A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping quickly from the left.  A motley crew, out for excitement; loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious.  All in the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood.  They gather round the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity that follows on a new development of any chase.  More, on the bottom step, turns and eyes them.

A girl. [At the edge] Which is ’im!  The old ’un or the young?

     [More turns, and mounts the remaining steps.]

Tall youth. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted traitor!

     More faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the
     chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they
     realized that they were spoiling their own sport.

A rough girl.  Don’t frighten the poor feller!

     [A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.]

Steel. [Tugging at MORE’s arm] Come along, sir.

More. [Shaking his arm free—­to the crowd] Well, what do you want?

A voice.  Speech.

More.  Indeed!  That’s new.

Rough voice. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver. 
You can see it in his face.

A big navy. [In front] Shut it!  Give ’im a chanst!

Tall youth.  Silence for the blasted traitor?

     A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt
     silence.

More.  You shall have it in a nutshell!

A SHOPBOY. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes more on the shoulder] Here y’are!

More.  Go home, and think!  If foreigners invaded us, wouldn’t you be fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there?

Tall youth.  Treacherous dogs!  Why don’t they come out in the open?

More.  They fight the best way they can.

     [A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the
     outskirt.]

More.  My friend there in khaki led that hooting.  I’ve never said a word against our soldiers.  It’s the Government I condemn for putting them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do, left to yourselves.

     The tall youth leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of
     execration.

More.  I say not one of you would go for a weaker man.

Voices in the crowd.

     Rough voice.  Tork sense!

     Girl’s voice.  He’s gittin’ at you!

     Tall youth’s voice.  Shiny skunk!

A navvy. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look ’ere, Mister!  Don’t you come gaflin’ to those who’ve got mates out there, or it’ll be the worse for you-you go ’ome!