HOBSON. Wasting time? Maggie, what's the matter with Will? I've
made him a proposal.
MAGGIE. He's a shop of his own to see to, father.
HOBSON. (_incredulous_). A man who's offered a job at
Hobson's doesn't want to worry with a shop of his own in a
wretched cellar in Oldfield Road.
WILLIE. Shall I tell him, Maggie, or shall we go?
HOBSON. Go! I don't want to keep a man who--(_Rises_.)
MAGGIE. If he goes, I go with him, father. You'd better speak
out, Will.
WILLIE. All right, I will. We've been a year in yon wretched
cellar and do you know what we've done? We've paid off Mrs.
Hepworth what she lent us for our start and made a bit o' brass
on top o' that. We've got your high-class trade away from you.
That shop's a cellar, and as you say, it's wretched, but they
come to us in it, and they don't come to you. Your trade's gone
down till all you sell is clogs. You've got no trade, and me and
Maggie's got it all and now you're on your bended knees to her to
come and live with you, and all you think to offer me is my old
job at eighteen shillings a week. Me that's the owner of a
business that is starving yours to death.
HOBSON. But--but--you're Will Mossop, you're my old shoe hand.
WILLIE. Aye. I were, but I've moved on a bit since then.
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