JOB ARTHUR.  Yes, vermin.  Vermin is what lives on other people’s lives, living on their lives and profiting by it.  We’ve got ’em in every parish—­vermin, I say—­that live on the sweat and blood of the people—­live on it, and get rich on it—­get rich through living on other people’s lives, the lives of the working men—­living on the bodies of the working men—­that’s vermin—­if it isn’t, what is it?  And every parish must destroy its own—­every parish must destroy its own vermin.

GERALD.  The phrase, my God! the phrase.

JOB ARTHUR.  Phrase or not phrase, there it is, and face it out if you can.  There it is—­there’s not one in every parish—­there’s more than one—­there’s a number—–­

GERALD (suddenly kicking him).  Go! (Kicks him.) Go! (Kicks him.) go! (JOB ARTHUR falls.) Get out! (Kicks him.) Get out, I say!  Get out, I tell you!  Get out!  Get out!—­Vermin!—­Vermin!—­I’ll vermin you!  I’ll put my foot through your phrases.  Get up, I say, get up and go—­GO!

JOB ARTHUR.  It’ll be you as’ll go, this time.

GERALD.  What?  What?—­By God!  I’ll kick you out of this park like a rotten bundle if you don’t get up and go.

ANABEL.  No, Gerald, no.  Don’t forget yourself.  It’s enough now.  It’s enough now.—­Come away.  Do come away.  Come away—­leave him—–­

JOB ARTHUR (still on the ground).  It’s your turn to go.  It’s you as’ll go, this time.

GERALD (looking at him).  One can’t even tread on you.

ANABEL.  Don’t, Gerald, don’t—­don’t look at him.—­Don’t say any more, you, Job Arthur.—­Come away, Gerald.  Come away—­come—­do come.

GERALD (turning).  THAT a human being!  My God!—­But he’s right—­ it’s I who go.  It’s we who go, Anabel.  He’s still there.—­My God! a human being!

(Curtain.)

SCENE II

  Market-place as in Act I. WILLIE HOUGHTON, addressing a large
  crowd of men from the foot of the obelisk.

WILLIE.  And now you’re out on strike—­now you’ve been out for a week pretty nearly, what further are you?  I heard a great deal of talk about what you were going to do.  Well, what ARE you going to do?  You don’t know.  You’ve not the smallest idea.  You haven’t any idea whatsoever.  You’ve got your leaders.  Now then, Job Arthur, throw a little light on the way in front, will you:  for it seems to me we’re lost in a bog.  Which way are we to steer?  Come—­give the word, and let’s gee-up.

JOB ARTHUR.  You ask me which way we are to go.  I say we can’t go our own way, because of the obstacles that lie in front.  You’ve got to remove the obstacles from the way.

WILLIE.  So said Balaam’s ass.  But you’re not an ass—­beg pardon; and you’re not Balaam—­you’re Job.  And we’ve all got to be little Jobs, learning how to spell patience backwards.  We’ve lost our jobs and we’ve found a Job.  It’s picking up a scorpion when you’re looking for an egg.—­Tell us what you propose doing. . . .  Remove an obstacle from the way!  What obstacle?  And whose way?