“Sic 'em!” said No. 12, under his breath.
“Moreover,” went on Sampson, smiling—but mirthlessly—“I am assuming that your exercises as a hat salesman are not such as one gets in a first-class gymnasium. I hope you will pardon me for asking you to repeat the word you just uttered. I think it was 'piffle.'”
Mr. Hooper grinned. He didn't feel like grinning but something psychological told him to do it—and to do it as quickly as possible. “Aw, don't get sore, old man. Forget it!”
“Certainly,” said Sampson.
The foreman seized the opportunity. “There, now, that's better. At last we seem to Be getting together.”
No. 7 spoke up. “This might be a good time to take another ballot. It's 'leven minutes to one by my watch. We stand 'leven to one. That's a good sign. Say, do you know that's pretty darned smart, if I do say it myself who—”
“Let's have Mr. Sampson's revised views on the subject and then take a final ballot for tonight,” said the foreman, wearily.
“I haven't revised my views,” said Sampson.
There were several draughty sighs. “I've stated them five or six times to-night, and I see no reason to alter them now. Deeply as I regret it, I cannot conscientiously do anything but vote for a conviction.”
“Now, listen to me once more, Mr. Sampson,” began the chubby bachelor. “I'll try to set you straight in—”