“But the Symbols are here, you bet!”
That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the happy house
started in at the beginning and sang the four lines through twice,
with immense swing and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-
times-three and a tiger for “Hadleyburg the Incorruptible and all
Symbols of it which we shall find worthy to receive the hall-mark
to-night.”
Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all over the place:
“Go on! go on! Read! read some more! Read all you’ve got!”
“That’s it–go on! We are winning eternal celebrity!”
A dozen men got up now and began to protest. They said that this
farce was the work of some abandoned joker, and was an insult to the
whole community. Without a doubt these signatures were all
forgeries –
“Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are confessing. We’ll find your
names in the lot.”
“Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes have you got?”
The Chair counted.
“Together with those that have been already examined, there are
nineteen.”
A storm of derisive applause broke out.
“Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move that you open them all
and read every signature that is attached to a note of that sort–
and read also the first eight words of the note.”
“Second the motion!”
It was put and carried–uproariously. Then poor old Richards got
up, and his wife rose and stood at his side. Her head was bent
down, so that none might see that she was crying. Her husband gave
her his arm, and so supporting her, he began to speak in a quavering
voice:
“My friends, you have known us two–Mary and me–all our lives, and
I think you have liked us and respected us–”
The Chair interrupted him:
“Allow me. It is quite true–that which you are saying, Mr.
Richards; this town DOES know you two; it DOES like you; it DOES
respect you; more–it honours you and LOVES you–”
Halliday’s voice rang out:
“That’s the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair is right, let the
house speak up and say it. Rise! Now, then–hip! hip! hip!–all
together!”
The house rose in mass, faced toward the old couple eagerly, filled
the air with a snow-storm of waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the
cheers with all its affectionate heart.
The Chair then continued:
“What I was going to say is this: We know your good heart, Mr.
Richards, but this is not a time for the exercise of charity toward
offenders. [Shouts of “Right! right!”] I see your generous purpose
in your face, but I cannot allow you to plead for these men–”
“But I was going to–”
“Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must examine the rest of
these notes–simple fairness to the men who have already been
exposed requires this. As soon as that has been done–I give you my
word for this–you shall he heard.”
Many voices. “Right!–the Chair is right–no interruption can be
permitted at this stage! Go on!–the names! the names!–according
to the terms of the motion!”
The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the husband whispered to
the wife, “It is pitifully hard to have to wait; the shame will be
greater than ever when they find we were only going to plead for
OURSELVES.”
Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the reading of the
names.
“‘You are far from being a bad man–‘ Signature, ‘Robert J.
Titmarsh.'”
‘”You are far from being a bad man–‘ Signature, ‘Eliphalet Weeks.'”
“‘You are far from being a bad man–‘ Signature, ‘Oscar B. Wilder.'”
At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking the eight words
out of the Chairman’s hands. He was not unthankful for that.
Thenceforward he held up each note in its turn and waited. The
house droned out the eight words in a massed and measured and
musical deep volume of sound (with a daringly close resemblance to a
well-known church chant)–“You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man.” Then the Chair said, “Signature, ‘Archibald Wilcox.'” And so
on, and so on, name after name, and everybody had an increasingly
and gloriously good time except the wretched Nineteen. Now and
then, when a particularly shining name was called, the house made