and these furious men will be at your door. There is but one way to avoid riot and arson and bloodshed. You must face these men and promise to open your mills to them. It is your last expedient."
The president of the company brought his clenched hand down onto the table with a bang.
"Is this your only errand?" he asked.
"It is."
"Then go back and tell the thugs and hoodlums who sent you here that Richard Malleson has never yet surrendered to a mob, and that he never will. Tell them, moreover, that I have armed men behind my walls, and that the first rioter who attempts to enter here will take his life in his hands."
"But, Mr. Malleson, that would be murder. These men have lost their heads. They don't know what they are doing. They are wild. One word from you would restore their reason and prevent a tragedy."
"I have said my last word."
Some one, looking from the window, exclaimed in fright:
"They've broken the police lines! They're swarming into the plaza!"
It was true. The pressure of the mob had broken down the police guard, and enraged men by the hundreds were pouring into the open space that faced the factory. They were rattling at the doors of the mill, hammering against the gates, demanding to be let in. Hoodlums were yelling; women were screaming; fists were beating the air.
"Break down the door!" was the cry. "Smash the gates!" "Burn the mill!" "Kill the scabs!"
Richard Malleson, standing there with white face and set jaws, had seen them come. So had the rector of Christ Church. Both of them had heard the riotous and savage shouts. In the breast of the capitalist only fierce wrath was roused; but in the breast of the minister anger was mingled with pity.
