“It’s too good to be true, Mac,” said Barron, seizing the big figure stepping from the Pullman car. “It’s wonderful of you to help us——”
“In the name of mercy, Henry, shut up,” answered McIvor, and Mr. Barron and the committee behind him jumped and stood horror-struck. For the cryptic words that came from the singer, the star, the reliance of the whole meeting, came in a hoarse wheeze.
“Mac—damn you—” pleaded Barron, hot and cold all over.
And McIvor responded grimly: “It’s so. Had a tickle in the wretched throat when I started, and the whole tunnel caved in on the train. Take me to Dr. Thomas, quick. Maybe the man works miracles. It’s the only chance. The Lord He knows how sorry I am.”
A mad car sped to the specialist, and the specialist did what science might—but a miracle did not happen. And the two thousand seats were filled, and the seven streets which led into the square were filling with an ever-swelling crowd eager to hear the glorious voice of the musician fling “America” to the winds of heaven, freely and without price, and for love of a great country and the cause of humanity. So it stood when the musician arrived on the platform.
Flags painted the evening breeze; electric lights caught the colors, and multiplied, with long rays and long dancing shadows, the flags and the thronging multitude. There was a hum of contented voices through the square. The town was jubilant; things had gone well; it was the greatest occasion for years; no other city could boast such an ending as this to its liberty campaign—to have McIvor himself journey to them to give his voice for the cause! The six million of their allotment would be raised—McIvor’s voice was worth six million in itself. And still the crowd came, and when McIvor, muffled, appeared on the platform, everybody in the crowd recognized him, even across the uncertain lights and shadows and the waving flags and the moving branches of the elms of the square. Applause broke tumultuously from the amphitheatre of seats, from the shifting fringe outside, from far down converging streets.
McIvor stepped sharply forward and bowed once, and then, before the clapping ended, had turned and was talking to Mr. Barron, to Eric Mannering, the chairman of the committee on arrangements.
“It’s damnable,” he whispered. “You’ll have to tell them, Mr. Mannering. I hoped it might come back up to now, but it’s well gone. I can think of but one possible thing to do. If there’s a person in sight who can turn a tune and make a noise, fetch him up—and I’ll stand beside him and wish luck on him—if I can. It’s all I can do now,” and he coughed through the words.
Eric, thunderstruck, stood bewildered. What could one do? McIvor was particularly all the show. How might any other man substitute for him? One could make a speech and explain the disaster and send the workers about to get what money they could from a disappointed crowd, and then one could let the crowd go home. What else? Suddenly, as his eyes stared helplessly into the rows of people, he met Honor’s clear gray gaze lifted. She had got a front seat as he had promised. There she was, twenty feet from him. Eric swung about.
“Mr. McIvor,” he stammered, “you’ll think me presuming likely, but—my sister sings. She’s young, but she has a big voice.”