"Let's hear what he's got to say."
Then M'Ginnis continued his description of the advantages to be gained by the acceptance of Mr. Armitage's offer.
"And," he wound up, "there's the women and children to think of." At the back of the hall somebody laughed. "Laugh if you like"—M'Ginnis worked himself into a passion of virtuous indignation—"but I don't see there's anything to laugh at when I say remember what those things are goin' to mean to the women and children of this town—what a few of the advantages of civilisation——"
"Disadvantages!" the same voice called.
"—Comforts and conveniences of civilisation are goin' to mean to the women and children of this God-forsaken hole," M'Ginnis cried furiously. "If I had a wife and kids, d'ye think I'd have any time for this high-falutin' flap-doodle of yours about bread and fat? Not much. The best in the country wouldn't be too good for them—and it's not good enough for the women and children of Fallen Star. That's what I've got to say—and that's what any decent man would say if he could see straight. I'm an ordinary, plain, practical man myself ... and I ask you chaps who've been lettin' your legs be pulled pretty freely—-and starvin' to be masters of your own dumps—to look at this business like ordinary, plain, practical men, who've got their heads screwed on the right way, and not throw away the chance of a lifetime to make Fallen Star the sort of township it ought to be. If there's some men here want to starve to be masters of their own dumps, let 'em, I say: it's a free country. But there's no need for the rest of us to starve with 'em."
He sat down, and again it seemed that the pendulum had swung in favour of Armitage and his Scheme.
"What's Michael got to say about it?" a man from the Three Mile asked. And several voices called: "Yes; what's Michael got to say?"
For a moment there was silence—a silence of apprehension. George Woods and the men who knew, or had been disturbed by the stories they had heard of a secret treaty between Michael and John Armitage, recognised in that moment the power of Michael's influence; that what Michael was going to say would sway the men of the Ridge as it had always done, either for or against the standing order of life on the Ridge on which they had staked so much. His mates could not doubt Michael, and yet there was fear in the waiting silence.
Those who had heard Michael was not the man they thought he was, waited anxiously for his movement, the sound of his voice. Charley Heathfield waited, crouched in a corner near the platform, where everyone could see him, Rouminof beside him. They were standing there together as if there was not room for them in the body of the hall, and their eyes were fixed on the place where Michael sat—Charley's eager and cruel as a cat's on its victim, Rouminof's alight with the fires of his consuming excitement.
Then Michael got up from his seat, took off his hat; and his glance, those deep-set eyes of his, travelled the hall, skimming the heads and faces of the men in it, with their faint, whimsical smile.