Cockney voice.  And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.

     [A spurt of laughter.]

A friendly voice. [From the outskirts] Shame! there!  Bravo, More!  Keep it up!

     [A scuffle drowns this cry.]

More. [With vehemence] Stop that!  Stop that!  You—–!

Tall youth.  Traitor!

An artisan.  Who black-legged?

Middle-aged man.  Ought to be shot-backin’ his country’s enemies!

More.  Those tribesmen are defending their homes.

Two voices.  Hear! hear!

     [They are hustled into silence.]

Tall youth.  Wind-bag!

More. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes!  Not mobbing unarmed men!

     [Steel again pulls at his arm.]

Rough.  Shut it, or we’ll do you in!

More. [Recovering his coolness] Ah!  Do me in by all means!  You’d deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn’t be forgotten in your time.

Steel.  For God’s sake, sir!

More. [Shaking off his touch] Well!

     There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost
     figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step.  The crowd
     recoils.

     There is a momentary lull, and more stares steadily down at
     them.

Cockney voice.  Don’t ’e speak well!  What eloquence!

     Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike more
     across the face.  He takes no notice.

Rough voice.  That’s it!  Give ’im some encouragement.

     The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous
     smile on More’s face.

A tall youth.  Traitor!

A voice.  Don’t stand there like a stuck pig.

A rough.  Let’s ’ave ’im dahn off that!

Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes more across the legs with a belt.  Steel starts forward.  More, flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this silence is fast turning to rage.

The crowd.  Speak up, or get down!  Get off!  Get away, there—­or we’ll make you!  Go on!

     [More remains immovable.]

A youth. [In a lull of disconcertion] I’ll make ’im speak!  See!

He darts forward and spits, defiling mores hand.  More jerks it up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever.  A spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the action.  The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of mores scornful face.

Tall youth. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you’ll get it!