Everything came off according to plan. As the Chief's detachment of cars approached the solid mass of strikers, they slowly gave back before them.
“Clear the way there!” said the Chief. “We are going through!”
Step by step the crowd gave way, pressed by the approaching cars. Suddenly, at a word of command, the mass opened ranks and the Chief saw before him a barrier across the street, constructed of fencing torn from neighbouring gardens, an upturned delivery wagon, a very ugly and very savage-looking field harrow commandeered from a neighbouring market garden, with wicked-looking, protruding teeth and other debris of varied material, but all helping to produce a most effective barricade. Silently the Chief stood for a few moments, gazing at the obstruction. A curious, ominous growl of laughter ran through the mob. Then came a sharp word of command:
“Unload!”
As with one movement his party of constables were on the ground and lined up in front of their cars, with their clubs and axe handles ready for service. Still the mob waited in ominous silence. The Chief drew his gun and said in a loud, clear voice:
“I am going to clear away this barricade. The first man that offers to prevent me I shall shoot on the spot.”
“I wouldn't do that, Chief,” said a voice quietly from the rear. “There are others, you know. Listen.”
Three shots rang out in rapid succession, and again silence fell.
Meantime from the corner of the barricade a man had been peering into the cars.
“Boys!” he shouted. “They ain't there! There ain't no scabs.”