JOB ARTHUR.  We know what we’re going to do.  Once we can get our hands free, we know what we’re going to do.

WILLIE.  Yes, so do I. You’re either going to make SUCH a mess that we shall never get out of it—­which I don’t think you will do, for the English working man is the soul of obedience and order, and he’d behave himself to-morrow as if he was at Sunday school, no matter what he does to-day.—­No, what you’ll do, Job Arthur, you’ll set up another lot of masters, such a jolly sight worse than what we’ve got now.  I’d rather be mastered by Gerald Barlow, if it comes to mastering, than by Job Arthur Freer—­oh, SUCH a lot!  You’ll be far less free with Job Arthur for your boss than ever you were with Gerald Barlow.  You’ll be far more degraded.—­In fact, though I’ve preached socialism in the market-place for thirty years—­if you’re going to start killing the masters to set yourselves up as bosses—­ why, kill me along with the masters.  For I’d rather die with somebody who has one tiny little spark of decency left—­though it IS a little tiny spark—­than live to triumph with those that have none.

VOICES.  Shut thy face, Houghton—­shut it up—­shut him up—­hustle the beggar!  Hoi!—­hoi-ee!—­whoo!—­whoam-it, whoam-it!—­whoo!—­bow-wow!—­ wet-whiskers!—–­

WILLIE.  And it’s no use you making fool of yourselves—–­ (His words are heard through an ugly, jeering, cold commotion.)

VOICE (loudly).  He’s comin’.

VOICES.  Who?

VOICE.  Barlow.—­See ‘s motor?—­comin’ up—­sithee?

WILLIE.  If you’ve any sense left—–­ (Suddenly and violently disappears.)

VOICES.  Sorry!—­he’s comin’—­’s comin’—­sorry, ah!  Who’s in?—­ That’s Turton drivin’—­yi, he’s behind wi’ a woman—­ah, he’s comin’—­ he’ll none go back—­hold on.  Sorry!—­wheer’s ’e comin’?—­up from Loddo—­ay—–­ (The cries die down—­the motor car slowly comes into sight, OLIVER driving, GERALD and ANABEL behind.  The men stand in a mass in the way.)

OLIVER.  Mind yourself, there. (Laughter.)

GERALD.  Go ahead, Oliver.

VOICE.  What’s yer ’urry?

(Crowd sways and surges on the car.  OLIVER is suddenly dragged out. 
     GERALD stands up—­he, too, is seized from behind—­he wrestles—­is
     torn out of his greatcoat—­then falls—­disappears.  Loud cries—­
     “Hi!—­hoi!—­hoiee!”—­all the while.  The car shakes and presses
     uneasily.)

VOICE.  Stop the blazin’ motor, somebody.

VOICE.  Here y’ are!—­hold a minute. (A man jumps in and stops the engine—­he drops in the driver’s seat.)

COLLIER (outside the car).  Step down, miss.

ANABEL.  I am Mrs. Barlow.

COLLIER.  Missis, then. (Laugh.) Step done—­lead ’er forrard.  Take ’em forrard.

JOB ARTHUR.  Ay, make a road.

GERALD.  You’re makin’ a proper fool of yourself now, Freer.

JOB ARTHUR.  You’ve brought it on yourself.  YOU’VE made fools of plenty of men.