“Why ain’t they no good?” boomed in Abner Beech’s deep, angry voice. He had moved back to the window.
“Because they ain’t, that’s enough!” returned the inspector. “Don’t block up the window, there! Others want to vote!”
“I’ll have the law on yez!” shouted Hurley. “I’ll swear me vote in! I’ll—I’ll—”
“Aw, shut up, you Mick!” some one called out close by, and then there rose another voice farther back in the group: “Don’t let him vote! One Copperhead’s enough in Agrippa!”
“I’ll have the law—” I heard Hurley begin again, at the top of his voice, and Abner roared out something I could not catch. Then as in a flash the whole cluster of men became one confused whirling tangle of arms and legs, sprawling and wrestling on the ground, and from it rising the repellent sound of blows upon flesh, and a discordant chorus of grunts and curses. Big chunks of icy mud flew through the air, kicked up by the boots of the men as they struggled. I saw the two posts with the board weave under the strain, then give way, some of the embattled group tumbling over them as they fell. It was wholly impossible to guess who was who in this writhing and tossing mass of fighters. I danced up and down in a frenzy of excitement, watching this wild spectacle, and, so I was told years afterward, screaming with all my might and main.
Then all at once there was a mighty upheaval, and a big man half-scrambled, half-hurled himself to his feet. It was Abner, who had wrenched one of the posts bodily from under the others, and swung it now high in air. Some one clutched it, and for the moment stayed its descent, yelling, meanwhile, “Look out! Look out!” as though life itself depended on the volume of his voice.
The ground cleared itself as if by magic. On the instant there was only Abner standing there with the post in his hands, and little Hurley beside him, the lower part of his face covered with blood, and his coat torn half from his back. The others had drawn off, and formed a semicircle just out of reach of the stake, like farm-dogs round a wounded bear at bay. Two or three of them had blood about their heads and necks.
There were cries of “Kill him!” and it was said afterward that Roselle Upman drew a pistol, but if he did others dissuaded him from using it. Abner stood with his back to the building, breathing hard, and a good deal covered with mud, but eyeing the crowd with a masterful ferocity, and from time to time shifting his hands to get a new grip on that tremendous weapon of his. He said not a word.
The Irishman, after a moment’s hesitation, wiped some of the blood from his mouth and jaw, and turned to the window again. “Timothy Joseph Hurley!” he shouted in, defiantly.
This time another inspector came to the front—the owner of the tanyard over on the Dutch road, and a man of importance in the district. Evidently there had been a discussion inside.