“We are listening,” said the Chairman, with statesmanlike dignity, “for the voice of the people, and so far we haven’t heard a peep. It looks as if they don’t want you fellows to run Sunday’s, don’t it?”
The spokesman of the Exhibitors cleared his throat. “Statistics prove that every Sunday, an average of six thousand people––”
“That’s all right. We’ve seen your petition. And Mr. Mutt and Mr. Kid and most of the rest of your patrons don’t seem to be registered voters. How about it?”
The Council burst into a loud laugh, and the spokesman retreated in discomfiture.
For several days, Henry was fairly besieged 155 by his friends, who joked him about his arrest, and then, out of genuine concern, wanted to know if his prospects were seriously damaged. To each interrogatory, Henry waved his hand with absolute nonchalance. As far as he knew, only six people were in the secret––himself, his wife, Judge Barklay, Standish, Mr. Archer and Aunt Mirabelle––and he wasn’t anxious to increase the number. His aunt might not have believed it, but this was more on her account than on his own.
“Lord, no,” said Henry, casually. “Don’t worry about me. I’m only glad there’s some news for the Herald. It was getting so dry you had to put cold cream on it or it’d crack.”
By the time that Judge Barklay returned from his vacation, the subject had even slipped away from the front page of the newspapers. The flurry was over. And out of a population of fifty thousand, ninety-nine per cent of whom were normal-minded citizens, neither ultra-conservative nor ultra-revolutionary, that tiny fraction which composed the Ethical Reform League had stowed its propaganda down the throats of the overwhelming majority.
The Judge shrugged his shoulders. “Organization,” he said. “They’ve got a leader, and speakers, and a publicity bureau. That’s all. I hear they’re going to use it to boom Mix for a political job. But you wait––wait, and keep on paying out the rope.”
“That’s all I’ve got left to pay out,” said Henry, amiably.