"Throw him out! Throw him out!" Farrell kept screaming above the
hubbub. "How would _he_ treat a dog?--"
"The man's demented," said I--and with that I heard a bench or a
chair go crack like a revolver-shot. It might have been a shot
starting a sprint; for close on top of it about a dozen fellows leapt
out into the gangway, while three or four charged forward through the
audience, where the women had already started to scream.
There was nothing for it but prompt action. Jimmy and I swung
ourselves down over the front of the platform. This gave us a fair
start of the crowd, but it didn't give us any time to argue with Foe,
who still stood glaring up at Farrell, ready to put in another retort
as soon as he could get a hearing. Of the danger rushing down on him
either he wasn't aware or he cared nothing for it. Jimmy caught him
by the waist, and grinned intelligently as I pointed to the emergency
exit around the corner of the platform.
"Right-O! Hold the curtain aside for me. . . . Along you come,
Professor! Be a good child and don't kick nursy .
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