[His head drops back. He, smiling, falls asleep, and JONES
stands looking at him; then, snatching up JACK's glass, he
drinks it off. He picks the reticule from off JACK'S
shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.]

JONES. Been on the tiles and brought 'ome some of yer cat's fur.
[He stuffs it into JACK's breast pocket.]

JACK. [Murmuring.] I 've scored you off! You cat!

[JONES looks around him furtively; he pours out whisky and
drinks it. From the silver box he takes a cigarette, puffs at
it, and drinks more whisky. There is no sobriety left in him.]

JONES. Fat lot o' things they've got 'ere! [He sees the crimson
purse lying on the floor.] More cat's fur. Puss, puss! [He
fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at JACK.] Calf! Fat
calf! [He sees his own presentment in a mirror. Lifting his hands,
with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at JACK,
clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face.
Suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks
it. With cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets
them.] I 'll score you off too, that 's wot I 'll do!

[He gives a little snarling laugh and lurches to the door. His
shoulder rubs against the switch; the light goes out. There is
a sound as of a closing outer door.]


The curtain falls.