(WILLIE MOSSOP _comes up trap. He is a lanky fellow, about
thirty, not naturally stupid but stunted mentally by a brutalized
childhood. He is a raw material of a charming man, but, at
present, it requires a very keen eye to detect his
potentialities. His clothes are an even poorer edition of_
TUBBY'S. _He comes half-way up trap_.)

MRS. HEPWORTH (_standing_ R. _of trap_). Are you
Mossop?

WILLIE. Yes, mum.

MRS. HEPWORTH. You made these boots?

WILLIE (_peering at them_). Yes, I made them last week.

MRS. HEPWORTH. Take that.

(WILLIE, _bending down, rather expects "that" to be a blow.
Then he raises his head and finds she is holding out a visiting
card. He takes it_.)

See what's on it?

WILLIE (_bending over the card_). Writing?

MRS. HEPWORTH. Read it.

WILLIE. I'm trying. (_His lips move as he tries to spell it