"I tell you, sir, it's your damned wheat——"
"And your damned son!" furiously cried Ditch of Totease.
"My son!"—Reuben swung round on the men who had once rallied under his leadership, but now stood scowling at him and muttering to themselves. "My son!"
"Yes," said Coalbran of Doozes, "you know as well as us as how it wur your Albert wrote them verses about the gëate, wot have bust up everything."
"You're a liar!" cried Reuben.
"You dare miscall me," and the two men, mad with private hate and public humiliation, flew at each other's throats.
Ditch and the Colonel pulled them apart.
"Hang it all, Coalbran, we don't know it's his son. But we do know it's his wheat. Good God, sir—if only you'd kept your confounded self out of politics——"
Reuben did not wait to hear more. He pushed his way out of the room and downstairs to where his trap was waiting. The crowd surged round him as he climbed into it. An egg burst against his ear, and the filthy yolk ran down his cheek to mingle with the spatter of blood on his neck and shirt-front.
"Ben the Gorilla! Ben the Gorilla! Give him tar and feathers!"