“Time is up,” said Irving, closing his watch.

“But what is time when justice trembles in the balance?” argued Westby.
“When the innocent is in danger of being punished for the guilty, when—”

“Westby, please climb that ladder at once.”

“So young and so inexorable!” murmured Westby, setting his foot upon the
ladder.

Irving’s face was red; the tittering of the audience was making him
angry. He held his eyes on Westby, who made a slow, grunting progress up
three rungs and then stopped.

“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” Westby’s voice was ingratiating. “Mayn’t
Allison sing for us, sir?”

Allison grinned again foolishly and sent a sprawling foot out towards
his persecutor; the others laughed.

“Keep on climbing,” said Irving.

Westby resumed his toilsome way, and as he moved he kept murmuring
remarks to Allison, to the others, to Irving himself, half audible,
rapid, in an aggrieved tone.

“Don’t see why you want to be conspicuous this way, Allison.—Won’t
sing—amuse anybody—ornamental, I suppose—good timekeeper though—almost
hear you tick. Mr. Upton—setting watch by you now—awfully severe kind of
man—”