“Now, what in thunder is this? Hold up a minute,” said Maitland to his driver. “Let me take a look.” He ran forward to the main entrance. There he found the gateway, which stood a little above the street level, blocked by a number of his own men, some of whom he recognised as members of his hockey team, and among them, McNish. Out in the street among the crowd stood Simmons, standing on a barrel, lashing himself into a frenzy and demanding blood, fire, revolution, and what not.
“McNish, you here?” said Maitland sharply. “What is it, peace or war? Speak quick!”
“A'm haudden these fules back fra the mill,” answered McNish with a scowl. Then, dropping into his book English, he continued bitterly: “They have done enough to-night already. They have wrecked our cause for us!”
“You are dead right, McNish,” answered Maitland. “And what do they want here?”
“They are some of McGinnis's men and they are mad at the way you handled them over yonder. They are bound to get in here. They are only waiting for the rest of the crowd. Yon eejit doesn't know what he is saying. They are all half-drunk.”
Maitland's mind worked swiftly. “McNish, listen!” he said. “I am in a deuce of a fix. I have the scabs in those cars there with me. The crowd are following me up. What shall I do?”
“My God, man, you're lost. They'll tear ye tae bits.”
“McNish, listen. I'll run them into the office by the side gate down the street. Keep them busy here. Let that fool Simmons spout all he wants. He'll help to make a row.”
His eyes fell upon a crouching figure at his feet.
“Who is this? It's Sam, by all that's holy! Why, Sam, you are the very chap I want. Listen, boy. Slip around to the side door and open it wide till I bring in some cars. Then shut and bar it quick.” Carefully he repeated his instructions. “Can you do it, Sam?”