He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. You see—I didn’t understand. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. If he could keep it up—style and calibre of imagination—within a year the name of Taber would become widely known. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily.
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