Mr. Pinski (defiantly, egged on by voices from behind). “I want to be fair—that’s what. I want to keep my own mind. The constitution gives everybody the right of free speech—even me. I insist that the street-car companies have some rights; at the same time the people have rights too.”
A Voice. “What are those rights?”
Another Voice. “He don’t know. He wouldn’t know the people’s rights from a sawmill.”
Another Voice. “Or a load of hay.”
Pinski (continuing very defiantly now, since he has not yet been slain). “I say the people have their rights. The companies ought to be made to pay a fair tax. But this twenty-year-franchise idea is too little, I think. The Mears bill now gives them fifty years, and I think all told—”
The Five Hundred (in chorus). “Ho, you robber! You thief! You boodler! Hang him! Ho! ho! ho! Get a rope!”
Pinski (retreating within a defensive circle as various citizens approach him, their eyes blazing, their teeth showing, their fists clenched). “My friends, wait! Ain’t I goin’ to be allowed to finish?”
A Voice. “We’ll finish you, you stiff!”
A Citizen (advancing; a bearded Pole). “How will you vote, hey? Tell us that! How? Hey?”
A Second Citizen (a Jew). “You’re a no-good, you robber. I know you for ten years now already. You cheated me when you were in the grocery business.”