s as 'is
butler and 'is four conscientious khaki footmen. Why--wot dyer think
'e 'as 'em for--fear they might be out o'-works like you an' me.
Nao! Keep this one; 'e's a Flower. 'Arf a mo'! I'll show yer my
Muvver. Come 'ere, old lydy; and bring yer trahsers. [MRS. LEMMY
comes forward to the window] Tell abaht yer speech to the meetin'.

MRS. LEMMY. [Bridling] Oh dear! Well, I cam' in with me trousers,
an' they putt me up on the pedestory at once, so I tole 'em.
[Holding up the trousers] "I putt in the button'oles, I stretches
the flies; I lines the crutch; I putt on this bindin', I presses the
seams--Tuppence three farthin's a pair."

[A groan from tote crowd, ]

LEMMY. [Showing her off] Seventy-seven! Wot's 'er income? Twelve
bob a week; seven from the Gover'ment an' five from the sweat of 'er
brow. Look at 'er! 'Yn't she a tight old dear to keep it goin'! No
workus for 'er, nao fear! The gryve rather!

[Murmurs from the crowd, at Whom MRS. LEMMY is blandly smiling.]

You cawn't git below 'er--impossible! She's the foundytions of the
country--an' rocky 'yn't the word for 'em. Worked 'ard all 'er life,
brought up a family and buried 'em on it. Twelve bob a week, an'
given when 'er fingers goes, which is very near. Well, naow, this
torf 'ere comes to me an' says: "I'd like to do somefin' for yer
muvver. 'Ow's ten bob a week?" 'e says. Naobody arst 'im--quite on
'is own. That's the sort 'e is. [Sinking his voice confidentially]
Sorft. You bring yer muvvers 'ere, 'e'll do the syme for them. I
giv yer the 'int.

VOICE. [From the crowd] What's 'is nyme?

LEMMY. They calls 'im Bill.

VOICE. Bill What?

L. ANNE. Dromondy.

LADY W. Anne!

LEMMY. Dromedary 'is nyme is.

VOICE. [From the crowd] Three cheers for Bill Dromedary.

LEMMY. I sy, there's veal an' 'am, an' pork wine at the back for
them as wants it; I 'eard the word passed. An' look 'ere, if yer
want a flag for the revolution, tyke muvver's trahsers an' tie 'em to
the corfin. Yer cawn't 'ave no more inspirin' banner. Ketch! [He
throws the trousers out] Give Bill a double-barrel fast, to show
there's no ill-feelin'. Ip, 'ip!

[The crowd cheers, then slowly passes away, singing at a hoarse
version of the Marseillaise, till all that is heard is a faint
murmuring and a distant barrel-organ playing the same tune.]

PRESS. [Writing] "And far up in the clear summer air the larks were
si