Only a sense of enormous responsibility, of gravest duty could have prevailed upon Magnus to have left his house and the dead body of his son that day. But he was the President of the League, and never since its organisation had a meeting of such importance as this one been held. He had been in command at the irrigating ditch the day before. It was he who had gathered the handful of Leaguers together. It was he who must bear the responsibility of the fight.
When he had entered the Opera House, making his way down the central aisle towards the stage, a loud disturbance had broken out, partly applause, partly a meaningless uproar. Many had pressed forward to shake his hand, but others were not found wanting who, formerly his staunch supporters, now scenting opposition in the air, held back, hesitating, afraid to compromise themselves by adhering to the fortunes of a man whose actions might be discredited by the very organisation of which he was the head.
Declining to take the chair of presiding officer which Garnett offered him, the Governor withdrew to an angle of the stage, where he was joined by Keast.
This one, still unalterably devoted to Magnus, acquainted him briefly with the tenor of the speeches that had been made.
“I am ashamed of them, Governor,” he protested indignantly, “to lose their nerve now! To fail you now! it makes my blood boil. If you had succeeded yesterday, if all had gone well, do you think we would have heard of any talk of ‘assumption of authority,’ or ‘acting without advice and consent’? As if there was any time to call a meeting of the Executive Committee. If you hadn’t acted as you did, the whole county would have been grabbed by the Railroad. Get up, Governor, and bring ’em all up standing. Just tear ’em all to pieces, show ’em that you are the head, the boss. That’s what they need. That killing yesterday has shaken the nerve clean out of them.”
For the instant the Governor was taken all aback. What, his lieutenants were failing him? What, he was to be questioned, interpolated upon yesterday’s “irrepressible conflict”? Had disaffection appeared in the ranks of the League—at this, of all moments? He put from him his terrible grief. The cause was in danger. At the instant he was the President of the League only, the chief, the master. A royal anger surged within him, a wide, towering scorn of opposition. He would crush this disaffection in its incipiency, would vindicate himself and strengthen the cause at one and the same time. He stepped forward and stood in the speaker’s place, turning partly toward the audience, partly toward the assembled Leaguers.
“Gentlemen of the League,” he began, “citizens of Bonneville—”
But at once the silence in which the Governor had begun to speak was broken by a shout. It was as though his words had furnished a signal. In a certain quarter of the gallery, directly opposite, a man arose, and in a voice partly of derision, partly of defiance, cried out:
“How about the bribery of those two delegates at Sacramento? Tell us about that. That’s what we want to hear about.”
A great confusion broke out. The first cry was repeated not only by the original speaker, but by a whole group of which he was but a part. Others in the audience, however, seeing in the disturbance only the clamour of a few Railroad supporters, attempted to howl them down, hissing vigorously and exclaiming:
“Put ’em out, put ’em out.”
“Order, order,” called Garnett, pounding with his gavel. The whole Opera House was in an uproar.
But the interruption of the Governor’s speech was evidently not unpremeditated. It began to look like a deliberate and planned attack. Persistently, doggedly, the group in the gallery vociferated: “Tell us how you bribed the delegates at Sacramento. Before you throw mud at the Railroad, let’s see if you are clean yourself.”
“Put ’em out, put ’em out.”
“Briber, briber—Magnus Derrick, unconvicted briber! Put him out.”
Keast, beside himself with anger, pushed down the aisle underneath where the recalcitrant group had its place and, shaking his fist, called up at them:
“You were paid to break up this meeting. If you have anything to say; you will be afforded the opportunity, but if you do not let the gentleman proceed, the police will be called upon to put you out.”
But at this, the man who had raised the first shout leaned over the balcony rail, and, his face flaming with wrath, shouted:
“Yah! talk to me of your police. Look out we don’t call on them first to arrest your President for bribery. You and your howl about law and justice and corruption! Here”—he turned to the audience—“read about him, read the story of how the Sacramento convention was bought by Magnus Derrick, President of the San Joaquin League. Here’s the facts printed and proved.”
With the words, he stooped down and from under his seat dragged forth a great package of extra editions of the Bonneville Mercury, not an hour off the presses. Other equally large bundles of the paper appeared in the hands of the surrounding group. The strings were cut and in handfuls and armfuls the papers were flung out over the heads of the audience underneath. The air was full of the flutter of the newly printed sheets. They swarmed over the rim of the gallery like clouds of monstrous, winged insects, settled upon the heads and into the hands of the audience, were passed swiftly from man to man, and within five minutes of the first outbreak everyone in the Opera House had read Genslinger’s detailed and substantiated account of Magnus Derrick’s “deal” with the political bosses of the Sacramento convention.
Genslinger, after pocketing the Governor’s hush money, had “sold him out.”
Keast, one quiver of indignation, made his way back upon the stage. The Leaguers were in wild confusion. Half the assembly of them were on their feet, bewildered, shouting vaguely. From proscenium wall to foyer, the
