The fluid mind of the mob welcomed an addition to its leadership, shouting with raucous joy to those outside:
"Henry's bringing him down! Henry Harrington's bringing him!"
Once upon the curb, Henry appeared to note the convenient juxtaposition of that lumber pile and the cross-arm of the electric light pole.
"Henry! Henry! Are you throwing me down?" bleated Hornblower, hanging back.
"Shut up," said Harrington, and twisting the arm he held, he shoved the bulk of the man ahead of him toward the lumber pile. The crowd jeered and hooted.
Hornblower, losing faith in Harrington's ability to save him if he still planned to, flung himself on the attorney's shoulders. "There's something I got to tell you, Henry—if they're going to bump me off like this!" he panted. "Something important—it'll make you rich, Henry; it'll make a lot of things right that don't seem that way now. Stall, Henry, stall! I got to have time to think!"
But Harrington's features wore the solemn mask of one upon a determined business bent. "Get up there!" he commanded, impelling Hornblower at the lumber pile.
"Time! I got to have time to think, Henry!" Hornblower wailed as Henry stepped up beside him. "Don't let 'em croak me like this—not before I tell you what this town has got a right to know."
But Harrington dared not take his mind off the mob. Its passion was too hot. One slip and he would lose his slight ascendancy. Already Gaylord, Schuler, Hughes and others had clambered on the lumber pile. They were engaged in throwing the yellow line of the sisal
