“Our purpose,” was the response, “is to pass up the streets, the entrances to which you have covered with your troops, and spread our propaganda in the public places of the city, which is our right.”
“I understand. Is that your entire programme?”
The men in the ranks moved uneasily. It was apparent to them that their commanding officer was about to accede to the demand of the leaders of the mob.
Kranich hesitated, and studied his questioner’s face for a moment before replying. He was debating in his mind whether he should evade the real issue, or whether he should depend upon the friendly sympathy and anticipated acquiescence of the first lieutenant, and disclose the full purpose of the marchers. He made a quick decision, and chose the latter course as likely to lead to quicker and more satisfactory results.
“No,” he replied, “we intend to take possession of this plant before us, in behalf of the men who have a right to work there and to receive full compensation for their toil.”
“I see. And what is it that you wish me to do?”
Again the mild, acquiescent, deprecatory manner, with its intimation of a truculent yielding to the will of the mob.
The faces of the Guardsmen were a study in the expression of anxious doubt and increasing dismay. Brownell felt chills creeping down his back. The time had come when he, too, staunchest supporter and firmest friend of Halpert McCormack, had to keep tight grip on his faith in him in order to prevent it from sinking out of sight.
Barriscale was in a tumult of wrath. That McCormack should even consent to parley with the leaders of the mob was unbelievable and unendurable. “Bullets, not words,” he said in a hoarse whisper to the men at his left. “That’s what they want, bullets, not words!”
Kranich did not reply directly to the lieutenant’s last question. He gesticulated slightly, assumed an oratorical manner, and said: