“No serious harm in them,” opined Dr. Elliot, to whom Hal had gone to see whether he wanted anything.  “Just mischief.  A few rocks maybe, and then they’ll go home.  Look at old Mac.”

Opposite them, at his brilliantly lighted window desk, sat McGuire Ellis, in full view of the crowd below, conscientiously blue-penciling telegraph copy.

“Hey, Mac!” yelled an acquaintance in the street.  “Come down and have a drink.”

The associate editor lifted his head.  “Don’t be young,” he retorted.  “Go home and sleep it off.”  And reverted to his task.

“What are we doin’ here, anyway?” roared some thirster for information.

Nobody answered.  But, thus recalled to a purpose, the mob pressed against the ropes.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” A great, rounded voice boomed out above them, drawing every eye to the farthermost window where stood Dr. Surtaine, his chest swelling with ready oratory.

“Hooray!” yelled the crowd.  “Good Old Doc!”—­“He pays the freight.”—­“Speech!”

“Say, Doc,” bawled a waggish soul, “I gotta corn, marchin’ up here.  Will Certina cure it?”

And another burst into the final lines of a song then popular; in which he was joined by several of his fellows: 

  “Father, he drinks Seltzer. 
   Redoes, like hell!
   (Crescendo.) He drinks Cer-tee-nah!”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the wily charlatan.  “Unaccustomed as I am to extempore speaking, I cannot let pass this opportunity to welcome you.  We appreciate this testimonial of your regard for the ‘Clarion.’  We appreciate, also, that it is a warm night and a thirsty one.  Therefore, I suggest that we all adjourn back to the Old Twelfth Ward, where, if the authorities will kindly look the other way, I shall be delighted to provide liquid refreshments for one and all in which to drink to the health and prosperity of an enlightened free press.”

The crowd rose to him with laughter.  “Good old Sport!”—­“Mine’s Certina.”—­“Come down and make good.”—­“Free booze, free speech, free press!”—­“You’re on, Doc!  You’re on.”

“He’s turned the trick,” growled Dr. Elliot to Hal.  “He’s a smooth one!”

Indeed, the crowd wavered, with that peculiar swaying which presages a general movement.  At the south end there was a particularly dense gathering, and there some minor struggle seemed to be in progress.  Cries rose:  “Let him through.”—­“What’s he want?”

“It’s Max Veltman,” said Hal, catching sight of a wild, strained face.  “What is he up to?”

The former “Clarion” man squirmed through the front rank and crawled slowly under the ropes.  Above the murmur of confused tones, a voice of terror shrilled out: 

“He’s got a bomb.”

The mass surged back from the spot.  Veltman, moving forward upon the unprotected south end of the press, was fumbling at his pocket.  “I’ll fix your free and enlightened press,” he screamed.