“See here!” shouted another. “We’ve no time for foolin’, and this ain’t a bluffin’ match! The boys mean business, and if you’re wise, you’ll do what they ask. Now, answer straight off: Have we got your last word on the matter?”
“Yes,” said Aynsley; “you can take it that you have.”
“That’s all right,” said the spokesman. “Now we know how we stand.” He raised his voice. “Boys, we’ve got to run the blasted Japs off!”
There was a pause and a confused murmuring for nearly a minute. Clay, remaining in the shadow of the lumber, wondered whether it might not have been wiser had he struggled back to Vancouver in search of assistance; but, after all, the police had their hands full in the city, and he might not have been able to obtain it. Besides, he had been used to the primitive methods of settling a dispute in vogue on the Mexican frontier and in Arizona twenty years ago, and, shaken, bruised, and bleeding, as he was, his nerves tingled pleasantly at the prospect of a fight.
When the strikers began to close in on the office Clay slipped round the lumber stack, and was fortunate in finding Jevons, the manager.
“Mr. Clay!” exclaimed Jevons, glancing at his lacerated face.
“Sure,” said Clay. “Don’t mention that I’m here. My boy’s in charge so long as he can handle the situation.”
“It’s ugly,” declared Jevons. “Are you armed?”
“I have a pistol. Don’t know that I can afford to use it. What’s the program?”
Before Jevons could answer, there was a rush of dark figures toward the office, and a hoarse shout.