e him a minute to answer.

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