Part 14 (1/2)

”I can't humor you to that extent,” replied Morrison, in the tone of a father denying indulgence in the case of a wilful child.

He got between the man and the mob. He held Krylovensky from him with one hand and put up the other protestingly, authoritatively.

”No man that's a real man lets another man bang him in the face,” declared Lanigan with fury.

”That's a nice point, to be argued later by us when things are quieter, Joe. Stand back!”

”I'm going to kill him even if you haven't got the grit to do it.” Lanigan was showing the bitter disappointment of a wors.h.i.+per kicking among the fragments of a shattered idol.

”I won't allow you to do that, Joe! A dead man can't answer questions.

Stand back, all of you, I say!” He twisted the grip of his hand in the man's collar until Krylovensky ceased his struggles.

”Do you work in this city?” asked the mayor.

”He works in the Conawin,” shouted Lanigan. ”And I shook him down this evening for a gun, a k.n.o.b-knocker, and a lot of red flags.”

Blanchard was backed against the big Stars and Stripes, apprehensively seeking refuge from the crowd ma.s.sing on the platform. Morrison caught his eye. ”Seems to be one of your patriots, Blanchard! Shall I hand him over to you?”

”I never saw the renegade before.”

”I'm sorry you don't get into your mill the way I do into mine. I'd like to know something about this gentleman who doesn't show any inclination to speak for himself.”

”I'm not afraid to speak,” declared the captive, all cautiousness burned out of him by the fires of his martyr zeal. ”I'm an amba.s.sador of the grand and good Soviet Government of Russia.”

The mayor preserved his serenity.

”Ah, I think I understand! One of the estimable gentlemen who have been coming to us by the way of the Mexican border of late! When you picked up such a good command of our language, my friend, it's too bad you didn't pick up a better understanding of our country. I haven't any time just now to give you an idea of it, sir. I'll have a talk with you to-morrow.”

The mayor had seen Officer Rellihan at the door of the hall. As a satellite, Rellihan was constant in his attendance on his controlling luminary in public places, even though the luminary issued no special orders to that effect; Morrison's intended visit to the hall had been quickly advertised down-town.

Stewart glanced about him and found Rellihan at his elbow.

”Here's the honorable amba.s.sador of Soviet Russia, Rellihan,” said his chief. ”Take him along with you, keep harm from him on the way, and see that he is well lodged for the night in a place where enemies can't get at him.”

”I know just the right place, Your Honor,” stated the policeman, pulling his club from his belt and waving it to part the throng.

Morrison broke in upon Lanigan's mumbled threats. ”Mind your manners, Joe!”

”But he hit you!”

The mayor picked up his garments, one by one, inspected them, and dusted them with his palm; then he pulled them on. The crowd gazed at him.

”He hit you!” Lanigan insisted, bellicosely. ”When a man hits me, I lick him!”

”You're a good fighter, Joe,” agreed His Honor, running his forearm about his silk hat to smooth the nap. ”But let me tell you something! Unless you put yourself in better shape there'll be a fellow some day that you'll want to lick, and you won't be able to lick him, and you'll be almighty sorry because you can't turn the trick.”

”Show me the feller, Mister Mayor!”

”Go look in the gla.s.s, Joe.”