Lanigan leaped off the platform, not bothering with the stairs. "I'm going
to wade through this grass," he yelped. "God pity the rattlesnake I
locate!"
A shrill voice from somewhere dared to taunt, "Pipe the dude!"
Morrison smiled. He had unbuttoned his topcoat, and his evening garb, in
that congress of the rough and ready, made him as conspicuous as a bird of
paradise in a rookery. "I seem to be double-crossed by my scenic effects,
Blanchard," he stated in an aside to the magnate, who had stepped upon the
platform because that elevation seemed safer than a position on the floor.
"We must fix that! Furthermore, it's hot up here!" He pulled off his
top-coat. He realized that the full display of his formal dress only
aggravated the situation. In St. Ronan's mill he mingled with men in his
shirtsleeves. He turned and saw Nicolai Krylovensky in the chair where
Lanigan had thrust him. There was no other chair on the platform. Stewart
hastily laid the coat across the alien's knees. "Keep 'em out of the dirt
for me, will you, brother? I'm notional about good cloth!" He pushed his
silk hat into the man's hand and then he stripped off the claw-hammer and
white waistcoat, piled them upon the overcoat; and whirled to face his
audience.
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