The man looked at him for a moment, and then turned and entered the building. He came back presently to say that Mr. Farrar might go in, but that Lamar would not be admitted under any conditions. So the labor leader went down the steps and stood by the railing outside, while the rector passed in to the office of the company. Mr. Malleson was there with his counsel, Philip Westgate, a half dozen anxious members of his board of directors, and a few frightened clerks. He looked up as the rector entered.
“Well,” he asked bluntly, “what is your errand to-day?”
“I have come,” said the rector, “to try to avert bloodshed.”
“And you have brought with you the club and torch with which you threatened me.”
“Mr. Malleson, this is no time for caviling. Do you see the mob in that street? It’s only a question of minutes when the police barrier will be broken down, and these furious men will be at your door. There is but one way to avoid riot and arson and bloodshed. You must face these men and promise to open your mills to them. It is your last expedient.”
The president of the company brought his clenched hand down onto the table with a bang.
“Is this your only errand?” he asked.
“It is.”
“Then go back and tell the thugs and hoodlums who sent you here that Richard Malleson has never yet surrendered to a mob, and that he never will. Tell them, moreover, that I have armed men behind my walls, and that the first rioter who attempts to enter here will take his life in his hands.”
“But, Mr. Malleson, that would be murder. These men have lost their heads. They don’t know what they are doing. They are wild. One word from you would restore their reason and prevent a tragedy.”