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People moved back and gave him room, for he needed plenty of space in which to make himself understood. "The p-p-parish c-committee h-h-has d-decided that M-Mr. McGowan is not the m-m-man for our ch-ch-church. Elder F-F-Fox has the report of the c-c-committee. I m-m-move we h-h-h-hear him now!" Mr. Fox mounted the platform and came forward to the edge.
"Brethren!" he thundered. "It is time that we recognize some of our laymen. I see Mr. Harry Beaver of this church asking for the floor. Mr. Beaver may speak." "M-Mr. Ch-chairman, does M-Mr. Mc-McGowan b-believe in e-ev " The unfortunate man blinked, backed, pumped, emitted a series of hissing sounds like escaping steam, but remained hopelessly stuck.
The door opened a few inches, and Ashton's English valet peered in at the visitors with a timid, startled look. "Well?" demanded Mr. Leslie. "What d' you mean, sir, gawking that way? What's the matter here? all these papers scattered about everybody out on the bridge. Who are you, anyway?" "M-Mr. Ashton's m-man, sir!" stuttered the valet. "His man? Where is he? out on the bridge?"
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