When Lieutenant McCormack, after reading the message announcing the coming of the mob, crossed the plaza and faced his company, he found his men already in ranks and standing at “order arms.” They also had heard the ominous sound of approaching disorder. Already the forefront of the procession was in sight on the street leading up from the south. Inflamed with the liquor which they had seized in the course of their journey, the exuberant and reckless spirit of the marchers was showing itself. Men were singing, shouting, waving clubs, demanding justice for their fellow-workers, and the recognition of the rule of the proletariat. At the junction of every street and alley their members had been swelled by the angry and resentful Industrialists of Fairweather. The cordon of police that had attempted to block their way was swept down as though it had been a rope of straw. Now, five hundred strong, reckless and determined, they were bearing down on the center of the city’s industries.

The waiting hundreds of citizens who, for the last hour, had lined the curbs about the open place, began to withdraw. They did not care to be caught between the clubs of the rioters and the bayonets of the militia.

The mob, filling the main street from wall to wall, entered the plaza like a rushing stream which, confined between barriers at the side, is powerful and resistless, but, spreading out over the broad lowland, loses its momentum and its destructive force. It was so with the marchers. The wide space into which they emptied themselves weakened their physical power, but in no wise altered their purpose or their spirit of aggressiveness. When they caught sight of the American flag waving from the staff before their faces, and saw the silent, khaki-clad ranks of soldiers standing at attention beneath it, they sent up a howl of derision. These were but the visible sign and symbol of the powers of oppression against which they fought. Therefore they wanted the world to know that they despised and defied them.

From somewhere outside, a drayman’s cart was brought and rattled across the pavement to the center of the plaza. A man leaped up into it and began to harangue the crowd. Italian, German, Slavonic words and sentences rolled from his tongue with equal fluency. His hearers applauded him wildly.

Sergeant Barriscale could endure the situation no longer. He brought his rifle to a “shoulder arms,” stepped one pace to the front and saluted his commanding officer.

“Lieutenant McCormack,” he said, “do you intend to permit those fellows to stir the rabble up to violence with incendiary speeches?”

The lieutenant acknowledged the salute and replied calmly:

“It is not our mission here to interfere with the right of free speech or of public assembly.”

“But,” shouted Ben, “this is simply a mob. The thing will develop into a riot. The time to stop it is now. I demand that you put this company into action and disperse that crowd.”

Hal looked his first sergeant squarely in the eyes. He was not angry, but there was a certain unusual note of decision in his voice as he replied.

“I shall not permit this company,” he said, “so long as I am in command, to oppress or harass any person acting within his rights. You will take your post.”

“But these hoodlums are not within their rights. They——”

“You will take your post, sir!”

The look in Lieutenant McCormack’s eyes, the ring in his voice, admonished Barriscale that the parley was at an end. He stepped back into his place at the right of the line, and came to “order arms” with a crash of the butt of his rifle on the pavement.

McCormack’s language had convinced him that, so far as the Guardsmen were concerned, the rioters were to have their way and work their will. And the same conviction was not far removed from the breasts of many of the men in the ranks.

The voice of the orator on the dray grew louder, his words tumbled in torrents from his lips, he was gesticulating like a man gone mad. His hearers, dominated by his fierce eloquence, applauded him to the echo. At the end of a fiery peroration there was a sudden movement of the crowd. Some one thrust up a pole with a red flag waving from its tip. Clubs were lifted into the air. From five hundred throats came a yell of defiance. Every hate-lined face was turned toward the soldiers still standing quietly at “order arms.” It was a critical moment. The orator flung his hands into the air and begged his followers to restrain their wrath until he should intercede for them with the capitalist-hired militia. He dismounted from the dray and, for a moment, was lost in the crowd. But, presently, with another leader at his side, he crossed the narrow, open space that separated the ranks of turbulence from the ranks of order and law.

At the foot of the flagstaff the two men met Lieutenant McCormack and stopped and addressed him. He recognized them, then, for the first time, as the two leaders whom he had met in Donatello’s shop. The American was again the spokesman.

“May I ask,” he said, “the purpose of bringing soldiers here?”

Lieutenant McCormack, standing with folded arms, responded quietly but firmly:

“To prevent disorder and violence.”

“There will be no disorder and no violence,” replied Kranich, “unless an attempt is made to thwart my followers in their purpose.”

