Down-stairs, Babcock’s gavel rapped unheard. Behind the excited figure wielding the stick, sat Marshall, his unreadable, sweet smile on his face. His eyes were on Babcock, who was vainly clamoring for order. “Program that meeting?”
Hollister was trying to make himself heard to Barton over two rows of seats, but his voice was like a child’s on an ocean beach. Barton was surrounded by eager anxious men. The audience had split into circles of haranguing centers. It was impossible to get attention. Hardin could see Marshall pull Babcock by the tails of his coat. Unwillingly, he could see Babcock allow the crowd five minutes by his consulted watch. Then again, the gavel danced on the table. Marshall was still smiling. Babcock’s shrill voice split the din. “Order.” The ocean of voices swallowed him again.
“We won’t let them in,” Grace was bellowing, “the valley won’t stand for it.”
“Take your medicine,” thundered the big organ of Barton. “I warned you, Imperial Valley.”
“Betrayal,” groaned the crowd.
“A pretty international block.” Brandon was smiling, too. This was better than he had expected. A rattling good story the Sun would have. Bertha would read it over her breakfast rolls. “This is history.”
Down in the orchestra, Barton was holding a hurry-up meeting of the water companies. De la Vega had stepped back and was consulting with Tod Marshall.
Babcock pulled out his watch, his gavel calling for attention. This time he was heard.
De la Vega approached the footlights, a questioning look on his face.
“We ask for a little time,” began Barton. Instantly the house was on its feet. “Withdraw the suits. Give him your answer. Give him our answer. We don’t want the Service. The valley don’t want the Service. Withdraw the suits.”