"Will you be quiet?" Rockwell demanded in the Mayor's ear, and released his mouth enough to enable him to answer.
"Yes," said the Mayor feebly. "Let me up."
"All right. That's better. If you make any rumpus we'll down you again, you know, and tie you up and gag you.--Give me the paper," he added to Merriam, "and help him up, will you?"
He stood watching while the younger man assisted the Mayor in the ponderous job of getting on his feet.
"I hope you aren't hurt, sir," said Merriam.
The Mayor looked sourly at him. "Thanks!" He felt of his arms and passed his hands up and down over his ribs. "I guess I'm all right--except my clothes."
In fact his white shirt front was crumpled and his broadcloth coat and trousers were dusty with cigar ash from the fallen stand. Merriam was in little better condition. They were not dressed for football practice. Rockwell only was still immaculate.
"I'll get a brush," said Merriam. No longer a Senator, he felt very boyish and anxious to be useful.
As he spoke he turned to the room--the fall had occurred near the door into the hall--and stopped nonplused. For in her bedroom door stood Mollie June, her eyes full at once of eagerness and of apprehension.
How much she had heard I do not pretend to know. Perhaps some of Merriam's unprofessorial profanity, possibly the Mayor's triumphant irony, certainly Rockwell's shout, "Catch him!" and the fall. Doubtless the silence after that thud had been too much for her self-control.