There were cries of “Sit down!  Sit down!  Shut up!  Go on!  Who is the old tow-head?” Then some one cried out “Moyese.”  Half the spectators cheered.  Half hissed.  Then a voice yelled “Wayland!  Wayland!” and Eleanor felt the leap to her blood; for the crowd outside took up the cry “Wayland, Wayland?  What’s the matter with Wayland?”

The Sheriff and Coroner were on the table shouting for “order—­order” when some wag heaved under and upset table, sheriff, coroner and all.

The last Eleanor saw before the news editor and Wayland pushed Mrs. Williams and herself through a door behind the coroner’s seat to a taxicab that whirled them off to the hotel, was a wild sprawling of the Sheriff coming down in mid-air.  Bat Brydges and the downy-lipped youth, chalky white as a dead birch tree, were letting themselves hastily out through a back window.  Matthews was being carried down the aisle on the shoulders of a howling rabble of men and boys.  His head was bare; his coat was almost torn from his shoulders.  His face was passionate with jubilant laughter.  “Yell, boys!  Yell for Wayland,” he was urging.  Could Eleanor have known what happened at the door, her heart would have beat still faster.  The old frontiersman brought her word two hours later when he joined them at the hotel.

“They hauled me out to th’ steps o’ th’ court house,” he said, “an’ A says ‘Yell boys!  Yell, Yell like Hell for Wayland!’ An’ they set me down on th’ steps an’ began yellin’ ‘Speech!  Speech!’ A held up m’ two hands like this.  ‘Men,’ says I, ‘y’ ask for a word!  Well, A’ll give it t’ you.  A’ll give it t’ y’ from the door o’ y’r own sacred court o’ justice, which y’ have seen profaned this day by injustice, an’ a lie, an’ a bribe into th’ bedlam o’ a mob!  Y’ ask for a word.  A will give it y’, Men o’ the United States o’ the World; Men o’ Liberty; Men o’ Strength; the world has its eye on ye!  What will y’ do?  M’ word is this t’ all time:  M’ word is th’ simple word o’ the old prophets that ye conned by heart at y’r mother’s knee:  Y’ ha’ seen the author o’ crime an’ outrage an’ murder tryin’ to wrest the judgment, t’ pervert the court, to slander the dead, t’ send into th’ wilderness a poor innocent scapegoat o’ sin, to defile the vera presence o’ death.  An’ ye ha’ seen a young man single-handed fightin’ for right, to save y’r land from the looters, an’ y’r forests from the timber thieves, an’ y’r mines from the coal pirates!  Y’ ha’ seen evil an’ good an’ the fruits o’ them! Choose ye this day which ye will serve!’ Man alive, Wayland, ye should a’ heard them!  They yelled like Hell for y’!  They yelled till they split the welkin!  They yelled, Wayland, till A couldna’ keep th’ tears from m’ eyes; an’ then, man alive, they yelled more than ever!  Whiles we were yellin’ and riproarin’ outside, y’r brave Sheriff man, he gets the door shut an’ locked, an’ the windows down, an’ the shades all drawn; an’ they brings in a verdict o’ ’come to his death by the hands o’ parties unknown.’  Oh, A’ll warrant ’twill be ‘by the hands o’ parties unknown.’  They’ll never more try t’ fasten that crime on poor old Calamity; tho’ she’s no so old when y’ come t’ think o’ it, except in her bein’ sore sinned against.”