There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. The crowd recoils. There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at them.
COCKNEY VOICE. Don't 'e speak well! What eloquence!
Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE across the face. He takes no notice.
ROUGH VOICE. That's it! Give 'im some encouragement.
The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous smile on MORE'S face.
A TALL YOUTH. Traitor!
A VOICE. Don't stand there like a stuck pig.
A ROUGH. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that!
Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE across the legs with a belt. STEEL starts forward. MORE, flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this silence is fast turning to rage.
THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there—or we'll make you! Go on!