“Hurt them?” said Rupert. “What do you want?”
“Certainly not to hurt anyone,” replied the Chief quietly. “The function of my police force is the protection of citizens. Halt there!”
The Chief stepped out among the strikers and stood in the glare of the headlights.
“Well, boys,” he said pleasantly, “don't you think it is time to get home? I think you have done enough damage to-night already. I am going to give you a chance to get away. We don't want to hurt anyone and we don't want to have any of you down for five years or so.”
Then the Mayor spoke up. “Men, this is a most disgraceful thing. Most deplorable. Think of the stain upon the good name of our fair city.”
Howls of derision drowned his further speech for a time.
“Now, boys,” he continued, “can't we end this thing right here? Why can't you disperse quietly and go to your homes? What do you want here, anyway?”
“Scabs!” yelled a voice, followed by a savage yell from the crowd.
“Men,” said the Chief sharply, “you know me. I want this street cleared. I shall return here in five minutes and anyone seeking to stop me will do so at his own risk. I have a hundred men down there and this time they won't give you the soft end of the club.”
“We want them sulphurously described scabs,” yelled a voice. “We ain't goin' to kill them, Chief. They're lousy. We want to give 'em a bath.” And a savage yell of laughter greeted the remark. On every hand the word was taken up: “A bath! A bath! The river! The river!” The savage laughter of the crowd was even more horrible than their rage.