. I suppose he deserved it.
HOBSON. Deserved be blowed! Making them uppish. That's what it is. Last time she puts her foot in my shop, I give you my word.
MAGGIE. Don't be silly, father.
HOBSON. I'll show her. Thinks she owns the earth because she lives at Hope Hall.
(Enter from street JIM HEELER, who is a grocer, and HOBSON'S boon companion.)
JIM (looking down street as he enters). That's a bit of a startler.
HOBSON (swinging round). Eh? Oh, morning, Jim.
JIM. You're doing a good class trade if the carriage folk come to you, Hobson. (Moves down L. C.)
HOBSON. What?
JIM. Wasn't that Mrs. Hepworth?
HOBSON. Oh yes. Mrs. Hepworth's an old and valued customer of mine.
JIM. It's funny you deal with Hope Hall and never mentioned it.
HOBSON. Why, I've made boots for her and all her circle for... how long, Maggie? Oh, I dunno.
JIM. You kept it dark. Well, aren't you coming round yonder? (Moving up L.)
HOBSON (reaching for his hat). Yes. That is, no.
JIM. Are you ill?
HOBSON. No. Get away, you girls. I'll look after the shop. I want to talk to Mr. Heeler.
JIM. Well, can't you talk in the "Moonraker's"!
(The girls go out R. to house, MAGGIE last.)
HOBSON. Yes, with Sam Minns, and Denton and Tudsbury there.
JIM. It's private, then. What's the trouble, Henry?
(HOBSON waves JIM into arm-chair R. C. and sits in front of counter.)
HOBSON. They're the trouble. (Indicates door to house.) Do your daughters worry you, Jim?
JIM. Nay,—(sits R. C.)—they mostly do as I bid them, and the missus does the leathering if they don't.
HOBSON. Ah, Jim, a wife's a handy thing, and you don't know it proper till she's taken from you. I felt grateful for the quiet when my Mary fell on rest, but I can see my mistake now. I used to think I was hard put to it to fend her off when she wanted summat out of me, but the dominion of one woman is Paradise to the dominion of three.
JIM. It sounds a sad case, Henry.
HOBSON. I'm a talkative man by nature, Jim. You know that.
JIM. You're an orator, Henry. I doubt John Bright himself is better gifted of the gab than you.
HOBSON. Nay, that's putting it a bit too strong. A good case needs no flattery.
JIM. Well, you're the best debater in the "Moonraker's" parlour.
HOBSON. And that's no more than truth. Yes, Jim, in the estimation of my fellow men, I give forth words of weight. In the eyes of my daughters I'm a windbag. (Rises and moves down L.).
JIM. Nay. Never!
HOBSON. I am. (Turns.) They scorn my wisdom, Jim. They answer back. I'm landed in a hole—a great and undignified hole. My own daughters have got the upper hand of me.
JIM. Women are worse than men for getting above themselves.
HOBSON. A woman's foolishness begins where man's leaves off.
JIM. They want a firm hand, Henry.
HOBSON. I've lifted up my voice and roared at them.
JIM. Beware of roaring at women, Henry. Roaring is mainly hollow sound. It's like trying to defeat an army with banging drums instead of cold steel. And it's steel in a man's character that subdues the women.
HOBSON. I've tried all ways, and I'm fair moithered. I dunno what to do. (Scratches his head.)
JIM. Then you quit roaring at 'em and get 'em wed. (Rises.)
HOBSON. I've thought of that. Trouble is to find the men.
JIM. Men's common enough. Are you looking for angels in breeches?
HOBSON. I'd like my daughters to wed temperance young men, Jim.
JIM. You keep your ambitions within reasonable limits, Henry. You've three daughters to find husbands for.
HOBSON. Two, Jim, two.
JIM. Two?
HOBSON. Vickey and Alice are mostly window dressing in the shop. But Maggie's too useful to part with. And she's a bit on the ripe side for marrying, is our Maggie.
