--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.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102