They had expected some demonstration,—handcuffs, perhaps,—and a scene, and when the carriage drove away with Paul in it the murmur of their voices was like the sound of a wind sweeping over a plain. Max was questioned as to what it meant, and replied, “No, by George, I couldn’t do it right before his gal. I’d rather be licked than do it at all, and if I’s you I’d go home. He don’t want you gapin’ at him when he’s took.”
Most of the people followed Max’s advice, and went home. A few, with less delicacy, staid to see what Paul would say and how he would look. Would he resist? Would he try to get away?
“No, sir,” some one replied. “He’ll face it like a man. He’s innocent as you be of meanin’ to do it.”
“Then why don’t he own up and say ’twas a mistake? It looks bad for him to keep mum,” was the answer, and the battle of words went on till the carriage was seen coming towards the church green, where Max was waiting, dripping with perspiration and whiter than his shirt color.
Tom saw that quite a number of people still remained, and thought of the old gladiatorial fights when men and women went to see human beings and wild beasts tear each other to pieces. There were germs of the same nature in this crowd, which he would like to have annihilated as he drove past it and stopped before the church steps.
“Now, Max, what is it? What can I do for you? Want some more money?” Paul said, going up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Set down,” Max answered stammeringly, moving along.
But Paul did not sit down. He was in a hurry to get home and see his mother, and anxious for Max to finish his business.
It must have something to do with the people still waiting there, and who he saw at a glance were largely of the lower class, reputed robbers of gardens and hen roosts. Probably some of their friends had been prowling on the Ralston premises, and Max wanted to know what to do with them.
“I shall tell him to let the poor devils go,” he was thinking, when Max began: “It’s the all-firedest, meanest thing I ever had anything to do with, and if I’d ’er known I’d have to do it, I’d never been so crazy for the office. No, sir! You must not blame me, I’d rather be thrashed. Yes, sir,—and I feel awfully sick at the pit of my stomach. Didn’t eat a thing for dinner, thinking of it, and not much for breakfast, I don’t believe a word of it, neither; none of us does. It’s a lie out of whole cloth.”