"Surrender him!" The high priest's voice crackled ominously. "I'll give you while I count three. One-two-th-ree! Oh, very well there!"
His right hand started slowly up, palm out. A second more and the guns would resume their devilish chatter. There came a swirl in the crowd, a struggle, and out into the little open area by the pit sprang the singer, disheveled but triumphant.
"Don't shoot!" he cried. "Don't shoot! Friends, I thank you for everything-what you wished for me, what you have given, and what you would give if I would let you! But you," he turned upon Justice Supreme with the look and face of a deathless young god, unfearing and scornful, "you I do not even hate! You poor wreck of what was one time a man, you are already dead and damned in the rottenness of your vile body and viler spirit! If you are the servant of Penn, then I am his enemy. I go to tell him so!"
And before any man could stir a hand the boy had dived, head foremost, into the pit.
A moaning sigh rose, echoed, and fell. Those nearest the pit turned aside and covered their ears with their hands; but the shriek they dreaded never came. Presently one of the pit guard, lurking out of sight behind the dais, sneaked cautiously around, crept to the pit, and looked down. Then he raised his eyes to the purple, raging face of Mr. Justice Supreme. The high priest made a gesture with his cane. A moment later and the eagle and dove symbol swung into place again.
CHAPTER 16: DISASTER
IN barely thirty minutes the hall was emptied, cleansed of blood and debris, and the ceremony of the "examinations" resumed.
Mr. Justice Supreme had waited, dozing, on his throne. The lesser servants perforce waited also, albeit impatiently and with much glancing at watches and sotto voce complaint about the delay.
Sad, silent, and defeated, the Numbers had retired, bearing with them their injured and their dead. When the hall was at last cleared the lovely, milk-white pavement resembled more nearly the pit of a slaughter house than the floor of a temple. It was smeared and slimy with trampled blood, fragments of clothing, and other fragments less pleasant to contemplate. The temple force of "white wings," however, made short work of it. They dragged out a few lengths of hose, turned on a powerful water pressure and in less than five minutes the blood and debris were washed down three drains to which the pavement imperceptibly sloped. The wet floor gleamed whiter than ever, and the Red Bell and wonderful walls were reflected with redoubled glory. A corps of scrubwomen went to work on hands and knees to dry and polish the cleansed floor, while Mr. Pity, with a final glance at his watch, again rose and advanced to the platform edge.
"The next superlative quality on my list," droned the master of ceremonies, disregarding the fact that he addressed only the bent backs of five inattentive scrubwomen, "is that of Quickest. This office entails management and control, under Penn Service, of the Department of Police, involving responsibility for the keeping of peace in Philadelphia and outlying suburbs."
A slim, alert-looking man of about forty-five advanced to the pit.
"Is there any other candidate for this office? Any other candidate?"
Came the click of hurrying heels, and round the dais appeared a small, rotund figure, surmounted by a cherubic but troubled countenance. Trenmore growled disappointedly. He had hoped for Drayton, not Bertram. What misadventure was keeping his friend away?
Bertram came up just as the master of ceremonies commenced his stereotyped conclusion: "No other candidate for this office. Present holder may-"
"Wait a minute there!" cried Trenmore, and thrust Bertram forward. "Go on-go on in, you fat rascal!" he added in a forceful whisper. "Here's the contest for Quickest now. You've not quite missed it. Go on!"
Though Bertram struggled vainly to face about, the Irishman still pushed him forward. He was not wasting such an opportunity to delay the proceedings in his absent friend's interest.
"I–I've changed my mind!" the burglar protested.
"Are we to understand," cut in Mr. Pity, "that this person does or does not wish to compete? Just a minute, chief. I don't know whether or not you have a rival."
"Certainly not!" spluttered Bertram.
"Certainly he does!" Trenmore's affirmative drowned out the burglar's plaintive negative. "If you don't," he added in his victim's ear, "I'll wring the round head off you!"
Mr. Arnold Bertram succumbed. Between two dangers, he chose the pit.
"Very well, y'r honor," he stammered. "I–I guess I'll have a go at it."
"Come forward then," snapped the master of ceremonies impatiently. "What is your number, place of residence, occupation, and age? Answer in order and speak clearly, please."
"My-Say, I ain't got no number."
"What?" Pity glanced frowningly at Bertram's lapel, and saw the green button with which Loveliest had supplied him. "With whose family are you connected?"
Just then Cleverest, who had been sitting quietly among the servants, rose and strolled to the front. He looked Bertram over; then turned to the throne.
"Your Supremity, this is one of those four strangers of whom you are already informed. Is it permitted that the usual questions be omitted?"
Both Mr. Pity and the Superlative seemed to interpret the inarticulate snarl which replied as assent. The latter gentleman, after giving Viola an encouraging smirk, sauntered back to his seat.
"Very well," said Pity. "But I must call you something you know. Haven't you any title?"
"Me name's Bertram," conceded the burglar.
"Well-er-Bertram, you now have an opportunity to prove yourself the quickest man in the city. Bring around that machine there."
At the word a thing like a penny-in-the-slot scales were trundled over the porcelain by two pit guards. They brought it to a halt just before Mr. Pity. Following it came Mr. Virtue, who drew the chief of police aside, whispered earnestly to him, and stepped back. Suspiciously Bertram eyed the contrivance, with its platform and large dial.
"Now, Bertram, place yourself on that platform and grasp the lever at the right. That's it. Now. Raise your left hand and snap finger and thumb nine times!"
With a dazed look the burglar obeyed. The needle on the dial jerked, swept around once, quivered, and stopped. By the servant's instructions, Bertram performed a number of similar feats, all equally trivial. Each time the needle made its mysterious record. At last Mr. Pity seemed satisfied.
"Very good. Mr. Virtue, would you mind making a note of that percentage? You may step off, Bertram."
Still dazed, Bertram again obeyed.
"You next, chief. Thank you."
The mysterious rites of the grasped lever and foolish-looking calisthenics were repeated.
"What is the comparison, Mr. Virtue?"
The servant figured for a moment on the back of an envelope.
"Ninety-eight for friend Bertram; ninety-five for the chief. Congratulations to you, my man! Sorry, chief. I fear you're getting old!"
The alert man who had been so unceremoniously superseded stepped off the little platform. He did not look particularly concerned, thought Trenmore-not at all like a man condemned to lose both means of living and life.
"It's all in the game, Mr. Virtue," he observed cheerfully. "Tell the boys to send lilies of the valley. When's the funeral?"
"Some other time, chief," retorted Virtue with equal jocosity. "The pit is not working right to-day."
"The cheerful liar!" muttered Trenmore. "Now tell me, Viola, what's the meaning of yonder small comedy?"
The girl, white-lipped and sick at heart, laughed mirthlessly. "What does it matter? At least, neither Bertram nor the other is to be murdered. Terry, if Mr. Drayton does not return soon, what shall we do when our time comes?"
"He will return-he must-but now what's wrong with the little round man?"