"
"You may laugh," Thirteen replied with a sour glance; "but when you have
heard, you will not laugh. I am not boasting--I am telling you."
"Not a great deal," the Irishman suggested. "Your mouth is full of sounds
and fury, but till you tell us more you'll have told us nothing."
The face of Thirteen grew darker still, and for a moment he seemed to
meditate an angry retort; but he thought better of it, contenting himself
with an impatient movement and a mutter: "All in good time; Number One is
not here yet."
"W'y wyste time w'itin' for 'im?" demanded the Englishman. "'E's no good,
'e's done."
Thirteen's eyes narrowed. "How so?"
"'E's done, Number One is--finished, counted out, napoo! 'E's 'ad 'is d'y,
and a pretty mess 'e's mide of it--and it's 'igh time, I say, for 'im to
step down and let a better man tike 'old."
Growls in chorus endorsed this declaration of mutiny; but suddenly were
stilled by a voice, sonorous and calm, from outside the circle:
"You think so, Seven? Well--who knows?--perhaps you are right."
VIII
COUNCIL OF THE GODLESS
Someone exclaimed in an accent of alarm: "Number One!"
With a concerted turning of startled heads, a hasty thrusting back of
chairs, the gathering rose in involuntary deference. That is, five rose as
one; and, after a moment during which his spirit of insubordination
faltered and failed, the Englishman got awkwardly to his feet and stood
abashed and sullen.
The one to remain seated was the Irishman so well turned out by Conduit
Street; who made no move more than slightly to elevate supercilious brows
and slouch a little lower in his chair, glancing from face to face of the
circle, then back to the cold countenance presented by the author of the
abrupt interruption.
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