The big river-driver
represented their natural instincts, their native fanaticism, their
prejudices. But the old man spoke once more.
"Ingolby wants Lebanon and Manitou to come together, not to fall apart,"
he declared. "He wants peace. If he gets rich here he won't get rich
alone. He's working for both towns. If he brings money from outside,
that's good for both towns. If he--"
"Shut your mouth, let Ingolby speak for himself," snarled the big river-
driver. "Take his dollars out of your pocket and put them on the bar,
the dollars Ingolby gives you to say all this. Put them dollars of
Ingolby's up for drinks, or we'll give you a jar that'll shake you, old
wart-hog."
At that instant a figure forced itself through the crowd, and broke into
the packed circle which was drawing closer upon the old man.
It was Jethro Fawe. He flung a hand out towards the old man.
"You want Ingolby--well, that's Ingolby," he shouted.
Like lightning the old man straightened himself, snatched the wig and
beard away from his head and face, and with quiet fearlessness said:
"Yes, I am Ingolby."
For an instant there was absolute silence, in which Ingolby weighed his
chances.
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