Judge Pollak bent upon Mr. Greenbaum a withering glance.
"Did your firm sell any of its holdings in Horse's Neck after the issuance of that circular?"
Greenbaum hesitated. He would have liked to wring that judge's neck.
"Why—how do I know? We may have."
"Did you?"
"Say 'yes,' for God's sake," hissed Chippingham "or you'll land in the pen!"
"I am informed that we did," answered Greenbaum defiantly. "That is, I don't say we did. Very likely we did. Our books would show. But I repeat—we disavow this circular and we deny any responsibility for this man, Elderberry."
This man, Elderberry, who for twelve long years had writhed under the biting lash of his employer's tongue, hating him with a hatred known only to those in subordinate positions who are bribed to suffer the "whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely," quivered and saw red. He was going to be made the goat! They expected him to take all the responsibility and give them a clean slate! The nerve of it! To hell with them! Suddenly he began to cry, shockingly, with deep stertorous suspirations.
"No—you won't!" he hiccuped. "You shan't lay the blame on me! I'll tell the truth, I will! I won't stand for it! Your Honor, they want to reorganize Horse's Neck because they think there's a vein in Amphalula that crosses one of the old workings and that it'll make the property worth millions and millions."
Utter silence descended upon the court room—silence broken only by the slow ticktack of the self-winding clock on the rear wall and the whine of the electric cars on Park Row. One of the tall hats crept quietly to the door and vanished. The others sat like images.