"
He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed the soldered
bottom of it.
He was alone in the bar of Barbazon's Hotel except for one person--the
youngest of the officials who had been retired from the offices of the
railways when Ingolby had merged them. This was a man who had got his
position originally by nepotism, and represented the worst elements of a
national life where the spoils system is rooted in the popular mind. He
had, however, a little residue of that discipline which, working in a
great industrial organization, begets qualms as to extreme courses.
He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: "I'd never
believe in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had it in the
palm of my hand. He's as deep as a well, and when he's quietest it's
good to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, that badger."
"He's skinned this time all right," was Marchand's reply. "To-morrow'll
be the biggest day Manitou's had since the Indian lifted his wigwam and
the white man put down his store. Listen--hear them! They're coming!"
He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voices could
be heard without.
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