Then the man at the table on the rostrum got up abruptly, and pulled out his red handkerchief as though to wipe his face.
At the sudden flourish of the red fabric, a burst of applause came from the benches. Orator and audience were en rapport; the former continued to wave the handkerchief, under pretence of swabbing his features, but the intention was so evident and the applause so enlightening that a police officer came part way down the aisle and held up a gilded sleeve.
“Hey!” he called in a bored voice, “Cut that out! See!”
“That man on the platform is Max Sondheim,” 155 whispered Brisson. “He’ll skate on thin ice before he’s through.”
Sondheim had already begun to speak, ignoring the interruption from the police:
“The Mayor has got cold feet,” he said with a sneer. “He gave us a permit to parade, but when the soldiers attacked us his police clubbed us. That’s the kind of government we got.”
“Shame!” cried a white-faced girl in the audience.
“Shame?” repeated Sondheim ironically. “What’s shame to a cop? They got theirs all the same–––”
“That’s enough!” shouted the police captain sharply. “Any more of that and I’ll run you in!”
Sondheim’s red-rimmed eyes measured the officer in silence for a moment.