Then Barnabas closed his eyes and, reaching out, set his hand upon
the back of a chair near by, and so stood, with bent head and a
strange roaring in his ears. Little by little this noise grew less
until he could hear voices, about him, an angry clamor:
"Put him out!"
"Throw the rascal into the street!"
"Kick him downstairs, somebody!"
And, amid this ever-growing tumult, Barnabas could distinguish his
father's voice, and in it was a note he had never heard before,
something of pleading, something of fear.
"Barnabas? Barnabas? Oh, this be you, my lad--bean't it, Barnabas?"
Yet still he stood with bent head, his griping fingers clenched hard
upon the chair-back, while the clamor about him grew ever louder and
more threatening.
"Throw him out!"
"Pitch the fellow downstairs, somebody!"
"Jove!" exclaimed the Marquis, rising and buttoning his coat,
"if nobody else will, I'll have a try at him myself. Looks a
promising cove, as if he might fib well. Come now, my good fellow,
you must either get out of here or--put 'em up, you know,--dooce
take me, but you must!"
But as he advanced, Barnabas lifted his head and staying him with a
gesture, turned and beheld his father standing alone, the centre of
an angry circle.
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