tol; but rocks are dropped and pistols
undrawn as the train whirls rapidly by, and wrath gives place to
mystification. Who--what are these strange, silent, stubbly-bearded,
sun-tanned fellows in slouch hats, flannel shirts, and the worn old
black belts over the shoulder? Even the engine has its guard, and half
a dozen of them, perched upon the tender, have levelled their
carbines to flank and rear, ready to let drive into the crowd the
instant a brick is heaved or a trigger pulled.

And so into the great stone station they roll, and here they find the
platforms jammed with citizens,--some drawn by curiosity, some active
sympathizers in the strike, and many of them prominent leaders of the
mob surging in the crowded thoroughfare without. The train has hardly
come to a stand when from every direction the mass of outsiders is
heaving up around it.

"Now, Feeny, clear the platform to the left. Take the other side,
Wing," says Drummond, quietly, to the officer at the front door of the
next car.

In the very fraction of a second the first sergeant and a dozen men
have leaped from the deck, and straight into the heart of the crowd
they go. "Back with ye! Out o' this!" are the stern, determined
orders, emphasized by vigorous prods with the heavy carbine butts.
Astonished at methods so prompt and decided, there is only such
resistance as the weight and bulk of those in rear can offer, and that
is but momentary. The sight of those gleaming Gatling barrels, the
stern, brief orders and the rapid, confident advance combine to
overcome all idea of resistance. On both sides, at the head of the
train, the huge crowd, half laughing, half suffocating, is heaved back
upon itself and sent like a great human wave rolling up to the iron
lattice at the office end. Meantime, without an instant's delay the
battalion springs out from the cars, forms ranks on the north
platform, counts fours, and then, arms at right shoulder, away it goes
with swinging, steady tramp around the rear of its train, across the
parallel rows of rails, and in another moment, greeted by tremendous
cheers from the occupants of long lines and high tiers of stores,
offices, business blocks, the grimy, dusty, war-worn campaigners come
striding down the crowded street. Heavens! how the people shout! Staid
old burghers, portly business-men, trot panting alongside waving their
hats and cheering themselves hoarse. "Them fellers hasn't no _bo_quets
in their guns," is the way