“If necessary,” retorted Rappelje, and stared him down with a steady and intolerable eye. He turned again to the Governor. “Unless that list is withdrawn before night, Martin Embree,” said he solemnly, “so help me the God of my country, I will raise the University and hang you to the highest tree on the campus.”
He made a stiff, formal, absurd little jerk of a bow and marched from the room.
“By gosh! He’s the boy could do it,” confirmed Milliken in an unexpectedly cheerful chirp.
“Finish the reading,” said somebody weakly.
“Vote! Vote!” came a mutter of several voices.
No vote was taken. Under the corroding acid of the professor’s passion the fabric of that meeting’s purpose dissolved. The session did not adjourn. It disintegrated. Jeremy Robson stood irresolute as the groups edged past him.
“Congratulations, Mr. Vice-Chairman,” purred Montrose Clark. It was the first time since the interview about the note that he had conceded the fact of the editor’s existence.