The Pigeon: A Fantasy in Three Acts

TIMSON. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir; we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson – I give you me name. You invited of me, if ye remember.

WELLWYN. It's a little late, really.

TIMSON. Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer. I was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein' Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with increasing thickness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted – not got the price of a bed abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate – not at my age.

WELLWYN. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.

TIMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do with 'orses all me life. It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.

WELLWYN. Well, really, I —

TIMSON. To be froze to death – I mean – it's awkward.

WELLWYN. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well – come in a moment, and let's – think it out. Have some tea!

[He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]

TIMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's – soberiety! [He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. Agreeably surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?

FERRAND. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make face against the world.

WELLWYN. Too short! Ah!

[He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes from it a needle and cotton.] [While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one dog will another. The old man, glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma.]

FERRAND. [Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur!

[He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]

WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so!

[They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]

FERRAND. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux sont tous des buveurs'.

WELLWYN. [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] Now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.] Will you smoke?

TIMSON. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. Old 'orse – standin' abaht in th' cold.

[He relapses into coma.]

FERRAND. [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.

WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do you think?

FERRAND. Non, non, Monsieur – no 'orse. He is dreaming. I know very well that state of him – that catches you sometimes. It is the warmth sudden on the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-night. At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past.

WELLWYN. Poor old buffer!

FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents among the old cabbies – they have philosophy – that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still.

WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched!

FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is well wet inside, remember – it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam.

[WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the old man.]

TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put – the rug on th' old 'orse.

[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]

WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him?

FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a 'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call – 'is bitt.

WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in this state.

FERRAND. If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I charge myself with him.

WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You – er – I really don't know, I – hadn't contemplated – You think you could manage if I – if I went to bed?

FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You – you're sure you've everything you want?

FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.

WELLWYN. I don't know what I can do by staying.

FERRAND. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. Have confidence in me.

WELLWYN. Well-keep the fire up quietly – very quietly. You'd better take this coat of mine, too. You'll find it precious cold, I expect, about three o'clock. [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.]

FERRAND. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. Ah! Yes! Thanks! Well-good-night! By the way, I shall be down rather early. Have to think of my household a bit, you know.

FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Monsieur'. I comprehend. One must well be regular in this life.

WELLWYN. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the model's room.] I'd forgotten —

FERRAND. Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?

WELLWYN. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer door.] You won't want this, will you?

FERRAND. 'Merci, Monsieur'.

[WELLWYN switches off the light.]