"Is there any candidate for this office?" droned the bored voice of Mr. Pity. "Is there any other candidate for this-"
"Go on out there, boy," muttered Trenmore, giving the Numbers' candidate a friendly push. As they waited, he, like Viola, had conceived a strong sympathy for this solitary, youthful champion of the despised Numbers.
"Go on out, boy! Go out and give 'em hell!" was the Irishman's ambiguous encouragement.
The candidate, however, cast him a grateful glance, sensing the spirit behind the words. As Mr. Pity uttered the third and last call for candidates, the young man advanced boldly into the arena. He was greeted by a low, thunderous mutter of applause, starting at the front ranks of the crowd and spreading backward in a resonant wave. Mr. Justice Supreme grasped the arms of his throne-like chair and half arose.
"Silence!" he snarled. "Silence, my children! You are committing sacrilege! Do you know the penalty?"
His answer was the silence he had commanded, and the faces in the front rows went very white. Their vantage point was uncomfortably close to the pit.
"Mr. Pity," muttered the old man, sinking back, "will you kindly proceed?"
Bowing, the master of ceremonies turned once more to the contestants.
"Candidate, what is your number, place of residence, employment, and age? Answer in order, please, and speak clearly." He held a fountain pen poised over the list in his hand.
"My number is 57403. My-my-I live at 709 Race Street." The boy's clear tenor, faltering at first, grew firmer. "I am a carpenter's apprentice. I was nineteen years old in June."