“Stop that, will ye?” he roared.
As he spoke, he picked up one of the small tables by its twisted wire leg and flourished it over his head.
“Anither bit o’ noise, an’ I’ll be amang ye, splittin’ heads wi’ this wee bit o’ table! Ye all know me, an’ ye ken I’ll do what I say! This young leddy is singin’ a bonny Scottish song, an’ I want to hear it. Sing oot, my lassie! Sing oot! I’ll e’en keep order for ye.”
Mackenzie Douglas had a sour look, and no one was inclined at that moment to fly in his face. The young man before mentioned smiled quietly.
The singer began her song again. Her voice was nothing remarkable. It was not powerful, but it had been trained, so that she sang true. Besides, the melody was one that could not be listened to long without being more or less affected by it.
This time she made an impression which assured her the sympathy of the better element in her audience. The old ballad, with its haunting air, went home to many a calloused heart, and it might have been seen that a tear sprang out upon a bronzed cheek here and there.
But there was still a disturbing group near the front, with the two ruffians who had started the fuss before, ready to drive the girl from the stage if they could. They were angry at Douglas’ interference, and they felt that they must “call his bluff,” as one expressed it, in a low tone, to the other.
As the girl finished, a storm of applause broke out, but through the handclapping, thumping, and cheering could be heard loud hisses. It has often been noticed that even one sharp hiss in a large assemblage will be heard through the most insistent applause.
The young man looked quickly in the direction of the two roughs. Even as he did so, one of them picked up the stub of a cigar from the table in front of him and hurled it at the singer. It struck her white dress, leaving a black mark.
She shrank back, terrified and wondering. It looked as if she could not understand such an outrage.