WILLIE. Of all the damned, cowardly—-
VOICES. Sh-h-h!—Squeeze him—throttle him! Silence is golden, Houghton.—Close the shutters, Willie's dead.—Dry up, wet whiskers!
JOB ARTHUR. You've fifteen seconds.
VOICES. There's a long, long trail a-winding—-
JOB ARTHUR. The minute's up.—We ask you again, Gerald Barlow, why you refused a just and fair demand, when you know it was against the wishes of three thousand men all as good as yourself.
VOICES. And a sight better—I don't think—we're not all vermin—we're not all crawlers, living off the sweat of other folks—we're not all parish vermin—parish vermin.
JOB ARTHUR. And on what grounds do you think you have no occasion to answer the straightforward question we put you here?
ANABEL (after a pause). Answer them, Gerald. What's the use of prolonging this?
GERALD. I've nothing to answer.
VOICES. Nothing to answer—Gerald, darling—Gerald, duckie—oh, lovey-dovey—I've nothing to answer—no, by God—no, by God, he hasna—nowt to answer—ma'e him find summat, then—answer for him—gi'e him's answer—let him ha'e it—go on—mum—mum—lovey-dovey—rub his nose in it—kiss the dirt, ducky—bend him down—rub his nose in—he's saying something—oh, no, he isn't—sorry I spoke—bend him down!