The men met to talk about Michael next evening. The meeting was informal, but every man on the fields had come to Fallen Star for it. The hall was filled to the doors as it had been the the night before, but the crowd had none of the elastic excitement and fighting spirit, the antagonisms and enthusiasms, which had gone off from it in wave-like vibrations the night before. News of Arthur Henty's death had left everybody aghast, and awakened realisation of the abysses which even a life that seemed to move easily could contain. The shock of it was on everybody; the solemnity it had created in the air.
George Woods, elected spokesman for the men, and Roy O'Mara deputed to take notes of the meeting because he was reckoned to be a good penman, sat at a table on the platform. Michael took a chair just below the platform, facing the men. He was there to answer questions. No one had asked him to be present, but it was the custom when men of the Ridge were holding an inquiry of the sort for the man or men concerned to have seats in front of the platform, and Michael had gone to sit there as soon as the men were in their places.
"This isn't like any other inquiry we've had on the Ridge," George Woods said. "You chaps know how I feel about it—I told you last night. But Michael was for it, and I take it he's come here to answer any questions ... and to clear this thing up once and for all.... He's put his case to you. He says he'll stand by what you say—the judgment of his mates."
Anxious to spare Michael another recital of what had happened, he went on:
"There's no need for Michael to repeat what he said last night. If there's any man here wasn't in the hall, these are the facts."
He repeated the story Michael had told, steadily, clearly, and impartially.
"If there's any man wants to ask a question on those facts, he can do it now."
George sat down, and M'Ginnis was on his feet the same instant; his bat-like ears twitching, his shoulders hunched, his whole tall, thin frame strung to the pitch of nervous animosity.
"I want to know," he said, "what reason there is for believing a word of it. Michael Brady's as good as admitted he's been fooling you for goodness knows how long, and I don't see——"
"Y' soon will, y'r bleedin', blasted, fly-blown fool," Bully Bryant roared, rising and pushing back his sleeves.