How could he now face his home?
How could he tell his mother of this catastrophe?
And Sidney--the little tad; how could he explain to her this wretchedness--how soften her disappointment?
How keep the tears from out her eyes--how keep alive her confidence in him--her faith in his resources?
Bitter, fierce, ominous, his wrath loomed up in his heart.

His fists gripped tight together, his teeth clenched.

Oh, for a moment to have his hand upon the throat of S.Behrman, wringing the breath from him, wrenching out the red life of him--staining the street with the blood sucked from the veins of the People! To the first friend that he met, Dyke told the tale of the tragedy, and to the next, and to the next.

The affair went from mouth to mouth, spreading with electrical swiftness, overpassing and running ahead of Dyke himself, so that by the time he reached the lobby of the Yosemite House, he found his story awaiting him.

A group formed about him.