“What is their purpose?”

The question came as mildly as though it had to do with a summer shower instead of a prospective riot.

“Our purpose,” was the response, “is to pass up the streets, the entrances to which you have covered with your troops, and spread our propaganda in the public places of the city, which is our right.”

“I understand. Is that your entire programme?”

The men in the ranks moved uneasily. It was apparent to them that their commanding officer was about to accede to the demand of the leaders of the mob.

Kranich hesitated, and studied his questioner’s face for a moment before replying. He was debating in his mind whether he should evade the real issue, or whether he should depend upon the friendly sympathy and anticipated acquiescence of the first lieutenant, and disclose the full purpose of the marchers. He made a quick decision, and chose the latter course as likely to lead to quicker and more satisfactory results.

“No,” he replied, “we intend to take possession of this plant before us, in behalf of the men who have a right to work there and to receive full compensation for their toil.”

“I see. And what is it that you wish me to do?”

Again the mild, acquiescent, deprecatory manner, with its intimation of a truculent yielding to the will of the mob.

The faces of the Guardsmen were a study in the expression of anxious doubt and increasing dismay. Brownell felt chills creeping down his back. The time had come when he, too, staunchest supporter and firmest friend of Halpert McCormack, had to keep tight grip on his faith in him in order to prevent it from sinking out of sight.

Barriscale was in a tumult of wrath. That McCormack should even consent to parley with the leaders of the mob was unbelievable and unendurable. “Bullets, not words,” he said in a hoarse whisper to the men at his left. “That’s what they want, bullets, not words!”

Kranich did not reply directly to the lieutenant’s last question. He gesticulated slightly, assumed an oratorical manner, and said:

“The time has come for you to prove by your works your declared faith in the righteousness of the proletarian movement.”

“What is it that you wish me to do?”

The question was repeated, perhaps a little more firmly, a little more distinctly than before, and it now brought a definite answer.

“We wish you to withdraw your troops from the plaza. The sight of them excites and angers my followers. If they remain here I shall not be responsible for the consequences.”

“I understand.”

Lieutenant McCormack turned and faced his company. It was apparent that he was about to yield to the demand of the captains of the mob and give such orders to his company as would lead to its immediate withdrawal. Kranich and Gabriel looked at each other and smiled with satisfaction. The men in the ranks grew sick at heart. Brownell clutched the butt of his pistol in sheer desperation. Barriscale snatched his rifle up from the pavement and started once more to leave the ranks, but was checked by the command that now issued from the lips of the first lieutenant.

“Fix bayonet!”

The first sergeant dropped back into his place. Brownell’s heart leaped in his breast. The Guardsmen caught their breaths and wondered and were happy.

But there was no delay in the execution of the order. The men came to “parade rest” and drew their bayonets from their scabbards. The click sounded sharp and ominous as the springs caught on the muzzles of the rifle barrels. Then, with shining blades fixed, the “order arms” was promptly resumed.

Lieutenant McCormack turned again to face the ringleaders. The smiles had vanished from their faces, their eyes were filled with a surprise that was not unmixed with indignation.

“In answer to your request,” said the lieutenant, “I will say that I decline to withdraw my troops. But I demand that you, who seem to be leaders of this crowd, take your men back at once along the street by which they came. Otherwise I shall clear the plaza at the point of the bayonet.”

His voice, rising as he proceeded, rang out at the last with a clearness and precision that left no room for doubt as to the meaning of his words.

Against all military precedent and custom the men of Company E, with almost a single voice, gave vent to a great shout of approval. The reaction was so great, the relief was so tremendous, that a week in the guard-house would scarcely have been sufficient to repress this exuberant expression of their feeling.

The faces of the leaders of the mob blazed with wrath, and their eyes shot fire. They had been mistaken in their man. It was Gabriel who now spoke up.

“And is it,” he cried angrily, the words tumbling from his bearded lips, “that we are deceived? Are you also traitor? Judas? Hound? I curse you! I defy your guns!”

His face was distorted with rage. His whole body was writhing with ungovernable passion.

“See!” he shrieked, “I despise your capitalist flag! I spit upon it! I destroy it!”

