[Wilder is silent.]

Wanklin. [Chiming in.] I humbly thought that not to pay more than was necessary was the A B C of commerce.

Harness. [With irony.] Yes, that seems to be the A B C of commerce, sir; and the A B C of commerce is between your interests and the men’s.

Scantlebury. [Whispering.] We ought to arrange something.

Harness. [Drily.] Am I to understand then, gentlemen, that your Board is going to make no concessions?

     [Wanklin and Wilder bend forward as if to speak, but stop.]

Anthony. [Nodding.] None.

     [Wanklin and Wilder again bend forward, and Scantlebury gives an
     unexpected grunt.]

Harness.  You were about to say something, I believe?

     [But Scantlebury says nothing.]

Edgar. [Looking up suddenly.] We’re sorry for the state of the men.

Harness. [Icily.] The men have no use for your pity, sir.  What they want is justice.

Anthony.  Then let them be just.

Harness.  For that word “just” read “humble,” Mr. Anthony.  Why should they be humble?  Barring the accident of money, are n’t they as good men as you?

Anthony.  Cant!

Harness.  Well, I’ve been five years in America.  It colours a man’s notions.

Scantlebury. [Suddenly, as though avenging his uncompleted grunt.] Let’s have the men in and hear what they’ve got to say!

     [Anthony nods, and Underwood goes out by the single door.]

Harness. [Drily.] As I’m to have an interview with them this afternoon, gentlemen, I ’ll ask you to postpone your final decision till that’s over.

     [Again Anthony nods, and taking up his glass drinks.]

[Underwood comes in again, followed by Roberts, green, Bulgin, Thomas, Rous.  They file in, hat in hand, and stand silent in a row.  Roberts is lean, of middle height, with a slight stoop.  He has a little rat-gnawn, brown-grey beard, moustaches, high cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, small fiery eyes.  He wears an old and grease-stained blue serge suit, and carries an old bowler hat.  He stands nearest the Chairman.  Green, next to him, has a clean, worn face, with a small grey goatee beard and drooping moustaches, iron spectacles, and mild, straightforward eyes.  He wears an overcoat, green with age, and a linen collar.  Next to him is Bulgin, a tall, strong man, with a dark moustache, and fighting jaw, wearing a red muffler, who keeps changing his cap from one hand to the other.  Next to him is Thomas, an old man with a grey moustache, full beard, and weatherbeaten, bony face, whose overcoat discloses a lean, plucked-looking neck.  On his right, Rous, the youngest of the five, looks like a soldier; he has a glitter in his eyes.]

Underwood. [Pointing.] There are some chairs there against the wall, Roberts; won’t you draw them up and sit down?