Looking around, the girl half expected to see the audience flat, like a field of wheat after a wind storm; but though even the policemen wore a somewhat chastened appearance, they still stood. She glanced toward the dais. Mr. Pity, with a pained, faraway expression, was scribbling at his list. Mr. Justice Supreme opened his eyes with a start, like a man unexpectedly relieved from torment. He snarled incoherently and flapped a yellow hand at Mr. Pity. The bull of Basban stood his ground, his eyes blinking, his beard once more a dark, unbroken jungle. As the two Trenmores learned later, his complacence was not without foundation. His wife was a third cousin of Mr. Justice Supreme, and he himself was distantly connected with the family of Mr. Purity, of the dragging leg.
The master of ceremonies lifted up his own thin, piercing voice, like the piping of a reed after the bellow of thunders.
"Sir, His Supremity thanks you for your wonderful rendering of-er-sound." He turned to the throne. "Mr. Justice Supreme, the contestants in all humility submit their respective merits to the high decision of our lord and father, Penn!"
The old dandy dragged himself to his feet. The audience was more than hushed; it wasn't even breathing now. No. 57403 cast a pitying glance at the bearded mountain and fearlessly eyed his judge.
"Children of Penn," began that snarling, senile voice, "in due legal and sacred form two contestants have striven before the father and protector of us all. One is young. He should have further perfected his attainments before presuming to air them in this sacred Hall. Yet his very youth excuses him, and Penn the All-Father is merciful. He can forgive even presumption. For the magnificent bass voice which we have just been privileged to-hm! — enjoy, in a rendering of the work of a great composer, so exalted above the paltry, sentimental balderdash of the other contestant-I–I-words fail me!"
Mr. Justice Supreme glared down at the contestant he was praising with eyes so malevolent that the mountain actually cringed-if a mountain can be said to cringe.
"The decision of Penn," snarled Mr. Justice Supreme, "is that No. 57403 be dropped into the Pit of the Past. Mercy may extend to his immortal soul, but not to his presumptuous body! And the present musical director will continue in office."
Dropping back on his throne with a gasp of exhaustion, he recovered sufficiently to rasp out: "Go! And Penn bless you!" to the victorious contestant.
Then, with the air of one who has got through a tedious but necessary duty, he let his ancient, villainous body relax and his bleared eyes close.
The mountain removed itself with suspicious alacrity. If the look in its porcine eyes went for anything, that musical director valued the "blessing of Penn" less than the permission to vacate an unexpectedly dangerous neighborhood.