Galt stood up. The court eyed him curiously until the lawyers began to speak. The District Attorney wanted bail fixed at one million dollars. The court shook its head. Galt’s lawyers asked that he be released on his own recognizance. The court shook its head again. After a long wrangle it was fixed at $100,000, which the lawyers were prepared to provide on the spot. Getting out was an ordeal. By this time the court room was stuffed with morbid humanity. Reporters surrounded Galt, adhered to him, laid hands upon him to get his attention. He made continually the gesture of brushing away flies from his face. The stairway and corridors were jammed. As we emerged on the street screaming newsboys offered us the evening papers with eight-column headlines: “Galt Indicted”--“Galt Arrested”--“Galt May Go To Jail.” From the steps across the pavement to a cab I had in waiting an open aisle had been broken through the mob by photographers, who had their cameras trained to catch Galt as we passed. He looked straight ahead, walking rapidly, but not in haste. “Where to?” he asked, as the door of the cab slammed behind us. “Anywhere first, to get out of this,” I said. “Let’s go to the club,” he said. I knew which one he meant. Though he was a member of several clubs he went always to one. As we entered the big, quiet red lounging room, five bankers, three of whom had been counted among Galt’s supporters, were seated in various postures of ease, their minds absorbed in the evening papers. Galt’s emotions were those of a boy who, having outrun the cops, lands with a whoop in the arms of his gang. He tossed his hat aside and shouted: “Wh-e-e-e! Wo-o-ow!” The five bankers looked up, rose as one, and stalked out of the room. For a minute Galt did not understand what had happened. He saw them rise as he sat down and evidently thought they were coming to him. When they did not arrive he turned his head casually, then with a start he looked all around at the empty space. His eyes had a startled expression when they met mine again and his face was an ashen color. He made as if to ring the bell, hesitated, looked all around once more, and said: “Well, Coxey, let’s go home.” iii I began to fear he might collapse. The strain was telling. At the house a servant admitted us. There was no one else in sight. We went directly to his apartment. He tore off his collar and lay for some time quite still staring straight ahead. “We are the goat,” he said. “They put it on us, Coxey. That’s all.... They will, eh?... Valentine and his newspaper friends ... those magpies at Washington ... we’ll give them something to set their teeth. Now take down what I’m going to say. Put it in the form of a signed statement to the press. Are you ready?” He dictated: