MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I s’d ha’ thought thy belly ‘ud a browt thee whoam afore this.
JOE sits on sofa without answering.
Doesn’t ter want no dinner?
JOE (looking up): I want it if the’ is ony.
MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ if the’ isna, tha can go be out? Tha talks large, my fine jockey! (She puts a newspaper on the table; on it a plate and his dinner.) Wheer dost reckon ter’s bin?
JOE: I’ve bin ter th’ office for my munny.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’s niver bin a’ this while at th’ office.
JOE: They kep’ me ower an hour, an’ then gen me nowt.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Gen thee nowt! Why, how do they ma’e that out? It’s a wik sin’ tha got hurt, an’ if a man wi’ a broken arm canna ha’ his fourteen shillin’ a week accident pay, who can, I s’d like to know?
JOE: They’ll gie me nowt, whether or not.
MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ for why, prithee?
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