SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along.
BILL. Wots is weight?
SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires].
BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you.
SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato.
BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough].
SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat].
BARBARA [calling] Jenny!
JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major.
BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here.