“And then by —! the —! —! —! —! band played!!” (every adjective was varied). “Oh Lord” (striking the desk), “if you weren’t his son! And if I hadn’t—well known you ever since you were a little whining prig of a boy, I’d throw you out of this little window; I would! Out of this little — side window. This dirty little,—little—, —, side window. As it is, I’ll do nothing more than throw you down the stairs!” [Illustration: “AND THEN THE BAND PLAYED”] Towards the end of this extraordinary harangue, Mr Abbott’s voice—huge in volume, rolling in tone, thunderously deep in note and menacing every species of violence in its mere sound—was shaking the walls of the old room; in the new, palatial offices without, clerks were cowering; though they were not unused to the echoes of such scenes. Cosmo was standing up, he was very pale, and his voice was only just master of itself; but he did not give way. He stepped backward and felt, without looking round, for the handle of the door, as Mr Abbott rose gigantic from beyond the table. And Cosmo said, very rapidly, as a light gun retreating fires one last, sharp, angry shell: “Then we will freeze you out.” With the last syllable of that final phrase he slammed the door, and rippled down the stairs into the street. About three seconds after he had turned the nearest corner, there was a roaring and a storm on the landing he had passed; there was terror in all the floors above, great boots upon the stairs, and Mr Abbott, still in his shirt-sleeves, was at the private door, glaring up and down the street, half apoplectic in the heat, and fearful to the passers-by. He turned, still holding all his rage, clanked up the stairs again, burst through the door of his little room and on into the splendid outer offices, all marble and mahogany, where his clerks were shivering like the doves in Virgil. He stood tremendous in the entry and roared at them all: “You heard that?—Freeze me out! Eh? You heard it all of you? You heard it, I say?” The wretched head clerk answered “Yes,” which was a lie. Mr Abbott’s voice sank a little, but only a little, as the sea sinks when the tide turns in a gale. “Ah! You heard it all. That’s better!” Then he went on again: “Freeze me out! Freeze out Charles Abbott of the Abbott Line! I’ll wring all their necks!” With that last pitiful, unpracticable, boasting threat, this mass of noise, this anachronism without strength or value, stooped to pass the low door, regained his sacred den, assumed his ancient wooden throne and sat there fuming for an hour. Long after, at dinner that evening, he found himself muttering once or twice: “Freeze me out!” and he felt blood coming up into his face. But in the Plantagenet Club, westward four miles, wiser and stronger men were deciding what had best be done for the M’Korio, for their England, and indeed for Mr Abbott himself. Far off in Norwood, Mr Burden slept. CHAPTER XI