At Kyle’s question his eyes lighted up with a fire that was struck from a flint in other spheres, and he answered: “It is for the ruler to take life, not the subject. If it is a man that rules, it is for him; if it is the law that rules, it is for the law. Here, it is the law. Then it is not for the subject, and it is not for you.”
“If he was your son?” asked Billy Kyle.
“If he was my son, I should be the ruler, not the law,” was the grim, enigmatic reply, and the old man stalked away from them towards the bridge.
“I’d bet he’d settle the dago’s hash that done to his son what the Manitou dagos done to Ingolby—and settle it quick,” remarked Lick Farrelly, the tinsmith.
“I bet he’s been a ruler or something somewhere,” remarked Billy Kyle.
“I bet I’m going home to breakfast,” interposed Halliday, the lawyer. “There’s a straight day’s work before us, gentlemen,” he added, “and we can’t do anything here. Orangemen, let’s hoof it.”
Twenty Orangemen stepped out from the crowd. Halliday was a past master of their lodge, and they all meant what he meant. They marched away in procession—to breakfast and to a meeting of the lodge. Others straggled after, but a few waited for the appearance of the doctor. When the sun came up and Rockwell, pale and downcast, issued forth, they gathered round him, and walked with him through the town, questioning, listening and threatening.
A few still remained behind at Ingolby’s house. They were of the devoted slaves of Ingolby who would follow him to the gates of Hades and back again, or not back if need be.
The nigger barber, Berry, was one; another was the Jack-of-all-trades, Osterhaut, a kind of municipal odd-man, with the well-known red hair, the face that constantly needed shaving, the blue serge shirt with a scarf for a collar, the suit of canvas in the summer and of Irish frieze in the winter; the pair of hands which were always in his own pocket, never in any one else’s; the grey eye, doglike in its mildness, and the long nose which gave him the name of Snorty. Of the same devoted class also was Jowett who, on a higher plane, was as wise and discerning a scout as any leader ever had.
While old Berry and Osterhaut and all the others were waiting at Ingolby’s house, Jowett was scouting among the Manitou roughs for the Chief Constable of Lebanon, to find out what was forward. What he had found was not reassuring, because Manitou, conscious of being in the wrong, realized that Lebanon would try to make her understand her wrong-doing; and that was intolerable. It was clear to Jowett that, in spite of all, there would be trouble at the Orange funeral, and that the threatened strike would take place at the same time in spite of Ingolby’s catastrophe. Already in the early morning revengeful spirits from Lebanon had invaded the outer portions of Manitou and had taken satisfaction out of an equal number of “Dogans,” as they called the Roman Catholic labourers, one of whom was carried to the hospital with an elbow out of joint and a badly injured back.