Touch and Go Part 21

Which way are we to steer? Come--give the word, and let's gee-up.

JOB ARTHUR. You ask me which way we are to go. I say we can't go our own way, because of the obstacles that lie in front. You've got to remove the obstacles from the way.

WILLIE. So said Balaam's a.s.s. But you're not an a.s.s--beg pardon; and you're not Balaam--you're Job. And we've all got to be little Jobs, learning how to spell patience backwards. We've lost our jobs and we've found a Job. It's picking up a scorpion when you're looking for an egg.--Tell us what you propose doing.... Remove an obstacle from the way! What obstacle? And whose way?

JOB ARTHUR. I think it's pretty plain what the obstacle is.

WILLIE. Oh, ay. Tell us then.

JOB ARTHUR. The obstacle to Labour is Capital.

WILLIE. And how are we going to put salt on Capital's tail?

JOB ARTHUR. By Labour we mean us working men; and by Capital we mean those that derive benefit from us, take the cream off us and leave us the skim.

WILLIE. Oh, yes.

JOB ARTHUR. So that, if you're going to remove the obstacle, you've got to remove the masters, and all that belongs to them. Does everybody agree with me?

VOICES (loud). Ah, we do--yes--we do that--we do an' a'--yi--yi--that's it!

WILLIE. Agreed unanimously. But how are we going to do it? Do you propose to send for Williamson's furniture van, to pack them in? I should think one pantechnicon would do, just for this parish. I'll drive. Who'll be the vanmen to list and carry?

JOB ARTHUR. It's no use fooling. You've fooled for thirty years, and we're no further. What's got to be done will have to be begun. It's for every man to sweep in front of his own doorstep. You can't call your neighbours dirty till you've washed your own face. Every parish has got its own vermin, and it's the business of every parish to get rid of its own.

VOICES. That's it--that's it--that's the ticket--that's the style!

WILLIE. And are you going to comb 'em out, or do you propose to use Keating's?

VOICES. Shut it! Shut it up! Stop thy face! Hold thy gab!--Go on, Job Arthur.

JOB ARTHUR. How it's got to be done is for us all to decide. I'm not one for violence, except it's a force-put. But it's like this. We've been travelling for years to where we stand now--and here the road stops.

There's a precipice below and a rock-face above. And in front of us stand the masters. Now there's three things we can do. We can either throw ourselves over the precipice; or we can lie down and let the masters walk over us; or we can GET ON.

WILLIE. Yes. That's all right. But how are you going to get on?

JOB ARTHUR. Well--we've either got to throw the obstacle down the cliff--or walk over it.

VOICES. Ay--ay--ay--yes--that's a fact.

WILLIE. I quite follow you, Job Arthur. You've either got to do for the masters--or else just remove them, and put them somewhere else.

VOICES. Get rid on 'em--drop 'em down the shaft--sink 'em--ha' done wi' 'em--drop 'em down the shaft--bust the beggars--what do you do wi'

vermin?

WILLIE. Supposing you begin. Supposing you take Gerald Barlow, and hang him up from his lamp-post, with a piece of coal in his mouth for a sacrament---

VOICES. Ay--serve him right--serve the beggar right! Shove it down's throttle--ay!

WILLIE. Supposing you do it--supposing you've done it--and supposing you aren't caught and punished--even supposing that--what are you going to do next?--THAT'S the point.

JOB ARTHUR. We know what we're going to do. Once we can get our hands free, we know what we're going to do.

WILLIE. Yes, so do I. You're either going to make SUCH a mess that we shall never get out of it--which I don't think you will do, for the English working man is the soul of obedience and order, and he'd behave himself to-morrow as if he was at Sunday school, no matter what he does to-day.--No, what you'll do, Job Arthur, you'll set up another lot of masters, such a jolly sight worse than what we've got now. I'd rather be mastered by Gerald Barlow, if it comes to mastering, than by Job Arthur Freer--oh, SUCH a lot! You'll be far less free with Job Arthur for your boss than ever you were with Gerald Barlow. You'll be far more degraded.--In fact, though I've preached socialism in the market-place for thirty years--if you're going to start killing the masters to set yourselves up as bosses--why, kill me along with the masters. For I'd rather die with somebody who has one tiny little spark of decency left--though it 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 ma.s.s 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!