"Throw him over on the couch. Sit on him. That's it."
Under their combined weights, DeLancy was flung, hoarse and screaming maledictions, to the couch, where despite objurgations and ravings Granning secured his arms behind his back with a strap and hobbled his legs. For half an hour Fred twisted and strove, raving and swearing or suddenly weakly remorseful, bursting into tears, cursing himself and his folly. The three sat silently, faces sternly masked, looking unwilling on the ugly spectacle of human frenzy in the raw. At the end of this time DeLancy became suddenly quiet and dropped off into sodden sleep.
"At last," said Granning, rising. "Best thing for him. Oh, he won't hear us—talk all you like."
"How hard is he hit?" said Bojo anxiously.
Marsh shrugged his shoulder and swore.
"How hard, Granning?"
"Twenty thousand or more," said Granning gravely, "and there are some bad sides to it." He shook his head, glanced at DeLancy, and added: "Then there's the girl."
"Louise Varney?"
"The same—mother has been camping on the telephone all day. Not a very calm person, mother—ugh—nasty business!"
"Rotten business," said Bojo, remorsefully. He went to the bay-window and stood there gazing out into the sickly night, paling before the first grays of the morning. He was subdued by this spectacle of the other side of speculation, wondering how many similar scenes were taking place in sleepless rooms somewhere in the dusky flight of roof-tops. Marsh, misunderstanding his mood, said: