Touch and Go

that the office should have set it going, Breffitt.

  BREFFITT. It's none of the office's doing, I think you'll find, Mr.

  Gerald. The office men did nothing but ask for a just advance--at

  any rate, time and prices being what they are, I consider it a fair

  advance. If the men took it up, it's because they've got a set of

  loud-mouthed blatherers and agitators among them like Job Arthur

  Freer, who deserve to be hung--and hanging they'd get, if I could

  have the judging of them.

  GERALD. Well--it's very unfortunate--because we can't give the clerks

  their increase now, you know.

  BREFFITT. Can't you?--can't you? I can't see that it would be

  anything out of the way, if I say what I think.

  GERALD. No. They won't get any increase now. It shouldn't have been

  allowed to become a public cry with the colliers. We can't give in

  now.

  BREFFITT. Have the Board decided that?

  GERALD. They have--on my advice.

  BREFFITT. Hm!--then the men will come out.

  GERALD. We will see.

  BREFFITT. It's trouble for nothing--it's trouble that could be

  avoided. The clerks could have their advance, and it would hurt

  nobody.

  GERALD. Too late now.--I suppose if the men come out, the clerks

  will come out with them?

  BREFFITT. They'll have to--they'll have to.

  GERALD. If they do, we may then make certain alterations in the

  office staff which have needed making for some time.

  BREFFITT. Very good--very good. I know what you mean.--I don't know

  how your father bears all this, Mr. Gerald.

  GERALD. We keep it from him as much as possible.--You'll let the

  clerks know the decision. And if they stay out with the men, I'll

  go over the list of the staff with you. It has needed revising for

  a long time.

  BREFFITT. I know what you mean--I know what you mean--I believe I

  understand the firm's interest in my department. I ought, after

  forty years studying it. I've studied the firm's interest for forty

  years, Mr. Gerald. I'm not likely to forget them now.

  GERALD. Of course.

  BREFFITT. But I think it's a mistake--I think it's a mistake, and

  I'm bound to say it, to let a great deal of trouble rise for a very

  small cause. The clerks might have had what they reasonably asked

  her.

  GERALD. Well, it's too late now.

  BREFFITT. I suppose it is--I suppose it is. I hope you'll remember,

  sir, that I've put the interest of the firm before everything--before

  every consideration.

  GERALD. Of course, Breffitt.

  BREFFITT. But you've not had any liking for the office staff, I'm

  afraid, sir--not since your father put you amongst us for a few

  months.--Well, sir, we shall weather this gale, I hope, as we've

  weathered those in the past. Times don't become better, do they?

  Men are an ungrateful lot, and these agitators should be lynched.

  They would, if I had my way.

  GERALD. Yes, of course. Don't wait.

  BREFFITT. Good night to you. (Exit.)

  GERALD. Good night.

  ANABEL. He's the last, apparently.

  GERALD. We'll hope so.

  ANABEL. He puts you in a fury.

  GERALD. It's his manner. My father spoilt them--abominable old

  limpets. And they're so self-righteous. They think I'm a sort of

  criminal who has instigated this new devilish system which runs

  everything so close and cuts it so fine--as if they hadn't made this

  inevitable by their shameless carelessness and wastefulness in the

  past. He may well boast of his forty years--forty years' crass,

  stupid wastefulness.

  (Two or three more clerks pass, talking till they approach the seat,

  then becoming silent after bidding good night.)

  ANABEL. But aren't you a bit sorry for them?

  GERALD. Why? If they're poor, what does it matter in a world of

  chaos?

  ANABEL. And aren't you an obstinate ass not to give them the bit

  they want. It's mere stupid obstinacy.

  GERALD. It may be. I call it policy.

  ANABEL. Men always do call their obstinacy policy.

  GERALD. Well, I don't care what happens. I wish things would come

  to a head. I only fear they won't.

  ANABEL. Aren't you rather wicked?--ASKING for strife?

  GERALD. I hope I am. It's quite a relief to me to feel that I may

  be wicked. I fear I'm not. I can see them all anticipating victory,

  in their low-down fashion wanting to crow their low-down crowings.

  I'm afraid I feel it's a righteous cause, to cut a lot of little

  combs before I die.

  ANABEL. But if they're right in what they want?

  GERALD. In the right--in the right!--They're just greedy, incompetent,

  stupid, gloating in a sense of the worst sort of power. They're like

  vicious children, who would like to kill their parents so that they

  could have the run of the larder. The rest is just cant.

  ANABEL. If you're the parent in the case, I must say you flow over

  with loving-kindness for them.

  GERALD. I don't--I detest them. I only hope they will fight. If

  they would, I'd have some respect for them. But you'll see what it

  will be.

  ANABEL. I wish I needn't, for it's very sickening.

  GERALD. Sickening beyond expression.

  ANABEL. I wish we could go right away.

  GERALD. So do I--If one could get oneself out of this. But one

  can't. It's the same wherever you have industrialism--and you have

  industrialism everywhere, whether it's in Timbuctoo or Paraguay or

  Antananarivo.

  ANABEL. No, it isn't: you exaggerate.

  JOB ARTHUR (suddenly approaching from the other side). Good evening,

  Mr. Barlow. I heard you were in here. Could I have a word with you?

  GERALD. Get on with it, then.

  JOB ARTHUR. Is it right that you won't meet the clerks?

  GERALD. Yes.

  JOB ARTHUR. Not in any way?

  GERALD. Not in any way whatsoever.

  JOB ARTHUR. But--I thought I understood from you the other night---

  GERALD. It's all the same what you understood.

  JOB ARTHUR. Then you take it back, sir?

  GERALD. I take nothing back, because I gave nothing.