As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a big clasp-knife, opened the blade, and made a lunge toward the flagstaff with the evident purpose of slashing the halyards and dropping the flag to be trampled on. Quick and dextrous as he was, the first lieutenant of Company E was quicker. In a blaze of patriotic wrath he cleared the space between him and Gabriel, and brought the butt of his pistol crashing down upon the head of the would-be desecrator of the flag.

The knife dropped from the man’s hand and went clattering to the pavement, and he, himself, swaying, staggering for a moment, fell, bleeding and unconscious, at the foot of the staff he would have despoiled.

If the cheer that had greeted McCormack’s ultimatum to the leader of the mob had been whole-souled and exuberant, the yell that came now from the throats of half a hundred khaki-clad enthusiasts was vociferous and overwhelming. At last they had a soldier and a patriot for a leader, and they wanted the world to know it.

Barriscale alone was displeased and dissatisfied.

“It was a reckless thing to do,” he shouted. “Those fellows over there will see red now. Bayonets are no use. We’ve got to shoot into ’em or they’ll murder us. Look at ’em!”

The rioters presented, indeed, a terrifying spectacle. Stunned, for a moment, by the swift retribution that had fallen on their leader, their amazement now gave way to a frenzy of rage. Incited to still greater fury by Kranich who had precipitately fled into the midst of his followers when he saw his companion fall, the men of the invading host were clamoring for revenge. The red flag, temporarily lowered, was again shaken aloft. Men with faces distorted by wrath and a desire for vengeance were shrieking their anger, flourishing their clubs, brandishing knives, daggers, pistols, gathering from the street missiles of any and every kind with which to charge upon their enemy. They could not conceive that sixty Guardsmen in khaki, with rifles and bayonets, could check the murderous onslaught of five hundred desperate and daring men.

Already stones and brickbats were hurtling through the air, and falling in the midst of the troops. A stone struck Manning’s head, cut through his hat, and sent him staggering and bleeding to the curb.

“Charge bayonet!”

McCormack’s command rang out clear and distinct above the din and tumult of the riot. As it went down the line the rifle of every man was thrown to the front, his left hand supporting the barrel, his right hand grasping the stock. The points of sixty bayonets, four paces apart, ranged in the sweeping arc of a circle, converged in the direction of the howling and advancing mob. Barriscale alone was in revolt.

“It’s wild!” he shouted. “We’ve got to give ’em bullets, not bayonets! This is no pink tea! This is war! I say, load your guns, men, load! load!”

Obeying his own command, he pulled back the bolt of his piece, withdrew a clip from his cartridge belt, pushed it with trembling and hurried fingers into the slot of his rifle, forced the cartridges into the magazine, thrust the bolt home, and then looked around in amazement to see that no one else had followed his lead.

McCormack, though his face went white with anger, still thought it prudent to let Barriscale have his fling. The man was excited, terrified, utterly beyond even self-control; he could harm no one but himself.

The calmness, the deliberation, the apparent patience which the commanding officer was exercising in the handling of his force, appeared to give courage to the attacking mob, the front rank of which, forced on from behind, was now within twenty paces of the line of army steel. The jeering was hideous and the yelling terrific. Stones, brickbats, missiles of all kinds went crashing into the silent ranks.

“Advance!”

McCormack gave the command and repeated it. It was instantly obeyed. With measured step, bayonets pointed ahead of them at the height of their chins, firmness in every eye, determination gripping every inch of muscle, the men of Company E moved forward in the face of such a mad and murderous assault as few of them ever cared to witness again.

All but Sergeant Barriscale. He was now in flat revolt. He seemed bereft of his senses, wild with rage or fear or both.

“I’ll not advance!” he yelled. “You boys are going to your death. They’ll murder you. I say again, load and fire!” He turned savagely toward the commanding officer. “Fool!” he cried, “to send your men to slaughter. I defy your orders!”

Then, indeed, the first lieutenant lost grip on his patience. He thrust his pistol into its holster, reached out a right hand nerved with wrath, tore Barriscale’s loaded and unbayoneted rifle from his grasp, and tossed it to Manning sitting on the curb. With both hands he gripped the shoulders of the first sergeant and flung him about, face to the rear.

“Report at the armory,” he cried, “and consider yourself under arrest till I return.”

Then he swung about and followed his men into action.

