Hobsons Choice | Page 4

ladies wear.
(Rises.)
HOBSON. If what I saw on you is any guide, I should do nowt of kind.
I'm a decent-minded man. I'm Hobson. I'm British middle class and
proud of it. I stand for common sense and sincerity. You're affected,
which is bad sense and insincerity. You've overstepped nice dressing
and you've tried grand dressing-- (VICKEY sits)--which is the
occupation of fools and such as have no brains. You forget the majesty
of trade and the unparalleled virtues of the British Constitution which
are all based on the sanity of the middle classes, combined with the
diligence of the working-classes. You're losing balance, and you're
putting the things which don't matter in front of the things which do,
and if you mean to be a factor in the world in Lancashire or a factor in
the house of Hobson, you'll become sane.
VICKEY. Do you want us to dress like mill girls?
HOBSON. No. Nor like French Madams, neither. It's un-English, I say.
ALICE. We shall continue to dress fashionably, father.
HOBSON. Then I've a choice for you two. Vickey, you I'm talking to,
and Alice. You'll become sane if you're going on living here. You'll
control this uppishness that's growing on you. And if you don't, you'll
get out of this, and exercise your gifts on some one else than me. You
don't know when you're well off. But you'll learn it when I'm done with
you. I'll choose a pair of husbands for you, my girls. That's what I'll do.

ALICE. Can't we choose husbands for ourselves?
HOBSON. I've been telling you for the last five minutes you're not
even fit to choose dresses for yourselves.
MAGGIE. You're talking a lot to Vickey and Alice, father. Where do I
come in?
HOBSON. You? (Turning on her, astonished.)
MAGGIE. If you're dealing husbands round, don't I get one?
HOBSON. Well, that's a good one! (Laughs.) You with a husband!
(Down in front of desk.)
MAGGIE. Why not?
HOBSON. Why not? I thought you'd sense enough to know. But if you
want the brutal truth, you're past the marrying age. You're a proper old
maid, Maggie, if ever there was one.
MAGGIE. I'm thirty.
HOBSON (facing her). Aye, thirty and shelved. Well, all the women
can't get husbands. But you others, now. I've told you. I'll have less
uppishness from you or else I'll shove you off my hands on to some
other men. You can just choose which way you like. (He picks up hat
and makes for door.)
MAGGIE. One o'clock dinner, father.
HOBSON. See here, Maggie,--(back again down to in front of desk)--I
set the hours at this house. It's one o'clock dinner because I say it is,
and not because you do.
MAGGIE. Yes, father.
HOBSON. So long as that's clear I'll go. (He is by door.) Oh no, I won't.
Mrs. Hepworth's getting out of her carriage.

(He puts hat on counter again. MAGGIE rises and opens door. Enter
MRS. HEPWORTH, an old lady with a curt manner and good clothes.)
Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. What a lovely day. (He crosses R. and
places chair.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (sitting in arm-chair R. C.). Morning, Hobson.
(She raises her skirt.) I've come about those boots you sent me home.
HOBSON (kneeling on MRS. HEPWORTH'S R., and fondling foot.
MAGGIE is C.). Yes, Mrs. Hepworth. They look very nice.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Get up, Hobson. (He scrambles up, controlling
his feelings.) You look ridiculous on the floor. Who made these boots?
HOBSON. We did. Our own make.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Will you answer a plain question? Who made
these boots?
HOBSON. They were made on the premises.
MRS. HEPWORTH (to MAGGIE). Young woman, you seemed to
have some sense when you served me. Can you answer me?
MAGGIE. I think so, but I'll make sure for you, Mrs. Hepworth. (She
opens trap and calls.) Tubby!
HOBSON (down R.). You wish to see the identical workman, madam?
MRS. HEPWORTH. I said so.
HOBSON. I am responsible for all work turned out here.
MRS. HEPWORTH. I never said you weren't.
(TUBBY WADLOW comes up trap. A white-haired little man with
thin legs and a paunch, in dingy clothes with no collar and a coloured
cotton shirt. He has no coat on.)

TUBBY. Yes, Miss Maggie? (He stands half out of trap, not coming
right up.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Man, did you make these boots? (She rises and
advances one pace towards him.)
TUBBY. No, ma'am.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then who did? Am I to question every soul in the
place before I find out? (Looking round.)
TUBBY. They're Willie's making, those.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then tell Willie I want him.
TUBBY. Certainly, ma'am. (He goes down trap and calls "Willie!")
MRS. HEPWORTH. Who's Willie?
HOBSON. Name of Mossop, madam. But if there is anything wrong I