JIM. I've seen 'em do it at double her age. Still, leaving her out, you've two.
HOBSON. One'll do for a start, Jim. (Crosses to R.) It's a thing I've noticed about wenches. Get one wedding in a family and it goes through the lot like measles. (Moves round chair to up R.)
JIM. Well, you want a man, and you want him temperance. It'll cost you a bit, you know. (Sits in chair below L. side of counter.)
HOBSON (going to him). Eh? Oh, I'll get my hand down for the wedding all right.
JIM. A warm man like you 'ull have to do more than that. There's things called settlements.
HOBSON. Settlements?
JIM. Aye. You've to bait your hook to catch fish, Henry.
HOBSON. Then I'll none go fishing. (Sits.)
JIM. But you said—
HOBSON. I've changed my mind. I'd a fancy for a bit of peace, but there's luxuries a man can buy too dear. Settlements indeed!
JIM. I had a man in mind.
HOBSON. You keep him there, Jim. I'll rub along and chance it. Settlements indeed!
JIM. You save their keep.
HOBSON. They work for that. And they're none of them big eaters.
JIM. And their wages.
HOBSON. Wages? Do you think I pay wages to my own daughters? (Rises and goes to desk L.) I'm not a fool.
JIM. Then it's all off? (Rises.)
HOBSON (turns). From the moment that you breathed the word "settlements" it was dead off, Jim. Let's go to the "Moonraker's" and forget there's such a thing as women in the world. (He takes up hat and rings bell on counter.) Shop! Shop!
(MAGGIE enters from R.)
I'm going out, Maggie.
MAGGIE (She remains by door). Dinner's at one, remember.
HOBSON. Dinner will be when I come in for it. I'm master here. (Moves to go.)
MAGGIE. Yes, father. One o'clock.
HOBSON (disgusted.) Come along, Jim.
(JIM and HOBSON go out to street. MAGGIE turns to speak inside R. door.) MAGGIE. Dinner at half-past one, girls. We'll give him half an hour. (She closes door, turns arm-chair facing C. and moves to trap, which she raises.) Willie, come here.
(In a moment WILLIE appears, and stops half-way up.)
WILLIE. Yes, Miss Maggie?
MAGGIE (L. of trap.) Come up, and put the trap down, I want to talk to you.
(He comes, reluctantly.)
WILLIE. We're very busy in the cellar.
(MAGGIE points to trap. He closes it.)
MAGGIE. Show me your hands, Willie.
WILLIE. They're dirty. (He holds them out hesitatingly.)
MAGGIE. Yes, they're dirty, but they're clever. They can shape the leather like no other man's that ever came into the shop. Who taught you, Willie? (She retains his hands.)
WILLIE. Why, Miss Maggie, I learnt my trade here.
MAGGIE. Hobson's never taught you to make boots the way you do.
WILLIE. I've had no other teacher.
MAGGIE (dropping his hands.) And needed none. You're a natural born genius at making boots. It's a pity you're a natural fool at all else.
WILLIE. I'm not much good at owt but leather, and that's a fact.
MAGGIE. When are you going to leave Hobson's?
WILLIE. Leave Hobson's? I—I thought I gave satisfaction.
MAGGIE. Don't you want to leave?
WILLIE. Not me. I've been at Hobson's all my life, and I'm not for leaving till I'm made.
MAGGIE. I said you were a fool.
WILLIE. Then I'm a loyal fool.
MAGGIE. Don't you want to get on, Will Mossop? You heard what Mrs. Hepworth said. You know the wages you get and you know the wages a bootmaker like you could get in one of the big shops in Manchester.
WILLIE. Nay, I'd be feared to go in them fine places.
MAGGIE. What keeps you here? Is it the—the people?
WILLIE. I dunno what it is. I'm used to being here.
MAGGIE. Do you know what keeps this business on its legs? Two things: one's the good boots you make that sell themselves, the other's the bad boots other people make and I sell. We're a pair, Will Mossop.