Monica pulled at his wrists. Paula slapped and scratched at his face. "You brute! You coward!" they shrilled.
Martha jumped off the stool and kicked him. He backed away, bent and holding himself.
"Look, ladies," he gasped, "for God's sake—"
"Here now, here now, this is county property," said a fat man in shirtsleeves with pink sleeve garters, pushing through the crowd. "What's all this? Take that dog down, somebody!"
"Never!" Martha snapped. She put her back against the halyard cleat, unfolded the flag and draped it around herself. A loose strand of gray hair fell across her face.
"If you're so big and brave, go bring down the Russian dog," she told the fat man coldly.
"Now listen, lady," the fat man said. The Clarion press photographer was sprinting across the lawn.
George Stonery was tall, thin, stooped and anxious in a gray business suit.
"I came as soon as I could," he told Sheriff Breen across the scarred, paper-littered wooden desk. "I was away checking one of our warehouses."