“Deny that you have been in communication with the enemy! Deny that Sartwell’s daughter has only this moment left you!”
“That has nothing to do with you, nor with this strike. England is a free country; a man may talk with whom he pleases.”
“He can’t deny it!” shouted Gibbons, at the top of his voice. “There were too many witnesses this time. She didn’t know that a meeting was gathering. Where now is the man at the back of the hall who cried out it was a lie? I told you I would prove it by Marsten himself.”
“Let me read you this letter,” cried Marsten, waving in his hand the letter from the firm, to command attention. He saw the crowd was in that dangerous state of excitement which requires but an injudicious word to precipitate a riot. His own friends, evidently abashed by his admission, were at the back of the hall, silent and disconcerted. The Gibbons gang were massed in front, wildly gesticulating, and vociferous with taunts and threats. They were loudly calling upon him to get down from the platform. He saw, too, that the old committee and others of Gibbons’s partisans were on the platform behind him, many standing up with their eyes on Gibbons, and the situation reminded him of the time when Braunt had been kicked off the platform and thrust outside.
“Let me read this letter,” he repeated.
“Presently, presently,” said Gibbons. “You will have your opportunity later on. I have the floor just now.”
“I am secretary of the Union,” persisted Marsten, “and I demand a hearing. After that you may do as you please.”
Here the chairman rose and called loudly:
“Order, order! Mr. Gibbons has the floor. I may add for Mr. Marsten’s information, since he chose to absent himself from the meeting knowing it was in session, that Mr. Gibbons has been made secretary of the Union by a practically unanimous vote, and I ask Mr. Marsten to leave the platform until he is called upon to speak.”
“I have a letter from the firm!” shouted Marsten, trying to lift his voice above the uproar.