GERALD. Well, I don't care what happens. I wish things would come to a head. I only fear they won't. ANABEL. Aren't you rather wicked?--ASKING for strife? GERALD. I hope I am. It's quite a relief to me to feel that I may be wicked. I fear I'm not. I can see them all anticipating victory, in their low-down fashion wanting to crow their low-down crowings. I'm afraid I feel it's a righteous cause, to cut a lot of little combs before I die. ANABEL. But if they're right in what they want? GERALD. In the right--in the right!--They're just greedy, incompetent, stupid, gloating in a sense of the worst sort of power. They're like vicious children, who would like to kill their parents so that they could have the run of the larder. The rest is just cant. ANABEL. If you're the parent in the case, I must say you flow over with loving-kindness for them. GERALD. I don't--I detest them. I only hope they will fight. If they would, I'd have some respect for them. But you'll see what it will be. ANABEL. I wish I needn't, for it's very sickening. GERALD. Sickening beyond expression. ANABEL. I wish we could go right away. GERALD. So do I--If one could get oneself out of this. But one can't. It's the same wherever you have industrialism--and you have industrialism everywhere, whether it's in Timbuctoo or Paraguay or Antananarivo. ANABEL. No, it isn't: you exaggerate. JOB ARTHUR (suddenly approaching from the other side). Good evening, Mr. Barlow. I heard you were in here. Could I have a word with you? GERALD. Get on with it, then. JOB ARTHUR. Is it right that you won't meet the clerks? GERALD. Yes. JOB ARTHUR. Not in any way? GERALD. Not in any way whatsoever. JOB ARTHUR. But--I thought I understood from you the other night--- GERALD. It's all the same what you understood. JOB ARTHUR. Then you take it back, sir? GERALD. I take nothing back, because I gave nothing. JOB ARTHUR. Oh, excuse me, excuse me, sir. You said it would be all right about the clerks. This lady heard you say it. GERALD. Don't you call witnesses against me.--Besides, what does it matter to you? What in the name of--- JOB ARTHUR. Well, sir, you said it would be all right, and I went on that--- GERALD. You went on that! Where did you go to? JOB ARTHUR. The men'll be out on Monday. GERALD. So shall I. JOB ARTHUR. Oh, yes, but--where's it going to end? GERALD. Do you want me to prophesy? When did I set up for a public prophet? JOB ARTHUR. I don't know, sir. But perhaps you're doing more than you know. There's a funny feeling just now among the men. GERALD. So I've heard before. Why should I concern myself with their feelings? Am I to cry when every collier bumps his funny-bone--or to laugh? JOB ARTHUR. It's no laughing matter, you see. GERALD. An I'm sure it's no crying matter--unless you want to cry, do you see? JOB ARTHUR. Ah, but, very likely, it wouldn't be me would cry.--You don't know what might happen, now.