“I have reduced Shund and his colleagues to fragments,” answered Holt dryly, then approaching the commissary he demanded a yellow ticket.
“Glorious!” applauded Gerlach. “I have half a mind to present this true German man with another thousand as a reward for his spirit.”
The fat men had observed with astonishment the action of the land cultivator. Their astonishment turned to rage when Holt, leisurely seating himself at the table, took a pen in his mighty fist and began filling out the ticket with the names of the ultramontane candidates. Whilst he wrote, whisperings could be heard all through the hall, and every eye was directed upon him. After no inconsiderable exertion, the task of filling out the ticket was successfully accomplished, and Holt arose, leaving the ticket lying upon the table. In the twinkling of an eye a hand reached forward to take it up.
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Holt sternly.
“That yellow paper defiles the table,” hissed the fellow viciously.
“Hand back that ticket,” commanded Holt roughly. “I want it to be here. The yellow ticket has as good a right on this table as the green one—do you hear me?”
“Slave of the priests!” sputtered his antagonist.
“If I am a slave of the priests, then you are a slave of that villain Shund,” retorted Holt. “I am not to be browbeaten—by such a fellow as you particularly—least of all by a vile slave of [pg 200] Shund's.” He spoke, and then reached his ticket to the commissary.
“That is an impudent dog,” growled leader Sand. “Who is he?”
“He is a countryman of the name of Holt,” answered he to whom the query was addressed.