Jake nearly wept with rage. He—the president of a political club, the dreaded leader of a murderous gang—held up in such a manner for the mockery of a lot of working-men!
"I asked you where you were taking this young lady," Longman repeated.
"I brought her here," Jake snarled, trying desperately to regain his sang froid. "I guess I can take her away when she's tired of the show."
"Yes. Of course you can take her away, if she wants to go. But you can't if she doesn't. I didn't catch your name," he continued, turning to Yetta, "but I'd be very glad to see you safely home, whenever you want to go. Would you prefer to go with me or with this—" he looked first at the wilted desperado in his grip and then at the little circle of men who had gathered about. "He's a Cadet, isn't he, comrades?"
There was a growl of assent.
"You ain't going to throw me down now, are you, Yetta," Jake pleaded, the thought of losing her suddenly undoing what he considered his manhood, "just because this gang has picked on me."
"Of course you can go with him if you want to," Longman said kindly. "But really I think you'd better not. You won't do much for Freedom if you go with him."
"I'll stay," Yetta said simply.
And then Jake began to curse and threaten.