McDougal, on her feet, held up her hand as a child in a classroom who
asks to speak.

Mr. Chinn's gavel came down heavily and squelched the titter which
threatened to be something more. "Mr. Brickhouse has the floor, Mrs.
McDougal."

"And likely to keep it, sir. But go on, Mr. Brickhouse, go on! I
thought maybe you'd just heard from the Lord. Beg your pardon, sir."

She sat down, waving her hand toward the round little man, speechless
with amazement, then turned in a half whisper to the girl at her side.

"Let him talk, Miss Cary. Nothing shows the kind of fool you are as
quick as your tongue. Balaam's Brickhouse won't hurt you."

"Mr. President"--the interruption was ignored, and only the trembling of
the fine, thin voice gave evidence of anger--Mr. President, Yorkburg is
no pauper, and does not need the gift which has been offered it
to-night, provided it will acknowledge it needs to be cleaned up.
Yorkburg is a very clean place. Its streets were good enough for our
fathers, and I, for one, protest against the supplanting of the trees
they planted by the planting of more! We don't want more! And who is the
person who offers this gift? Why is his name withheld? Is he ashamed of
it, or is there a string tied to it which we don't see yet? What does
the party want of us in return for this sum of money, gotten we know not
how? It may be tarnished, sir, it any be tarnished!" His pudgy little
hands smote the air with something of vehemence; then remembering that
excitement was inelegant he wiped them carefully with his handkerchief,
clasped them righteously together, and laid them on his stomach.