Then there came a recess while the mayor examined papers at his desk.  The aldermen leaned back in their chairs with lighted cigars.

“Etienne,” whispered the young man, deep resolve thrilling him, his eyes blazing into the wondering gaze of the old man, “those men who sit behind those desks can do something to save the children and the poor folks in the tenements.  But they must wake up, these men here must.  You and I must try to wake them up!”

Etienne’s eyes opened wide.  He did not in the least comprehend how he could serve.

“I know you will not desert a friend, Etienne.  I know you’ll stand behind me.  I know you love the children.  So be a brave man now!”

The next moment Etienne was so frightened that he feared he would drop where he stood, because the young man raised his voice so that it rang through the great hall and all eyes were turned that way.

“Your honor the mayor, and gentlemen; I am a stranger here.  But I humbly ask permission to address you.”

“If you are a witness in the police matter you will be called on in your turn after the recess,” stated the mayor.

“I am not a witness in the police matter.  I am here on other business.”

“There is no other business before this meeting.”

“But there should be, sir, for the business I have come on is a dreadful matter.  It is a matter of life and death.”

A hush fell on those in the chamber, and the mayor and his aldermen leaned forward, staring apprehensively.  They had been warned that there were dangerous labor-agitators in the city.  Many meetings had been broken up by the police at the request of Colonel Dodd, president of the Consolidated Water Company, and other employers had backed him.  This tall young man had startled them with his sudden outbreak.

“It is a matter, gentlemen, which concerns every man, woman, and child in this city—­vitally concerns them every hour of the day—­every hour they are awake.  You say you have no other business now except this silly police investigation.  For God’s sake, wake up and attend to real business—­save the people’s lives.  Here you are in session and here are the people to listen.”

“State your complaint.  Be very brief,” commanded the mayor.

But Walker Farr, it was plain, possessed craft as well as courage; he realized that curiosity, properly tickled, will make men more patient in listening.

“First, I want to call a witness.  I am not known to this city.  But I have here a man whom many of you know, I’m sure, for he has stood out in plain view of a street where many pass, and has worked there for thirty years.  It is Etienne Provancher.”

Several men laughed when Farr pushed the old man into view.  There was a murmured chorus of “Pickaroon.”

“It’s for the children—­the poor folks—­for the memory of our little girl,” hissed Farr in the old man’s ear.  “Will you go to your bed to-night—­the night of the day we buried her—­knowing that—­you are a coward?  These are only men.  We must tell them so that they will know.  Speak!  Tell them!” He set his firm clutch around the trembling old Frenchman’s arm and held him out where all could see.