throughout the winter.

ACT I

It is noon. In the Underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is
burning. On one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading
to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the
hall. In the centre of the room a long dining-table without a
cloth is set out as a Board table. At the head of it, in the
Chairman's seat, sits JOHN ANTHONY, an old man, big,
clean-shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick
dark eyebrows. His movements are rather slow and feeble, but his
eyes are very much alive. There is a glass of water by his side.
On his right sits his son EDGAR, an earnest-looking man of thirty,
reading a newspaper. Next him WANKLIN, a man with jutting
eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending over transfer
papers. TENCH, the Secretary, a short and rather humble, nervous
man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. On WANKLIN'S right
sits UNDERWOOD, the Manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw,
and steady eyes. Back to the fire is SCANTLEBURY, a very large,
pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald. Between him and
the Chairman are two empty chairs.

WILDER. [Who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping
grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] I say, this fire's the
devil! Can I have a screen, Tench?

SCANTLEBURY. A screen, ah!

TENCH. Certainly, Mr. Wilder. [He looks at UNDERWOOD.] That is--
perhaps the Manager--perhaps Mr. Underwood----

SCANTLEBURY. These fireplaces of yours, Underwood----

UNDERWOOD. [Roused from studying some papers.] A screen? Rather!
I'm sorry. [He goes to the door with a little smile.] We're not
accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now.

[He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly,
ironically.]

WILDER. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm!

[UNDERWOOD goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils!

WILDER. It's their own fault, Scantlebury.

EDGAR. [Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them,
according to the Trenartha News.

WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views.
They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought
to be shot.

EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the
Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London w