"My God!" gasped Burns, his eyes roving. "I says to him, 'Mike, I don't
wonder you've got cold feet.' And there he was, and the mayor--Heaven
save--and his secretary! My God!"
Darrow shook his shoulder.
"Here," he said decisively, "what are you talking about? Get yourself
together! Remember you're an officer; don't lose your nerve this way!"
At the touch to his pride Burns did pull himself together somewhat, but
went on under evident strong excitement.
"I went in just now to the mayor's office a minute," said he, "and saw my
friend Mike Mallory, the doorkeeper, settin' in his chair, as usual. It
was cold-like, and I went up to him and says, 'Mike, no wonder you get
cold feet down here,' just by way of a joke; and when he didn't answer, I
went up to him, and he was dead, there in his chair!"
"Well, you've seen dead men before. There's no occasion to lose your
nerve, even if you did know him," said Darrow.
The brutality of the speech had its intended effect. Burns straightened.
"That's all very well," said he more collectively. "_But the man was
froze_!"
"Frozen!" muttered Darrow, and whistled.
"Yes, and what's more, his little dog, setting by the chair, was froze,
too; so when I stepped back sudden and hit against him, he tumbled over
_bang_, like a cast-iron dog! That got my goat! I ran!"
"Come with me," ordered Darrow decisively.
They entered the building and ran up the single flight of stairs to the
second-story room which the mayor of that term had fitted up as a sort of
private office of his own.
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