“First, I want to call a witness. I am not known to this city. But I have here a man whom many of you know, I'm sure, for he has stood out in plain view of a street where many pass, and has worked there for thirty years. It is Etienne Provancher.”
Several men laughed when Farr pushed the old man into view. There was a murmured chorus of “Pickaroon.”
“It's for the children—the poor folks—for the memory of our little girl,” hissed Farr in the old man's ear. “Will you go to your bed to-night—the night of the day we buried her—knowing that—you are a coward? These are only men. We must tell them so that they will know. Speak! Tell them!” He set his firm clutch around the trembling old Frenchman's arm and held him out where all could see.
“I do not know how to talk here—to so much man—to the lords of the city,” stammered the miserable old man, licking his parched lips, scared until all was black before his eyes.
The hush was profound. Men curved their palms at their ears, wondering what old Pickaroon could have to say in City Hall.
“Remember what we have left up there—in the cemetery—the poor children in their graves,” muttered Farr, again bending close to Etienne's ear.
Then, thus reminded, thus spurred, all his Gallic emotion bursting into flame in him suddenly, the old man felt the desperate resolution that often animates the humble and ignorant in great emergencies. The little ones had been martyrs—why not he? That thought flashed through the tumult in his brain.
“Yes, since you all hark for me to speak I will speak,” he declared. “Messieurs, I am a poor man. Not wise. It is very hard for me to talk to you. But I have been to-day up where the little children are bury—so many of them, with their playthings on the graves. I went to take there anodder little child, poor baby girl. I leave her there with the odder ones—so very lonesome all of them—their modders cannot sing them to sleep any more.”
“This is irregular,” cried the mayor. “What do you want?”
“Nottings for maself,” cried Etienne, passionately shrill in his tone now. “But I have to ask you, masters of this city, how much longer shall you send poison down the water-pipes to the poor folks and the children in the tenement blocks? It is poison that has kill our little Rosemarie—and all her life ahead! The doctor say so—and he say I cannot understand about the rich man, why he do it. But I understand that the childs are dying. I say you shall not sent that water—if you do send it I will bring here the fadders who have lost their babies and the modders of the babies.” His lips curled back in his excitement and froth flecked his mouth. “Sacred name of God! We shall tear that poison-factory up from the ground with our bare hands!”