s me in shedding the blood of
my boss?

LEMMY. The yaller Press 'as got no blood--'as it? You shed their
ile an' vinegar--that's wot you've got to do. Stryte--do yer believe
in the noble mission o' the Press?

PRESS. [Enigmatically] Mr. Lemmy, I'm a Pressman.

LEMMY. [Goggling] I see. Not much! [Gently jogging his mother's
elbow] Wyke up, old lydy!

[For Mrs. LEMMY who has been sipping placidly at her port, is
nodding. The evening has drawn in. LEMMY strikes a match on
his trousers and lights a candle.]

Blood an' kindness-that's what's wanted--'specially blood! The
'istory o' me an' my family'll show yer that. Tyke my bruver Fred
--crushed by burycrats. Tyke Muvver 'erself. Talk o' the wrongs o'
the people! I tell yer the foundytions is rotten. [He empties the
bottle into his mother's mug] Daon't mind the mud at the bottom, old
lydy--it's all strengthenin'! You tell the Press, Muvver. She can
talk abaht the pawst.

PRESS. [Taking up his note-book, and becoming, again his
professional self] Yes, Mrs. Lemmy? "Age and Youth--Past and
Present--"

MRS. L. Were yu talkin' about Fred? [The port has warmed her veins,
the colour in her eyes and cheeks has deepened] My son Fred was
always a gude boy--never did nothin' before 'e married. I can see
Fred [She bends forward a little in her chair, looking straight
before her] acomin' in wi' a pheasant 'e'd found--terrible 'e was at
findin' pheasants. When father died, an' yu was cumin', Bob, Fred 'e
said to me: "Don't yu never cry, Mother, I'll look after 'ee." An'
so 'e did, till 'e married that day six months an' take to the drink
in sower. 'E wasn't never 'the same boy again--not Fred. An' now
'e's in That. I can see poor Fred----

[She slowly wipes a tear out of the corner of an eye with the
back of her finger.]

PRESS. [Puzzled] In--That?

LEMMY. [Sotto voce] Come orf it! Prison! 'S wot she calls it.

MRS. L. [Cheerful] They say life's a vale o' sorrows. Well, so
'tes, but don' du to let yureself thenk so.

PRESS. And so you came to London, Mrs. Lemmy?

MRS. L. Same year as father died. With the four o' them--that's my
son Fred, an' my son Jim, an' my son Tom, an' Alice. Bob there, 'e
was born in London--an' a praaper time I 'ad of et.

PRESS. [Writing] "Her heroic struggles with poverty----"

MRS. L. Worked in a laundry, I ded, at fifteen shellin's a week, an'
brought 'em all up on et