“Every man thinking of himself, of his own precious skin!” sneered Hardin.
Hollister and the Youngbergs were seen taking their seats near the orchestra stand, behind the bickering merry Blinns. Morton was filling the other proscenium with his eastern guests.
Brandon had to surrender to an attack of coughing. He leaned, spent, against the wall. “That audience,” he gasped, “represents several million dollars—of dissatisfaction.” The phrase had come to him in his paroxysm. He would use it in his story for the Sun. If there was a story.
“If Marshall expects to coerce those men, I lose my guess. Then he’s no judge of men,” cried Hardin. “Look at those faces.” The floor was a sea of impassioned features.
“Something’s going to drop,” echoed Brandon.
From the wings, Babcock’s inquisitive glasses were seen to sweep the house. Hardin could catch the summons of an excited forefinger to the group unseen. There was a minute of delay. Then Babcock’s nervous toddle carried him on to the stage which had been set for Robin Hood, the scenery deserted when the singers had rushed out of the valley. Babcock’s striped, modern trousers looked absurdly anachronistic against the background of old England. There was a titter from Morton’s proscenium box where the lorgnettes were flashing.
De la Vega followed Babcock. There was a hush of curiosity. The house did not know who he was. Behind him, soldierly, stiff, stalked MacLean. Marshall’s entrance released the tongues. There was an interval of confusion on the stage. Babcock, like a restless terrier, was snapping at the heels of the party. At last, they were all fussily seated. De la Vega was given the place of honor. Marshall, Babcock put on his left, MacLean on the right.
Babcock raised his staccate gavel. A hush fell on the house. His words were clipped and sharp.
“You have left your plowing to come here. You are anxious to hear what we have to say to you. You can not afford to be indifferent to it. You acknowledge, by your presence, a dependence, a correlation which you would like to deny. Irrigation means cooperation, suffering together, struggling together, succeeding together. You prefer the old individual way, each man for himself. I tell you it won’t do. You belong in other countries, the countries of old-fashioned rain. You want to hear what we have to say to you, the company who saved the valley, the company you are suing. But you have also suits against Mexico. There is a gentleman here who has a message from Mexico about those suits. I have the honor, gentlemen, to introduce, Señor de la Vega.”
There was a gentle stir of released hazards. The Spaniard approached the footlights, his survey sweeping the house.