"Wait a minute, my friends!" it cried. "Wait a minute. Let's ask a few
questions first."
"Who's he?" asked a dozen voices. "What's he going to say?" The mob moved
again towards the bar.
The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside the
bar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech.
"What've you got to say about it, son?" he asked threateningly.
"Well, to ask a few questions first--that's all," the old man replied.
"You don't belong here, old cock," the other said roughly.
"A good many of us don't belong here," the old man replied quietly. "It
always is so. This isn't the first time I've been to Manitou. You're a
river-driver, and you don't live here either," he continued.
"What've you got to say about it? I've been coming and going here for ten
years. I belong--bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurry up. We've got
work to do. We're going to raise hell in Lebanon."
"And give hell to Ingolby," shouted some one in the crowd.
"Suppose Ingolby isn't there?" questioned the old man.
"Oh, that's one of your questions, is it?" sneered the big river-driver.
"Well, if you knew him as we do, you'd know that it's at night-time he
sits studyin' how he'll cut Lebanon's throat. He's home, all right.
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