Barton’s moon face looked troubled. “We can’t answer for all the ranchers.”
“Yes, you can,” screamed Grace, jumping up and down like a baboon. “If you don’t, I’ll answer for them. Don’t you see, it’s a trick? It’s a trick. I see the hand of the O. P. in this.” Friendly hands pulled him down into his seat.
The audience was chanting. “Withdraw the suits. Take your medicine.—Don’t lose the concession.—Lord, the Service!—Give them the answer, now.”
Barton held up a withered hand. The undeveloped body was dignified by the splendid head. “Don’t withdraw your concession. I think I can say that Mexico will not be sued.”
Again, the shout went up. “Answer like a man. Think! Good lord! Say we withdraw the suits!”
“We withdraw the claims against Mexico.” Barton sat down to a sudden hush. The first blood had been let.
Once more Babcock’s glasses swept the house. He rapped the table.
“That’s not all. We’ve got more to say to you. Gentlemen, Mr. Marshall.”
Marshall stepped forward to a silence which was a variety of tribute.
He bowed. “I will be brief. Mr. Faraday has asked me to take his place here this afternoon. It’s only fair. If it were not for my interference, he would not be involved in this situation. I think you will grant that it is Mr. Faraday’s company which can save the valley?”