The thrill and hush spread from the centre. It ran whisperingly over the mass. The roar died away in the distance to right and left. Tecumseh Street was still, except for the crash where a policeman tore a board from the advertisements with a heave of burly shoulders, and plunged through into the darkness of empty lots.
The little room above was now crowded and silent, like the street. They laid Wood on the table with a coat under his head. He coughed and blinked his eyes at the familiar faces, leaning over him, strained and staring.
“You boys are foolish. Charlie Carroll—I want—take Hennion—Ranald Cam, you hear me! Becket—Tuttle.”
It was like a Roman emperor dispensing the succession, some worn Augustus leaving historic counsel out of his experience of good and evil and the cross-breeds of expediency—meaning by good, good for something, and by evil, good for nothing.
“Seems queer to be plugged at my time of life. Take Hennion. You ain't got any heads. Dick!”
Hennion stood over him. Wood looked up wistfully, as if there were something he would like to explain.
“The game's up to you, Dick. I played it the only way I knew how.”
The moon floated clear above the street, and mild and speculative. Ten minutes passed, twenty, thirty. The mass began to sway and murmur, then caught sight of Carroll in the window, lifting his hand, and was quiet.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Wood is dead.”
For a moment there was hardly a motion. Then the crowd melted away, shuffling and murmuring, into half a score of dim streets.