Thomas.  What I’fe got to say iss what we’fe all got to say——­

Roberts.  Speak for yourself, Henry Thomas.

Scantlebury. [With a gesture of deep spiritual discomfort.] Let the poor men call their souls their own!

Roberts.  Aye, they shall keep their souls, for it’s not much body that you’ve left them, Mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word were an offence] Scantlebury! [To the men.] Well, will you speak, or shall I speak for you?

Rous. [Suddenly.] Speak out, Roberts, or leave it to others.

Roberts. [Ironically.] Thank you, George Rous. [Addressing himself to Anthony.] The Chairman and Board of Directors have honoured us by leaving London and coming all this way to hear what we’ve got to say; it would not be polite to keep them any longer waiting.

Wilder.  Well, thank God for that!

Roberts.  Ye will not dare to thank Him when I have done, Mr. Wilder, for all your piety.  May be your God up in London has no time to listen to the working man.  I’m told He is a wealthy God; but if he listens to what I tell Him, He will know more than ever He learned in Kensington.

Harness.  Come, Roberts, you have your own God.  Respect the God of other men.

Roberts.  That’s right, sir.  We have another God down here; I doubt He is rather different to Mr. Wilder’s.  Ask Henry Thomas; he will tell you whether his God and Mr. Wilder’s are the same.

     [Thomas lifts his hand, and cranes his head as though to
     prophesy.]

Wanklin.  For goodness’ sake, let ’s keep to the point, Roberts.

Roberts.  I rather think it is the point, Mr. Wanklin.  If you can get the God of Capital to walk through the streets of Labour, and pay attention to what he sees, you’re a brighter man than I take you for, for all that you’re a Radical.

Anthony.  Attend to me, Roberts! [Roberts is silent.] You are here to speak for the men, as I am here to speak for the Board.

     [He looks slowly round.]

     [Wilder, Wanklin, and Scantlebury make movements of uneasiness,
     and Edgar gazes at the floor.  A faint smile comes on HARNESS’S
     face.]

Now then, what is it?

Roberts.  Right, Sir!

[Throughout all that follows, he and Anthony look fixedly upon each other.  Men and Directors show in their various ways suppressed uneasiness, as though listening to words that they themselves would not have spoken.]

The men can’t afford to travel up to London; and they don’t trust you to believe what they say in black and white.  They know what the post is [he darts a look at Underwood and Tench], and what Directors’ meetings are:  “Refer it to the manager—­let the manager advise us on the men’s condition.  Can we squeeze them a little more?”