"I can do nothing here," he said. "I may still be able to do something out there."
He turned to go, but Westgate laid a hand on his arm.
"You had better stay here," he said, "where you will be comparatively safe. It's a wild mess outside. Bricks and bullets are likely to fly soon."
"No matter! My place is with the men. They may listen to me yet."
"They won't listen to any one till they get their fill of blood."
But he went out. He pushed his way down the steps that led from the office door to the sidewalk, down into the midst of pandemonium. A wild-eyed man at his elbow yelled:
"Death to the scabs! Set fire to the buildings, an' smoke 'em all out!"
Near by a single policeman was battling with a dozen frenzied rioters. They had struck his cap from his head and were trying to wrest his club from his hands.
"Don't play with 'im!" shouted one; "choke 'im!"
The white face of the president of the company, distorted with anger, appeared for a moment at an office window.
"There's Dick Malleson!" was the cry. "He starves women an' kills babies! Get a rope an' hang 'im!"
Each wild and murderous sentiment was received with roars of approval by the bloodthirsty mob. The rector of Christ Church, amazed and indignant at the spirit of brutal savagery displayed by the men whose cause he had hitherto championed, determined to speak to them. He fought his way back up the steps to the office door, threw his hat from him, and faced the riotous multitude.
"Men," he shouted, "listen to me!"
"Listen to the preacher!" yelled a man at his side.
