“Might as well join the church, an’ done with it, as to sign that thing,” said Green.
“Boys,” cried Gordon, trying to make himself heard above the clamor of voices, “I know there are some, whose names are not here, who will join us. Please come on and sign now—all who will—and then we’ll withdraw to some place where we can talk this thing over quietly.”
Six other boys signed their names amid taunts and jeers from Crawford and his cronies.
“Now there are sixteen of us,” said Gordon, “and as there are forty in the section, we lack four of half. I don’t believe that all the rest want to be counted in as opposed to what we all know is right.”
Clark had listened silently to all that had been said. He was heartily in sympathy with Gordon, and wanted much to add his name, but he hesitated, uncertain whether, even in such a case as this, he would be welcome. But he could not endure to be counted in with such fellows as Crawford and Henderson, and so he rose and took the pen to sign his name.
“Hello!” cried Crawford quickly, “St. Clark among the law-givers, eh!”
Clark’s face flushed, but he said nothing.
Then Henderson shouted, “He’s a fine one to be setting up for an example, he—the son of a thief who’d be behind the bars this moment if he hadn’t absconded with his pickings.”
Instantly every voice was hushed and every eye turned on Clark. His face grew deadly white, and the pen dropped from his fingers. He turned towards Henderson and tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips, and in another instant he had turned and rushed from the room.
“Henderson, is that true?” demanded Gordon sternly, as the door closed behind Clark.