JOE. And left me alone? That's not kind of you, Mary. How about Mrs.
Willis? Is she worrying about the rent?

MARY. Well, she'd like to have it, of course--they're so dreadfully poor
themselves--but she says she won't turn us out. And I'm going to-morrow to
her daughter's upstairs--she makes matchboxes, you know--and I don't see
why I shouldn't try--I could earn nearly a shilling a day.

JOE. A shilling a day! Princely! [_His pipe goes out. He takes a last
puff at it, squints into it to make sure all the tobacco is gone, then
lays it down with a sigh._] I reckon _I'll_ try making 'em too. I went to
the Vestry again, this morning, to see whether they'd take me as
sweeper--but they've thirty names down, ahead of me. I've tried chopping
wood, but I can't--I begin to cough the third stroke--there's something
wrong with me inside, somewhere. I've tried every Institution on God's
earth--and there are others before me, and there is no vacancy, and I
mustn't beg, and I mustn't worry the gentlemen. A shilling a day--can one
earn as much as that! Why, Mary, that will be fourteen shillings a
week--an income! We'll do it!

MARY. It's not quite a shilling, Joe--you have to find your own paste and
odds and ends. And of course it takes a few weeks to learn, before you
begin to make any money.

JOE. [_Crestfallen._] Does it though? And what are we going to do, those
few weeks? I thought there was a catch in it, somewhere. [_He gets up and
stretches himself._] Well, here's a free-born Englishman, able to conduct
correspondence in three languages, bookkeeping by double entry, twelve
years' experience--and all he's allowed to do is to starve. [_He stretches
himself again._]