This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded.
Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz—fat, exuberant—said, bending over him:—
'Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?' And added, 'You've got 'em excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse'll punch your head before night. Says he'll have to. Can't sue very well.'
It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up window of Murphy's cigar store.
Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with the Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple's corner and up the stairs.
McGibbon sat alone in the front office—coat off, vest open, longish hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs stretched out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in pockets.
He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar.
'Great days!' he remarked dryly. 'Gee!' Henry dropped into a chair, laid his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. 'Gee! You do know how to get'em going!'
The cigar waved again.
'Sure! Stir'em up! Soak it to'em! Only way.'