The mob howled with disappointment and rage. Who said the police were not the paid and servient tools of capital? Whoever said so lied!
Struggling, pushing, shouldering their way through the hostile crowd, the rector of Christ Church and Stephen Lamar got inch by inch toward the front. On the way down they had agreed to make one final appeal to Richard Malleson for peace. He alone could stay the red hand of riot. It was not believable that he would refuse.
The captain of police recognized them, and when he knew what their errand was he permitted them to pass the lines. They started across the open plaza toward the front of the main building.
“You’re going where you belong!” came the cry from those in the mob who saw them go. “You’ve sold us out, and you’re going for your pay!” “Traitors!” “Blacklegs!”
All reason and judgment, all power to discriminate, seemed lost and swallowed up in the overwhelming passion of revolt that had seized upon the riotous crowd.
Two guards stood at the top of the steps, one at each side of the office door.
“We want to see Mr. Malleson,” said the rector.
“You can’t see him,” was the reply. “No one is allowed to go in.”
“But we must talk with him at once; it’s a matter of life and death.”