VOICES (loud). Ah, we do—yes—we do that—we do an' a'—yi—yi—that's it!
WILLIE. Agreed unanimously. But how are we going to do it? Do you propose to send for Williamson's furniture van, to pack them in? I should think one pantechnicon would do, just for this parish. I'll drive. Who'll be the vanmen to list and carry?
JOB ARTHUR. It's no use fooling. You've fooled for thirty years, and we're no further. What's got to be done will have to be begun. It's for every man to sweep in front of his own doorstep. You can't call your neighbours dirty till you've washed your own face. Every parish has got its own vermin, and it's the business of every parish to get rid of its own.
VOICES. That's it—that's it—that's the ticket—that's the style!
WILLIE. And are you going to comb 'em out, or do you propose to use Keating's?
VOICES. Shut it! Shut it up! Stop thy face! Hold thy gab!—Go on, Job Arthur.
JOB ARTHUR. How it's got to be done is for us all to decide. I'm not one for violence, except it's a force-put. But it's like this. We've been travelling for years to where we stand now—and here the road stops. There's a precipice below and a rock-face above. And in front of us stand the masters. Now there's three things we can do. We can either throw ourselves over the precipice; or we can lie down and let the masters walk over us; or we can GET ON.
WILLIE. Yes. That's all right. But how are you going to get on?
JOB ARTHUR. Well—we've either got to throw the obstacle down the cliff—or walk over it.
VOICES. Ay—ay—ay—yes—that's a fact.