The silence was unbroken now and, somewhat mollified, Hoag proceeded to the business of the night. “Mr. Secretary,” he said, “call the roll, an' make careful note of absentees an' impose fines.”
A man holding a bit of lighted candle and a sheet of paper stood up and went through this formality.
“How many missin'?” Hoag inquired, when the roll-call was over and the candle extinguished.
“Seven, not countin' Sid Trawley,” was the response.
“Cold feet—seven more beyond the age-limit!” a wag in the younger group was heard to say in a maudlin and yet defiant tone.
“Order thar!” Hoag commanded in a stentorian voice.
“Gone to nigger prayer-meetin',” another boldly muttered, and Hoag stamped his foot and called for order again. “What have we got before the body?” he inquired, in agreement with his best idea of parliamentary form. “Do I hear any proposals?”
There was a short pause, then a young man in the noisy group rose. It was Nape Welborne. His mouth was full of the dry crackers he was munching, and little powdery puffs shot from his lips when he began to speak.
“Worshipful Knight, an' gentlemen of the Klan,” he began, with an obvious sneer. “I've been asked to say a few words to-night. Considerable dissatisfaction has got up in our body. Things has been proposed that in common decency ought to have gone through, an' they've been put under the table an' nothin' done. The general opinion is that this has come to be a one-man gang.”
“Everything's been put to a vote,” Hoag retorted, with startled and yet blunt dignity.