THE MOB WAS USING THE COAL FROM THE DISMANTLED WAGON
Somebody had been pounding unheard at the office-door. Luke saw the door bend and ran to it. He flung it wide.
Breil stood there, his revolver in his hand.
"I've got to disturb you——" he began, and, though he shouted, his voice did not reach to where Betty stood against the wall.
"That's all right," called Luke. "I've been a fool and a coward to stay here. Give me that gun."
He wrenched the weapon from Breil's resisting hand. He leaped to Betty and slipped the revolver to her.
"Got to go downstairs," he cried to her, for the broken window let in a roar that made ordinary speaking tones futile. "Bolt the door after us! You'll be safe! We'll fall back to the stairs, if we have to fall back. Good-bye!"
He would not look back. His last sight of her was of a woman standing erect, alert, comprehending, the revolver shining in her hand. Then, with the following Breil calling out that he must go to his own men at the rear, Luke ran down the stairs, opened the main door and, leaving it gaping behind him, plunged outside.
§9. Coherent purpose he had none. All that he realized was this: here was a struggle; here was a final endeavor to destroy his property, which, however endangered by the trust, was almost his sole means of support. There would be no more chance given him for delay; there would be no further help from the police—the half-dozen sent that morning had disappeared—until help was too late; there was only the boyish soldiery. He would go to them, and he would fight.