"New York--Special Despatch: L. Champney Googe, the treasurer of
the Flamsted Quarries Co.--" etc., etc.
The men looked at one another. There was a moment of sickening silence;
not so much as a leaf whirled in the gutter; it was broken by a great
cheer from the assembled hundreds of workmen farther up the street,
followed by a conglomerate of hootings, cat-calls, yells and falsetto
hoorays from the fringe of small boys. The faces of the three men in
front of the post-office grew white at their unspoken thought. Each
waited for the other.
"His mother--" said Emlie at last.
Elmer Wiggins' lips trembled. "You must tell her, Colonel--she mustn't
hear it this way--"
"My God, how can I!" The Colonel's voice broke, but only for a second,
then he braced himself to his martyrdom. "You're right; she mustn't hear
it from any one but me--telephone up at once, will you, Elmer, that I'm
coming up to see her on an important matter?--Emlie, you'll drive me up
in your trap--we can get there before the men have a chance to get
home--keep a watch on the doings here in the town, Elmer, and telephone
me if there's any trouble--there's Romanzo coming now, I suppose he's
got word from the office--if you happen to see Father Honore, tell him
where I am, he will help--"
He stepped into the trap that had been hitched in front of the drug
store, and Emlie took the reins. Elmer Wiggins reached up his hand to
the Colonel, who gripped it hard.
"Yes, Elmer," he said in answer to the other's mute question, "this is
one of the days when a man, who is a man, may wish he'd never been
born--"
They were off, past the surging crowds who were now thronging the entire
street, past The Bow, and over the bridge on their way to The Gore.