MANSON [after a pause].  How did you come to lose her?

ROBERT [roughly].  Never you mind!

MANSON.  How did you come to lose her?

ROBERT [sullenly].  Typhoid fever.

[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance.  He helps ROBERT to more tea, and waits for him to speak.  ROBERT wriggles under his gaze, and at last he says, reluctantly.]

Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid!

MANSON.  That was a sore loss, comrade.

ROBERT. I know it!  Needn’t rub it in! . . .  Look, ’ere, comride, I ‘adn’t a bad nature to begin with.  Didn’t me an’ my brother Joshua pinch an’ slave the skin orf our bones to send that spotted swine to school?  Didn’t we ’elp ’im out with ‘is books an’ ‘is mortar-boards an’ ‘is bits of clothes to try an’ mek ’im look respectable?  That’s wot we did, till ’e got ’is lousy scholyships, an’ run away to get spliced with that she-male pup of a blood-’ound!  Cos why?  Cos we was proud of the little perisher!—­proud of ’is ’ead-piece!  We ’adn’t gone none ourselves—­leastways, I ’adn’t:  Joshua was different to me; and now . . .

MANSON.  And your brother Joshua:  what of him?  Where is he now?

ROBERT. I don’t know—­gone to pot, like me!  P’r’aps eatin’ is bleedin’ ’eart out, same as I am, at the base ingratitood of the world!

MANSON.  Perhaps so!

ROBERT.  Where was I?  You mek me lose my air, shoving in with your bit!

MANSON.  You were saying that you hadn’t a bad nature to begin with.

ROBERT [truculently].  No more I ’adn’t! . . .

O’ course, when she took an’—­an’ died, things was different:  I couldn’t ’old up the same—­ Somehow, I don’t know, I lost my ’eart, and . . .

MANSON.  Yes? . . .

ROBERT.  That’s ’ow I come to lose my kid, my little kid . . .  Mind you, that was fifteen years ago:  I was a rotter then, same as you might be.  I wasn’t ’arf the man I am now . . .

You can larf!  A man can change a lot in fifteen years!

MANSON. I didn’t laugh.

ROBERT.  Do you want to know wot’s come over me since then?  I work—­and work well:  that’s more than some of ’em can say—­ And I don’t get much money for it, either!  That ought to mek ’em feel ashamed!  I’m not the drunkard I was—­not by ’arf!  If I’m bitter, oo’s made me bitter?  You cawn’t be very sweet and perlite on eighteen bob a week—­when yer get it!  I’ll tell yer summat else:  I’ve eddicated myself since then—­I’m not the gory fool I was—­ And they know it!  They can’t come playin’ the ’anky with us, same as they used to!  It’s Nice Mister Working-man This and Nice Mister Working-man That, will yer be so ’ighly hobliging as to ’and over your dear little voting-paper—­you poor, sweet, muddy-nosed old Idiot, as can’t spot your natural enemy when yer see ’im!  That orter mek some on ’em sit up!