There was a formal pause. The official stenographer leaned toward Galt, speaking quietly, and took his name, age, address and occupation. The chairman said, “Proceed.”
Goldfuss poised himself for theatrical effect. He was a small, body-conscious man with a coarse, loose skin, very close shaven, powdered, sagging at the jowls; a tiny wire mustache, unblinking blue eyes close together and a voice like the sound of a file in the teeth of a rusty saw.
“So this is the great Galt,” he said, sardonically, slowly bobbing his head.
“And you,” said Galt, “are the Samuel Goldfuss who once tried to blackmail me for a million dollars.”
Oh, famous beginning! The crowd was tense with delight.
Goldfuss, looking aggrieved and disgusted, turned to the chairman, saying: “Will the Committee admonish the witness?”
The chairman took his leg down, carefully relighted a people’s cigar, and said: “Strike that off the record.... I will inform the witness that this is a Committee of Congress, with power to punish contumacious and disrespectful conduct.... The witness is warned to answer questions without any irrelevant remarks of his own.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Galt. “What was the question?”
The official stenographer read from his notes,—“So this is the great Galt.”