“That will do! That will do!” thundered the toastmaster, succeeding, after divers trials, in breaking in upon the narrative. “Remove him. At once! And as quietly as you can.—I am more sorry than I can say,” he went on urbanely, addressing the guests, “that such a disgraceful scene should have—”
A howl from the man on the floor cut short the apology. Two servants had approached to do the toastmaster’s bidding. As the first of them seized him by the shoulder the little man screamed like a mad cat. Locking his legs about the pillar, he turned upon his assailants with fists and teeth, fighting with the deadly, unscientific fury of a cornered wild thing. The scrimmage that followed set the room in dire confusion. To end which, the toastmaster so far unbent as to rush among the combatants and order back his myrmidons. The attendants drew away, disheveled, bleeding, robbed of the spruce neatness that was the Arareek’s pride. The defender’s jacket had been torn off. There was a slight cut on his forehead. But his little bloodshot eyes glared with undiminished drunken defiance; nor had his opponents’ best efforts dislodged his legs from about the pillar.
“Oh, the sacred Arareek!” muttered Caine, leaning across toward Conover. “Dillingham will be in hysterics in another minute. The sanctity of his state dinner shattered just when he was at his asinine best! See, some of the women are starting to go. If they leave, it’ll break his heart.”
But Caleb did not hear. Almost alone of all those in the room, he had shown no excitement. Fights were no novelty to him. Bent forward, yet emotionless, his eyes had never once left the distorted face of the drunken interloper.
“Leave me be!” the latter was demanding in a squealing hiccough, as the cessation of attack left him breath for words. “Leave me be, can’t yer? Fine lot—swellsh you are, to pick on one poor old man what never harmed none of you! Lemme ’lone!” as Dillingham with thoughts of diplomacy, edged closer. “That—that feller called me—p—panhandler! ’S a lie! I’m honesh, ’spectible workin’ man. Fought for m’ country in S-S-Shivil war. Got m’ hon’rable-dishcharge. Fought for m’ country while the most of you was in—in y’r cradles. I’m drunk too,” he confided squinting up at the unnerved Dillingham. “Drunk—or I wouldn’t a’ stholen thoshe thingsh. Perfec’ly shquare when I’m shober. Perf’ly. Learned t’drink while I was d—d’fendin’ m’ country. I’m—”
His voice scaled a note or two, broke, and then meandered on, in time to prevent Dillingham’s interruption. His tone had shifted once more from the explanatory to the pugnacious.
“If I had had my—my rightsh!” he bellowed, shrilly, glaring about him. “I’d be ridin’ in my carr’ge—m’own carr’ge! Yesh! Thash right. Own carr’ge. Got a boy whoshe rich—rich man. Whatsh’e do for me? Noshin’t’all! Don’t ev’n know I’m ’live. Till I struck Granite t’night, I didn’t know he’sh ’live. Firsh time been here in twenty yearsh. They shent m’t’ jail, lasht time, dammem! Poor ol’ Saul Con’ver!”
He broke into senile, weak sobbing. And, from all over the room rose a confused whispering, a rustle, an indefinable electric thrill. Women whose escorts had led them to the door, halted and looked back in crass interest. Men glanced at one another, muttering queries that found no answer. Even Dillingham forgot at last his faint hope of restoring the shattered function to its former banal calm.
Pair by pair, all eyes slowly focussed on Caleb Conover. But the most imaginative gazer could not descry emotion—whether of surprise, chagrin or fear—on the heavy mask of the Fighter’s face. For a moment there was a hush. The old man on the floor still sobbed in maudlin fashion. But no one heeded him. Then Caine arose.
“I think,” he began, his pleasant, low-pitched voice breaking in like a dash of cool water on his hearers’ superheated senses, “I think there is no need for any of us to magnify this trifling break in our jolly evening; nor to allow it to mar in any way our spirit of good fellowship. May I propose that we—?”