Hendrick's voice
was lost in fury.

"Talk!" said the roundsman. "Where'd the police be, I'm asking?"

"The police," said Mr. Hendricks, evidently quoting, "are as filled with
sedition as a whale with corset bones. Also the army. Also the state
constabulary."

"The hell they are," said the roundsman aggressively. But Willy Cameron
was staring through the smoke from his pipe at the crowd.

"They might do it, for a while," he said thoughtfully. "There's a
tremendous foreign population in the mill towns around, isn't there?
Does anybody in the crowd own a revolver? Or know how to use it if he
has one."

"I've got one," said the insurance agent. "Don't know how it would work.
Found my wife nailing oilcloth with it the other day."

"Very well. If we're a representative group, they wouldn't need a
battery of eight-inch guns, would they?"

A little silence fell on the group. Around them the city went about its
business; the roar of the day had softened to muffled night sounds, as
though one said: "The city sleeps. Be still." The red glare of the mills
was the fire on the hearth. The hills were its four protecting walls.
And the night mist covered it like a blanket.

"Here's one representative of the plain people," said Mr. Hendricks,
"who is going home to get some sleep. And tomorrow I'll buy me a gun,
and if I can keep the children out of the yard I'll learn to use it."

For a long time after he went home that night Willy Cameron paced the
floor of his upper room, paced it until an irate boarder below hammered
on his chandelier. Jinx followed him, moving sedately back and forth,
now and then glancing up with idolatrous eyes. Willy Cameron's mind was
active and not particularly coordinate. The Cardews and Lily; Edith Boyd
and Louis Akers; the plain people; an army marching to the city to loot
and burn and rape, and another army meeting it, saying: "You shall not
pass"; Abraham Lincoln, Russia, Lily.

His last thought, of course, was of Lily Cardew. He had neglected to
cover Jinx, and at last the dog leaped on the bed and snuggled close to
him. He threw an end of the blanket over him and lay there, staring into
the darkness. He was frightfully lonely. At last he fell asleep, and
the March wind, coming in through the open window, overturned a paper
leaning against his collar box, on which he had carefully written:

Have suit pressed.
Buy new tie.
Shirts