“What’ve you got to say about it? I’ve been coming and going here for ten years. I belong—bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurry up. We’ve got work to do. We’re going to raise hell in Lebanon.”
“And give hell to Ingolby,” shouted some one in the crowd.
“Suppose Ingolby isn’t there?” questioned the old man.
“Oh, that’s one of your questions, is it?” sneered the big river-driver. “Well, if you knew him as we do, you’d know that it’s at night-time he sits studyin’ how he’ll cut Lebanon’s throat. He’s home, all right. He’s in Lebanon anyhow, and we’ll find him.”
“Well, but wait a minute—be quiet a bit,” said the old man, his eyes blinking slowly at the big riverdriver. “I’ve been ‘round a good deal, and I’ve had some experience in the world. Did you ever give that Ingolby a chance to tell you what his plans were? Did you ever get close to him and try to figure what he was driving at? There’s no chance of getting at the truth if you don’t let a man state his case—but no. If he can’t make you see his case then is the time to jib, not before.”
“Oh, get out!” cried a rowdy English road-maker in the crowd. “We know all right what Ingolby’s after.”
“Eh, well, what is he after?” asked the old man looking the other in the eye.
“What’s he after? Oof-oof-oof, that’s what he’s after. He’s for his own pocket, he’s for being boss of all the woolly West. He’s after keeping us poor and making himself rich. He’s after getting the cinch on two towns and three railways, and doing what he likes with it all; and we’re after not having him do it, you bet. That’s how it is, old hoss.”
The other stroked his beard with hands which, somehow, gave little indication of age, and then, with a sudden jerk forward of his head, he said: “Oh, it’s like that, eh? Is that what M’sieu’ Marchand told you? That’s what he said, is it?”
The big river-driver, eager to maintain his supreme place as leader, lunged forward a step, and growled a challenge.