“Why, Owen, of course,” replied Harlow.
“Well, why don’t you try to keep quiet for a few minutes and let ’im get on with it?”
“The next b—r wot interrupts,” cried Philpot, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and glaring threateningly round upon the meeting. “The next b—r wot interrupts goes out through the bloody winder!”
At this, everybody pretended to be very frightened, and edged away as far as possible from Philpot. Easton, who was sitting next to him, got up and crossed over to Owen’s vacant seat. The man on the pail was the only one who did not seem nervous; perhaps he felt safer because he was, as usual, surrounded by a moat.
“Poverty,” resumed the lecturer, “consists in a shortage of the necessaries of life—or rather, of the benefits of civilization.”
“You’ve said that about a ’undred times before,” snarled Crass.
“I know I have; and I have no doubt I shall have to say it about five hundred times more before you understand what it means.”
“Get on with the bloody lecture,” shouted the man on the pail. “Never mind arguin’ the point.”
“Well, keep horder, can’t you?” cried Philpot, fiercely, “and give the man a chance.”
“All these things are produced in the same way,” proceeded Owen. “They are made from the Raw materials by those who work—aided by machinery. When we inquire into the cause of the present shortage of these things, the first question we should ask is—Are there not sufficient of the raw materials in existence to enable us to produce enough to satisfy the needs of all?