The man in the crowd yelped again, encouraged by his distance and by
Morrison's passivity under attack. "You think you own a mill. Your honest
workmen own it. You are a thief!"
"My Gawd!" Lanigan squawked, hoarsely. "Ain't it in you? Ain't a spark of
it in you?"
Morrison delivered sharp retort in an undertone. "Don't you know better
than to tangle my lines when I'm playing a fish? Shut up!" He tossed his
hand at the individual in the crowd, inviting him to speak further.
"You're a liar, tool" responded the disturber.
"That's a tame epithet, my friend. Commonly used in debate. I'm afraid
you're running out of ammunition. Haven't you anything really important to
say, now that I'm giving you the floor?"
Men were beginning to remonstrate and to threaten in behalf of the mayor
of the city.
"Hold on, boys!" Morrison entreated. "We must give our friend a minute
more if he really has anything to say. Otherwise we'll adjourn--"
The bait had been dangled ingratiatingly; a movement had been made to jerk
it away--the "fish" bit, promptly and energetically.
"I'll say it--I'll say what ought to be said--I'll shame the cowards
here!"
"Let Brother What's-his-name come along, boys! Please! Please!" The mayor
stretched forth his arms and urged persuasively.
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