“I have said my last word.”
Some one, looking from the window, exclaimed in fright:
“They’ve broken the police lines! They’re swarming into the plaza!”
It was true. The pressure of the mob had broken down the police guard, and enraged men by the hundreds were pouring into the open space that faced the factory. They were rattling at the doors of the mill, hammering against the gates, demanding to be let in. Hoodlums were yelling; women were screaming; fists were beating the air.
“Break down the door!” was the cry. “Smash the gates!” “Burn the mill!” “Kill the scabs!”
Richard Malleson, standing there with white face and set jaws, had seen them come. So had the rector of Christ Church. Both of them had heard the riotous and savage shouts. In the breast of the capitalist only fierce wrath was roused; but in the breast of the minister anger was mingled with pity.
“I can do nothing here,” he said. “I may still be able to do something out there.”
He turned to go, but Westgate laid a hand on his arm.
“You had better stay here,” he said, “where you will be comparatively safe. It’s a wild mess outside. Bricks and bullets are likely to fly soon.”