“Suppose they came back!” he whispered to Average Jones. “We’ve left the house unguarded.”
“I’ve fixed that,” replied the Ad-Visor in the same tone. “Watch Morrison!”
Governor Arthur approached the civic statue. An official, running out to the coach, handed him a silken cord, which he secured with a turn around the wrist. The coach rolled on. The cord tautened; the swathings sundered and fell from the gleaming splendor of marble, and a blinding flash, followed by another, and a third, blotted out the scene in unbearable radiance.
Involuntarily Morrison, like thousands of others, had screened his sight with his hands after the second flash. Now, as the kindlier light returned, he half rose, rubbing his eyes furiously. A half-groan escaped him. He sank back, staring in amaze. For Governor Arthur was riding on, calm and smiling amid the shouts.
Morrison shrank. Could it be that the governor’s eyes were fixed on his? He strove to shake off the delusion. He felt, rather than saw, the guest of honor descend from the coach; felt rather than saw him making straight toward himself; and he winced and quivered at the sound of his own name.
“Mr. Morrison,” the governor was saying, at his elbow, “Mr. Morrison, here is a paper that may interest you. Better luck next time.”
Morrison strove to reply. His voice clucked in his throat, and the hand with which he took the folded newspaper was as the hand of a paralytic.
“He’s broken,” whispered Average Jones.
He went straight to Governor Arthur, speaking in his ear. The governor nodded. Average Jones returned to his seat to watch Carroll Morrison who, sat, with hell-fires of fear scorching him, until the last band had blared its way into silence.
Again the governor was speaking to him.