He was a big man; but, oddly enough, it occurred to him that Mary seemed larger than he was.
"Bob!" exclaimed a harsh whisper behind him, "howld yer tongue! it's only a gir-rl! Don't ye say a har-rd word to the loikes o' her!"
Other whispers and growls came from the hall, but the big man stood like a stone post for several seconds.
"You're the editor?" he gasped. "Is old Murdoch dead,—or has he run away?"
"He's at home, and ill," said Mary. "What is your errand?"
"I keep a decent hotel, sir,—ma'am—madam—I do,—we all do,—it's the Eagle, you know,—and there's no kind of disorder,—and there was never any complaint in Mertonville—"
"Howld on, Bob!" exclaimed the prompter behind him. "You're no good at all; coom along, b'ys. Be civil,—Mike Flaherty will never have it said he brought a shillalah to argy wid a colleen. I'm aff!"
Away he went, stick and all, and the other five followed promptly, leaving Mary Ogden standing still in amazement. She was trying to collect her thoughts when Mr. Black marched in from the other room, followed by the two typesetters; and Mr. Bones tumbled up-stairs, out of breath.
Mary had hardly any explanation to make about what Mr. Bones frantically described as "the riot," and she was inclined to laugh at it. Just then Mr. Murdoch himself came to the door.
Jack stopped the engine, exclaiming, "Mr. Murdoch! you here?"