Joe (_coming across with drawing_). Look here, Butter-worth. See that? He drew it. Guy Barlow drew that. That's what he thinks of us. Matthew (_taking it_). A drawing? Joe (_pointing_). That's me. Matthew. Nay, never. Joe. I pin my waistcoat up that road 'cause all the world don't need to know I haven't got a shirt. Matthew (_looking at drawing_). Yes. He's spotted that right enough. Martin (_over Matthew's shoulder_). And that scarecrow's meant for me. Matthew (_smiling in spite of himself_). Well, he's a clever drawer, Mr. Guy. Henri. What is that writing, Matt? You can read. Matthew (_half turning away_). Yes, I can read. (_Ruth comes as if to try to secure the paper. Martin turns his shoulder to her and the three men surround Matthew as he stands C._) Joe. What is it? Matthew (_reluctantly_). Something cruel, Joe. It's under your picture. Joe. I can see that. Martin. Out with it Matt. Matthew. No need to cry aloud the shame of what a young man does in his pride. Henri. You think to shield him because he is your son-in-law. You are a traitor, Butterworth. Joe. Best read it, Matt. We'll get it done outside, in any ease. Matthew. It isn't much. He's wrote "No shirt but dirt" below you. Joe (_as the group breaks up_). Dirt! If I'm dirty who's fault is that but his? I don't like dirt. I'd like to be clean like him. How can a man wash properly when his belly's crying out for bread and they've put the tax on soap? I'd like a shirt. I'm weaving yards and yards of Barlow's cloth and I haven't got a shirt. Matthew. It's wrong to make a jest of starving men. We've come to ask for fire for our hearths and clothes to cover our nakedness, and food for the children. We don't want fine raiment nor grand houses, nor wine like that. The simple things are good enough for us, and we come here to ask the masters for them, and all we get is a mocking picture and a cruel jest, and I'm sick and sorry that the son of Mr. Barlow and the husband of my lass should be the one that's done it. We're asking for the right to live, and all we get is contumely and shame. Martin (_triumphantly_). That's brought you round at last. We'll have no more peace-preaching from you. You know now what they think of us. We're dogs and worse than dogs. Well, dogs can bite. Ruth (_her hand on Martin's arm_). Martin! Martin (_roughly shaking her off_). I've no word for you. You've gone wrong. (_Moving._) Let's clear away. No need to wait. We've got their answer here in this. (_Tapping picture in Matthew's hand._) To-morrow night we'll meet up on the moors and march down on the factory. Henri. I said I'd hear you frozen English sing the Marseillaise. Ruth. The moors! Matthew. It's not a lawful thing to meet like that. Joe. Lawful! Who cares for the laws of London here? I'd take the Luddites' oath to-night, and that's an oath no man can dare to break.