"Who are you?" he demanded. There was a queer throaty sound in his
voice; yet he held himself (I thought) in fair control.
"My name is Foe," came the answer. Jack was still on his feet, his
face ashen, his eyes blazing behind his glasses. I had known him all
these years and never guessed him capable of such a white rage.
But the words came very slowly and deliberately. "My name is Foe.
I am the Professor with whom, just now, you said you hadn't the
pleasure to be acquainted--"
"Throw him out!" called a voice from one of the back rows.
I had expected that; had, as you might say, been waiting for it.
What caught me unprepared was its instant effect on Mr. Farrell.
He raised a fist and shook it. He fairly capered. "Yes, throw him
out! Throw him out!" He choked, spluttered and let it out almost in
a scream. I leaned forward for a sideways sight of his face.
"Gad! he's going to have a fit and tumble off the platform.
Stand by, Otty." Jimmy, reaching out a hand again for Mr. Farrell's
coat-tails, spoke the warning close in my ear, for by this time
twenty or thirty voices had taken up the cry, "Throw him out!" the
Chairman was hammering like mad for Order, and there was an ugly
shuffle of feet at the far end of the hall.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67