VOICES. Give him a minute--a holy minute--say your prayers, Barlow--you've got a minute--tick-tick, says the clock--time him! JOB ARTHUR. Keep quiet. WILLIE. Of all the damned, cowardly--- VOICES. Sh-h-h!--Squeeze him--throttle him! Silence is golden, Houghton.--Close the shutters, Willie's dead.--Dry up, wet whiskers! JOB ARTHUR. You've fifteen seconds. VOICES. There's a long, long trail a-winding--- JOB ARTHUR. The minute's up.--We ask you again, Gerald Barlow, why you refused a just and fair demand, when you know it was against the wishes of three thousand men all as good as yourself. VOICES. And a sight better--I don't think--we're not all vermin--we're not all crawlers, living off the sweat of other folks--we're not all parish vermin--parish vermin. JOB ARTHUR. And on what grounds do you think you have no occasion to answer the straightforward question we put you here? ANABEL (after a pause). Answer them, Gerald. What's the use of prolonging this? GERALD. I've nothing to answer. VOICES. Nothing to answer--Gerald, darling--Gerald, duckie--oh, lovey-dovey--I've nothing to answer--no, by God--no, by God, he hasna--nowt to answer--ma'e him find summat, then--answer for him--gi'e him's answer--let him ha'e it--go on--mum--mum--lovey-dovey--rub his nose in it--kiss the dirt, ducky--bend him down--rub his nose in--he's saying something--oh, no, he isn't--sorry I spoke--bend him down! JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit--quiet everybody--he's got to answer--keep quiet.--Now---- (A silence.) Now then, Barlow, will you answer, or won't you? (Silence.) ANABEL. Answer them, Gerald--never mind. VOICES. Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h! (Silence.) JOB ARTHUR. You won't answer, Barlow? VOICE. Down the beggar! VOICES. Down him--put his nose down--flatten him! (The crowd surges and begins to howl--they sway dangerously--GERALD is spread-eagled on the floor, face down.) JOB ARTHUR. Back--back--back a minute--back--back! (They recoil.) WILLIE. I HOPE there's a God in heaven. VOICES. Put him down--flatten him! (WILLIE is flattened on the ground.) JOB ARTHUR. Now, then--now then--if you won't answer, Barlow, I can't stand here for you any more.--Take your feet off him, boys, and turn him over--let us look at him. Let us see if he CAN speak. (They turn him over, with another scuffle.) Now then, Barlow--you can see the sky above you. Now do you think you're going to play with three thousand men, with their lives and with their souls?--now do you think you're going to answer them with your foot?--do you--do you? (The crowd has begun to sway and heave dangerously, with a low, muffled roar, above which is heard JOB ARTHUR'S voice. As he ceases, the roar breaks into a yell--the crowd heaves.) VOICES. Down him--crack the vermin--on top of him--put your foot on the vermin!