"I'll tell you what you have on your face. You have the mark of an honest man's hand there! I saw him plant that mark!"
"And what's the answer?" asked Stewart, pleasantly.
"You're a coward! You're not fit to advise real men what to do!"
"I'm afraid you have me sized up all too well!" There was something like wistful apology in Morrison's smile.
Lanigan had forced his way close to the foot of the plinth where the mayor was elevated. The commander's head was tipped back, his goggling eyes were full of anguished rebuke, and his mouth was wide open.
The man in the crowd yelped again, encouraged by his distance and by Morrison's passivity under attack. "You think you own a mill. Your honest workmen own it. You are a thief!"
"My Gawd!" Lanigan squawked, hoarsely. "Ain't it in you? Ain't a spark of it in you?"
Morrison delivered sharp retort in an undertone. "Don't you know better than to tangle my lines when I'm playing a fish? Shut up!" He tossed his hand at the individual in the crowd, inviting him to speak further.
"You're a liar, tool," responded the disturber.
"That's a tame epithet, my friend. Commonly used in debate. I'm afraid you're running out of ammunition. Haven't you anything really important to say, now that I'm giving you the floor?"