R. They've never had a try yet.

GERALD. They're trying every day. They just simply couldn't control
modern industry--they haven't the intelligence. They've no LIFE
intelligence. The owners may have little enough, but Labour has none.
They're just mechanical little things that can make one or two motions,
and they're done. They've no more idea of life than a lawn-mower has.

JOB ARTHUR. It remains to be seen.

GERALD. No, it doesn't. It's perfectly obvious--there's nothing remains
to be seen. All that Labour is capable of, is smashing things up. And
even for that I don't believe it has either the energy or the courage or
the bit of necessary passion, or slap-dash--call it whatever you will.
However, we'll see.

JOB ARTHUR. Yes, sir. Perhaps you see now why you're not so very
popular, Mr. Gerald.

GERALD. We can't all be popular, Job Arthur. You're very high up in
popularity, I believe.

JOB ARTHUR. Not so very. They listen to me a bit. But you never know
when they'll let you down. I know they'll let me down one day--so it
won't be a surprise.

GERALD. I should think not.

JOB ARTHUR. But about the office men, Mr. Gerald. You think it'll be all
right?

GERALD. Oh, yes, that'll be all right.

JOB ARTHUR. Easiest for this time, anyhow, sir. We don't want bloodshed,
do we?

GERALD. I shouldn't mind at all. It might clear the way to something.
But I have absolutely no belief in the power of Labour even to bring
about anything so positive as bloodshed.

JOB ARTHUR. I don't know about that--I don't know. Well.

GERALD. Have another drink before you go.--Yes, do. Help yourself.

JOB ARTHUR. Well--if you're so pressing. (Helps himself.) Here's luck,
all!

ALL. Thanks.

GERALD. Take a cigar--there's the box. Go on--take a handful--fill your
case.

JOB ARTHUR. They're a great luxury nowadays, aren't they? Almost beyond
a man like me.

GERALD. Yes, that's the worst of not being a bloated capitalist. Never
mind, you'll be a Cabinet Minister some day.--Oh, all right--I'll open
the door for you.

JOB ARTHUR. Oh, don't trouble. Good night--good night. (Exeunt.)

OLIVER. Oh, God, what a world to live in!

ANABEL. I rather liked him. What is he?

OLIVER. Checkweighman--local secretary for the Miner's Federation--plays
the violin well, although he was a collier, and it spoilt his hands.
They're a musical family.

ANABEL. But isn't he rather nice?

OLIVER. I don't like him. But I confess he's a study. He's