JOB ARTHUR. Ah, but, very likely, it wouldn't be me would cry.—You don't know what might happen, now.
GERALD. I'm waiting for something to happen. I should like something to happen—very much—very much indeed.
JOB ARTHUR. Yes, but perhaps you'd be sorry if it did happen.
GERALD. Is that warning or a threat?
JOB ARTHUR. I don't know—it might be a bit of both. What I mean to say—-
GERALD (suddenly seizing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him). What do you mean to say?—I mean you to say less, do you see?—a great deal less—do you see? You've run on with your saying long enough: that clock had better run down. So stop your sayings—stop your sayings, I tell you—or you'll have them shaken out of you—shaken out of you—shaken out of you, do you see? (Suddenly flings him aside.)
(JOB ARTHUR, staggering, falls.)
ANABEL. Oh, no!—oh, no!
GERALD. Now get up, Job Arthur; and get up wiser than you went down. You've played your little game and your little tricks and made your little sayings long enough. You're going to stop now. We've had quite enough of strong men of your stamp, Job Arthur—quite enough—such labour leaders as you.
JOB ARTHUR. You'll be sorry, Mr. Barlow—you'll be sorry. You'll wish you'd not attacked me.