As the troops pressed on the howling and shrieking died down, and the firing of missiles ceased. The points of sixty bayonets were within two feet of a hundred throats grown tired with shouting. The front rank of rioters looked into the eyes of the men behind the guns and saw their own doom written there. They made a last wild attempt to thrust aside the glittering steel. The effort was futile. They only pierced and lacerated their hands and put their lives in jeopardy. Then valor gave way to discretion. They broke and fell back, crowding, pushing and trampling on their comrades in the rear. The line of bayonets lengthened till it swept the plaza and forced the last man of the riotous host into the street up which the marchers had come a short half hour before. Panic seized upon the throng, a mad desire in the breast of each one to protect himself, regardless of his fellows, against what appeared to be the murderous onslaught of the pitiless troops. There was a wild scramble, shrieks of terror, a futile effort to escape. But it was not until vacant lots, side streets unguarded by police, and at last the open country, had been reached that the defeated, scattered and terrorized invaders found safe asylum and a respite from their fears. So, crushed, humiliated and spiritless, bleeding from many superficial wounds, singly and in groups, the rioters found their way back to the city from which, in the early morning, they had come.

Back, on the north side of the plaza, four persons stood or sat, watching, with vivid interest, the vanishing mob and the backs of the khaki-clad troops as they disappeared in the dust and distance down the main street leading to the south.

First among them was Gabriel the anarchist, who, coming to himself, had struggled into a sitting posture the better to nurse his wounds to which the surgeon who had administered first aid to Manning was now giving his attention. Manning himself, sitting on the curb, a little weak from shock and loss of blood, lifted his feeble voice in enthusiastic acclaim as he saw the riotous army routed from the plaza and driven down the street. Chick, seated at Manning’s side, joined his voice, pathetically tremulous, with the corporal’s outburst of rejoicing; and back of them a multitude of order-loving and law-abiding citizens shouted vociferously their delight at the victory won over the forces of disloyalty and disruption.

Finally, Barriscale stood there, midway between the wounded rioter and the cheering Guardsman, a powerless and pathetic figure. He looked at the marching troops, with bayonets at the “charge,” pressing the mob to its overthrow. He turned his eyes to the big buildings and the spacious yards of his father’s great industrial plant, saved by the firm and wise action of Lieutenant Halpert McCormack from pillage and destruction. He gazed up at the swelling and rolling folds of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” still floating, thanks to the alert patriotism of the same bold officer, in glorious symbolism from the summit of its staff. Finally his eyes fell on Corporal Manning and General Chick still sitting in front of him on the curb. His face was a study. It no longer showed any mark of excitement or anger. The emotions pictured on it were far different; wonder, humiliation, disgust, following each other in quick succession; finally the indication of a transforming force back of his countenance, no less powerful and thorough than that which this very morning had changed the tenor of the life and thought of his comrade in arms, Halpert McCormack. He came a step nearer to Manning.

“Dick,” he said, “I’ve been a fool.”

“I think, myself,” replied the corporal with a wan smile, “that you’ve been rather indiscreet.”

“Indiscreet! I’ve been a consummate idiot. Look at that fellow;” he half turned his head in the direction in which McCormack had disappeared; “getting all the honor and glory of this thing; and deserving it; and me—facing a court martial and the penitentiary—and deserving it.”

He came over and sat down on the curb beside Chick, and dropped his head into his hands.

“Him,” said Chick, gazing also with eyes filled with admiration after the disappearing troops, “he’ll be a major-general some day.”

Barriscale started up again. “I’m under arrest,” he said; “I’ve got to go to the armory. Who’s going?”

“I am,” replied Manning.

“Me too,” added Chick.

“Come along then, both of you.”

The corporal rose uncertainly to his feet, picked up his own rifle, and started to pick up the one belonging to Barriscale with which McCormack had intrusted him.

“Here,” said Chick, bravely, “give that one to me.”

The first sergeant looked down on him with pitying eyes. Yesterday he would have despised him and thrust him aside. But to-day the boy was so shrunken, so white and trembling, such a pathetic little figure to undertake to carry a man’s load.

“No,” said Barriscale, “you can’t. I’ll carry ’em both, Dick, if you’ll trust me.”

He took both rifles, put one over each shoulder, pushed a way through the noisy and wondering crowd, and together the three started up the main street toward the central city.