"You are dead right, McNish," answered Maitland. "And what do they want
here?"

"They are some of McGinnis's men and they are mad at the way you handled
them over yonder. They are bound to get in here. They are only waiting
for the rest of the crowd. Yon eejit doesn't know what he is saying.
They are all half-drunk."

Maitland's mind worked swiftly. "McNish, listen!" he said. "I am in a
deuce of a fix. I have the scabs in those cars there with me. The crowd
are following me up. What shall I do?"

"My God, man, you're lost. They'll tear ye tae bits."

"McNish, listen. I'll run them into the office by the side gate down the
street. Keep them busy here. Let that fool Simmons spout all he wants.
He'll help to make a row."

His eyes fell upon a crouching figure at his feet.

"Who is this? It's Sam, by all that's holy! Why, Sam, you are the very
chap I want. Listen, boy. Slip around to the side door and open it wide
till I bring in some cars. Then shut and bar it quick." Carefully he
repeated his instructions. "Can you do it, Sam?"

"I'm awful scared, Captain," replied the boy, his teeth chattering, "but
I'll try it."

"Good boy," said Maitland. "Don't fail me, Sam. They might kill me."

"All right, Captain. I'll do it!" And Sam disappeared, crawling under
the gate, while Maitland slipped back to his cars and passed the word
among the drivers. "Keep close up and stop for nothing!"

They had almost made the entry when some man hanging on the rear of the
crowd caught sight of them.

"Scabs! Scabs!" cried the man, dashing after the cars. But Sam was equal
to his task, and as the last car passed through the gateway he slammed
and bolted the door in their faces.

Disposing of the strike-breakers in the office, Maitland and his guard
of specials passed outside to the main gate and took their places beside
McNish and his guard. Before them the mob had become a mad, yelling,
frenzied thing, bereft of power of thought, swaying under the fury of
their passion like tree tops blown by storm, reiterating in hoarse and
broken cries the single word "Scabs! Scabs!"

"Keep them going somehow, McNish," said Maitland. "The Chief won't be
long now."

McNish climbed up upon the fence and, held in place there by two
specials, lifted his hand for silence. But Simmons, who all too
obviously had fallen under the spell of the bootleggers, knew too well
the peril of his cause. Shrill and savage rose his voice:

"Don't listen to 'i