CHAPTER XV
The mob came on, tossing its helpless victim on the surf of its passions. Still Original stood, a stocky figure of cold defiance in the path of frenzy. He had shifted his weight a little to his right foot so that he seemed to slouch; his shoulders sloped slackly forward; his hat, pushed a little back from his brow, permitted the sun to strike down and illumine his smiling face. One with an eye not keen enough to note the underlying readiness for instant action in this careless pose would have said the bow-legged little inspector was about to strike hands with an old acquaintance met after many years' separation.
The front of the crowd wavered and came to a halt at about five paces from the solitary figure in the road. The single will was playing upon the conglomerate and incohesive will of the mob. That moment was come when the spirit of stampede in human kind is confronted
