e wine? There were others like him in that milling
multitude on the river bank across, young men who had come to America
with a dream in their hearts, and America had done this to them. Or had
she? She had taken them in, but they were not her own, and now, since
she would not take them, they would take her. Was that it? Was it that
America had made them her servants, but not her children? He did not
know.

* * * * *

Robbed of the city proper, the mob turned on the mill district it
had invaded. Its dream of lust and greed was over, but it could still
destroy.

Like a battle charge, as indeed it was, the mounted city and state
police crossed the bridge. It was followed by the state troops on foot,
by city policemen in orderly files, and then by the armed citizens.
The bridge vibrated to the step of marching men, going out to fight for
their homes. The real battle was fought there, around the Cardew mills,
a battle where the loyalists were greatly outnumbered, and where the
rioters fought, according to their teaching, with every trick they could
devise. Posted in upper windows they fired down from comparative safety;
ambulances crossed and re-crossed the bridges. The streets were filled
with rioting men, striking out murderously with bars and spikes. Fires
flamed up and burned themselves out. In one place, eight blocks of
mill-workers' houses, with their furnishings, went in a quarter of an
hour.

Willy Cameron was fighting like a demon. Long ago his reserve of
ammunition had given out, and he was fighting with the butt end of his
revolver. Around him had rallied some of the men he knew best, Pink and
Mr. Hendricks, Doctor Smalley, Dan and Joe Wilkinson, and they stayed
together as, street by street, the revolutionists were driven back.
There were dead and wounded everywhere, injured men who had crawled into
the shelter of doorways and sat or lay there, nursing their wounds.

Suddenly, to his amazement, Willy saw old Anthony Cardew. He had somehow
achieved an upper window of the mill office building, and he was showing
himself fearlessly, a rifle in his hands; in his face was a great anger,
but there was more than that. Willy Cameron, thinking it over later,
decided that it was perplexity. He could not understand.

He never did understand. For other eyes also had seen old Anthony
Cardew. Willy Cameron, breasting the mob and fighting madly toward the
door of the building