“Men,” cried Stanley, facing them, “this ain’t no guesswork. Rafe Bassett was kicked out of the brotherhood t’-night, an’ decided t’ git even this way. He set that car of oil on fire—but he was inside the car—an’ before he could git the door open, this is what happened to him. I pity the poor devil as much as any of you—an’ yet I say ’twas justice.”
“He’s right,” nodded a man at the front of the crowd. “He’s right. Let’s have no trouble here, men.”
Allan looked down again at the dim and shapeless mass.
“Is there an ambulance?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered one of the doctors. “Two of them.”
“Take him away, then; and see that he is cared for. After all, he’s dead, Stanley.”
“An’ a blamed good thing, too,” muttered Stanley, whose stock of sentiment was very small; but he took care that the crowd did not hear the words. After all, there was no use in provoking trouble.
“And how about the others?” asked Allan.
“What others?”
“The men in the freight-house.”