IS a little tiny spark--than live to triumph with those
that have none.

VOICES. Shut thy face, Houghton--shut it up--shut him up--hustle
the beggar! Hoi!--hoi-ee!--whoo!--whoam-it, whoam-it!--whoo!--
bow-wow!--wet-whiskers!----

WILLIE. And it's no use you making fool of yourselves---- (His words are
heard through an ugly, jeering, cold commotion.)

VOICE (loudly). He's comin'.

VOICES. Who?

VOICE. Barlow.--See 's motor?--comin' up--sithee?

WILLIE. If you've any sense left---- (Suddenly and violently
disappears.)

VOICES. Sorry!--he's comin'--'s comin'--sorry, ah! Who's in?--That's
Turton drivin'--yi, he's behind wi' a woman--ah, he's comin'--he'll none
go back--hold on. Sorry!--wheer's 'e comin'?--up from Loddo--ay---- (The
cries die down--the motor car slowly comes into sight, OLIVER driving,
GERALD and ANABEL behind. The men stand in a mass in the way.)

OLIVER. Mind yourself, there. (Laughter.)

GERALD. Go ahead, Oliver.

VOICE. What's yer 'urry?

(Crowd sways and surges on the car. OLIVER is suddenly dragged out.
GERALD stands up--he, too, is seized from behind--he wrestles--is
torn out of his greatcoat--then falls--disappears. Loud cries--
"Hi!--hoi!--hoiee!"--all the while. The car shakes and presses
uneasily.)

VOICE. Stop the blazin' motor, somebody.

VOICE. Here y' are!--hold a minute. (A man jumps in and stops the
engine--he drops in the driver's seat.)

COLLIER (outside the car). Step down, miss.

ANABEL. I am Mrs. Barlow.

COLLIER. Missis, then. (Laugh.) Step done--lead 'er forrard. Take 'em
forrard.

JOB ARTHUR. Ay, make a road.

GERALD. You're makin' a proper fool of yourself now, Freer.

JOB ARTHUR. You've brought it on yourself. YOU'VE made fools of plenty
of men.

COLLIERS. Come on, now--come on! Whoa!--whoa!--he's a jibber--go pretty
now, go pretty!

VOICES (suddenly). Lay hold o' Houghton--nab 'im--seize
'im--rats!--rats!--bring 'im forrard!

ANABEL (in a loud, clear voice). I never knew anything so RIDICULOUS.

VOICES (falsetto). Ridiculous! Oh, ridiculous! Mind the step, dear!--I'm
Mrs. Barlow!--Oh, are you?--Tweet--tweet!

JOB ARTHUR. Make a space, boys, make a space, boys, make a space.
(He stands with prisoners in a cleared space before the obelisk.)
Now--now--quiet a minute--we want to ask a few questions of these
gentlemen.

VOICES. Quiet!--quiet!--Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h!--Answer pretty--answer pretty
now!--Quiet!--Shh-h-h!

JOB AR