e, the ruling Soviet of the Workers reserves to itself
the right of adopting such measures to enforce the Will of the
Workers as it may deem necessary.

"On behalf of the Soviet of the Workers,

"LEO MURKO,

"Chief Commissionary."

At the finish of his reading Bat had looked up into the dark face of
Pete Loale who was standing by.

"Leo Murko?" he said, in an ominously restrained tone. "Ther' ain't no
guy o' that name on our pay-roll. Guess he'll be that feller Bull
dropped out into the snow." Then with a sudden explosive force: "In
God's name why in hell didn't he break that skunk's neck?"

The week's grace had expired. It had been a week of further hasty
preparations. Every day had been used to the uttermost, and even far
into the night the work had gone on. The office on the hill, as well as
the executive offices down at the mill, had been cleared out. Documents,
cash, books, safe. Everything of real importance had been removed to the
citadel power house. The mining of the penstocks had been completed, and
left ready to be blown sky high at a moment's notice. Whatever befell,
the men who had given their lives to the building of the mills were
determined that only a useless husk should fall into the hands of the
strikers.

Now had come the Communists' final declaration of war. The message had
been brought less than an hour ago by the same youth, who had again
departed with Bat's smiling expression of pity. The letter was ominously
brief.

"The Order of the Soviet of the Workers will be enforced
forthwith. No mercy will be shown in the event of resistance."

Bat's fury had blazed as he read the message. Again it was signed "Leo
Murko." How he hated that name. He had been alone in the office when the
letter came, and had seized the 'phone and called up the engineer at the
power house, and read the message to him. Skert Lawton's reply was as
instant as it was characteristic.

"That's all right," he said. "We're fixed for the scrap. Just come right
over."

It was this last act that Bat contemplated now. And he hated it. He
knew well enough he must go. There was no sane alternative. The power
station was the prepared fortress. It had everything in it that must be
guarded and fought for. But his fierce regret was none the less for the
knowledge.

Then, too, his regret was for something else. It was at the absence of
Bull Sternford. This was no expression of weakness. It was simply