  JOB ARTHUR. Oh, excuse me, excuse me, sir. You said it would be all

  right about the clerks. This lady heard you say it.

  GERALD. Don't you call witnesses against me.--Besides, what does it

  matter to you? What in the name of---

  JOB ARTHUR. Well, sir, you said it would be all right, and I went on

  that---

  GERALD. You went on that! Where did you go to?

  JOB ARTHUR. The men'll be out on Monday.

  GERALD. So shall I.

  JOB ARTHUR. Oh, yes, but--where's it going to end?

  GERALD. Do you want me to prophesy? When did I set up for a public

  prophet?

  JOB ARTHUR. I don't know, sir. But perhaps you're doing more than

  you know. There's a funny feeling just now among the men.

  GERALD. So I've heard before. Why should I concern myself with

  their feelings? Am I to cry when every collier bumps his funny-bone

  --or to laugh?

  JO
B ARTHUR. It's no laughing matter, you see.

  GERALD. An I'm sure it's no crying matter--unless you want to cry,

  do you see?

  JOB ARTHUR. Ah, but, very likely, it wouldn't be me would cry.--You

  don't know what might happen, now.

  GERALD. I'm waiting for something to happen. I should like something

  to happen--very much--very much indeed.

  JOB ARTHUR. Yes, but perhaps you'd be sorry if it did happen.

  GERALD. Is that warning or a threat?

  JOB ARTHUR. I don't know--it might be a bit of both. What I mean to

  say---

  GERALD (suddenly seizing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking

  him). What do you mean to say?--I mean you to say less, do you see?

  --a great deal less--do you see? You've run on with your saying long

  enough: that clock had better run down. So stop your sayings--stop

  your sayings, I tell you--or you'll have them shaken out of you--

  shaken out of you--shaken out of you, do you see? (Suddenly flings

  him aside.)

  (JOB ARTHUR, staggering, falls.)

  ANABEL. Oh, no!--oh, no!

  GERALD. Now get up, Job Arthur; and get up wiser than you went down.

  You've played your little game and your little tricks and made your

  little sayings long enough. You're going to stop now. We've had

  quite enough of strong men of your stamp, Job Arthur--quite enough--

  such labour leaders as you.

  JOB ARTHUR. You'll be sorry, Mr. Barlow--you'll be sorry. You'll

  wish you'd not attacked me.

  GERALD. Don't you trouble about me and my sorrow. Mind your own.

  JOB ARTHUR. You will--you'll be sorry. You'll be sorry for what

  you've done. You'll wish you'd never begun this.

  GERALD. Begun--begun?--I'd like to finish, too, that I would. I'd

  like to finish with you, too--I warn YOU.

  JOB ARTHUR. I warn you--I warn you. You won't go on much longer.

  Every parish has its own vermin.

  GERALD. Vermin?

  JOB ARTHUR. Every parish has its own vermin; it lies with every

  parish to destroy its own. We sha'n't have a clean parish till

  we've destroyed the vermin we've got.

  GERALD. Vermin? The fool's raving. Vermin!--Another phrase-maker,

  by God! Another phrase-maker to lead the people.--Vermin? What

  vermin? I know quite well what _I_ mean by vermin, Job Arthur. But

  what do you mean? Vermin? Explain yourself.

  JOB ARTHUR. Yes, vermin. Vermin is what lives on other people's

  lives, living on their lives and profiting by it. We've got 'em in

  every parish--vermin, I say--that live on the sweat and blood of the

  people--live on it, and get rich on it--get rich through living on

  other people's lives, the lives of the working men--living on the

  bodies of the working men--that's vermin--if it isn't, what is it?

  And every parish must destroy its own--every parish must destroy its

  own vermin.

  GERALD. The phrase, my God! the phrase.

  JOB ARTHUR. Phrase or not phrase, there it is, and face it out if

  you can. There it is--there's not one in every parish--there's more

  than one--there's a number---

  GERALD (suddenly kicking him). Go! (Kicks him.) Go! (Kicks him.)

  go! (JOB ARTHUR falls.) Get out! (Kicks him.) Get out, I say!

  Get out, I tell you! Get out! Get out!--Vermin!--Vermin!--I'll

  vermin you! I'll put my foot through your phrases. Get up, I say,

  get up and go--GO!

  JOB ARTHUR. It'll be you as'll go, this time.

  GERALD. What? What?--By God! I'll kick you out of this park like a

  rotten bundle if you don't get up and go.

  ANABEL. No, Gerald, no. Don't forget yourself. It's enough now.

  It's enough now.--Come away. Do come away. Come away--leave him---

  JOB ARTHUR (still on the ground). It's your turn to go. It's you

  as'll go, this time.

  GERALD (looking at him). One can't even tread on you.

  ANABEL. Don't, Gerald, don't--don't look at him.--Don't say any more,

  you, Job Arthur.--Come away, Gerald. Come away--come--do come.

  GERALD (turning). THAT a human being! My God!--But he's right--

  it's I who go. It's we who go, Anabel. He's still there.--My God!

  a human being!

  (Curtain.)

  SCENE II

  Market-place as in Act I. WILLIE HOUGHTON, addressing a large

  crowd of men from the foot of the obelisk.

  WILLIE. And now you're out on strike--now you've been out for a week

  pretty nearly, what further are you? I heard a great deal of talk

  about what you were going to do. Well, what ARE you going to do?

  You don't know. You've not the smallest idea. You haven't any idea

  whatsoever. You've got your leaders. Now then, Job Arthur, throw a

  little light on the way in front, will you: for it seems to me we're

  lost in a bog. 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 ass. But you're not an ass--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 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