Lanigan had forced his way close to the foot of the plinth where the mayor was elevated. The commander's head was tipped back, his goggling eyes were full of anguished rebuke, and his mouth was wide open. 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. "Keep your hands off him! Let him come!" "They're going over him for a gat, Mister Mayor," called Lanigan. "I've given 'em one lesson in that line this evening, already!" The volunteers who were patting the disturber released him. The patting had not been in the way of encouragement. "Nothing on him! Let him go!" commanded one of the searchers.