“’Ray! ’ray! De preacher’s a-goin’ to make a speech!”
“Let her rip, Boston! Fire away, Beans!”
“Hit ’em again!”
“Gentlemen——”
That was as far as the Parson got. Mark had wheeled in alarm and dashed back to him.
“For heaven’s sake, man!” he cried. “Stop! Can’t you see——”
“I see,” responded the Boston geologist, with dignity, “that these persons are altogether devoid of respect for—ahem—my native city, the home of freedom. And I mean right here and on this spot to administer to them a rebuke that will last them until their dying day. I mean to summon all the power of my ancestor’s eloquence, all the weight of learning and logic I can command. I mean——”
“Whoop! Speech! ’Ray for Boston! Git away, there, an’ let him go on!”
The Parson had turned to continue his remarks. Mallory was still trying to stop him, however, and the crowd didn’t like that. Neither did the Parson.
“In the words of the immortal Hamlet,” he cried, “I command you, ’Unhand me, gentlemen!’ I will go on! When an orator, burning with the Promethean fire of inspiration, feels surging up within him immortal words that clamor for expression, when he feels wild passions thronging in his breast, passions that cry to be out and smiting the hordes of iniquity, then I say, in the words of the immortal Horace——”