The Pigeon: A Fantasy in Three Acts. Galsworthy John

you?

      TIMSON. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir; we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson – I give you me name. You invited of me, if ye remember.

      WELLWYN. It's a little late, really.

      TIMSON. Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer. I was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein' Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with increasing thickness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted – not got the price of a bed abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate – not at my age.

      WELLWYN. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.

      TIMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do with 'orses all me life. It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.

      WELLWYN. Well, really, I —

      TIMSON. To be froze to death – I mean – it's awkward.

      WELLWYN. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well – come in a moment, and let's – think it out. Have some tea!

      [He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]

      TIMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's – soberiety! [He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. Agreeably surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?

      FERRAND. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make face against the world.

      WELLWYN. Too short! Ah!

      [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes from it a needle and cotton.] [While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one dog will another. The old man, glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma.]

      FERRAND. [Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur!

      [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]

      WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so!

      [They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]

      FERRAND. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux sont tous des buveurs'.