Their wide grins narrowed into the creases of wonderment of their own.
Hexter patted his breast where he had stowed away the paper. “Egypt has a literary light, a journalist who wields a pen of power, a shoemaker philosopher. And modest—not grasping! See how little he asks for himself. Why not give him a real present? Why not—”
Spokesman Jones perceived what the counsel was aiming at and ecstatically shouted, “Gid-dap!”
“Why not use real sandpaper?” urged the squire, with innocent mildness.
Jones whirled and drove his delegation ahead of him from the room, both hands upraised, fingers and thumbs snapping loud cracks as if he were urging his horses up Burkett Hill with snapping whip. The men went tramping down the outside stairs, bellowing the first honest-to-goodness laughter that Egypt had heard for many a day.
Squire Hexter leaped up and grabbed his hat and coat from their hooks. “Come on, boy! It looks as if there's going to be a nominating bee at The Hornet office—and we mustn't miss any of the buzzing.”
The two followed close on the heels of the noisy delegation.
Usial Britt opened his door and stood in the frame of light after Jones had halted his clamorous crowd. The amateur publicist rolled his inky hands in his apron and showed doubt that was growing into alarm.
“Hold your nippety pucket, Usial,” counseled Hexter, calling over the heads of the men. “The boys had me guessing, too, a few minutes ago. But this isn't a lynching bee.”
However, while the crowd laughed and others came hastening to the scene, and while Spokesman Jones was trying to make himself heard above the uproar, an element was added which seemed to discount the Squire's reassuring words.