THE RED TIDE OF ANARCHY
Betty and her uncle spent the next few hours in preparing for eventualities. They explored the storeroom and armory, and in the latter they found ample provision for a stout defense. There were firearms in plenty, and such a supply of ammunition as should be sufficient to withstand a siege. The store of dynamite gave them some anxiety. It was dangerous where it was, in case of open warfare, but it would be still more dangerous in the hands of the strikers. Eventually they concealed it well under a pile of other stores in the hopes, in case of accident, it might remain undiscovered.
During their preparations several more stones crashed against the walls and the door of the building. They were hurled at longish intervals, and seemed to be the work of one person. Then, finally no more were thrown, and futile as the attack had been, its cessation brought a certain relief and ease of mind. To the man it suggested the work of some drunken lumber-jack—perhaps the man who had been so forcibly rebuffed by Betty earlier in the evening.
It was one o'clock when Chepstow took a final look round his barricades. Betty was sitting at the table with a fine array of firearms spread out before her. She had just finished loading the last one when her uncle came to her side. She looked up at him with quiet amusement in her eyes.
"I was wondering," she said, with just a suspicion of satire in her manner, "whether we are in a state of siege, or—panic?"
But her uncle's sense of humor was lacking at the moment. He saw only the gravity of his responsibility.
"You'd best get to bed," he said a little severely. "I shall sit up. You must get all the rest you can. We do not know what may be in store for us."
Betty promptly fell in with his mood.
"But the sick?" she said. "We must visit them to-morrow. We cannot let them suffer."
"No. We must wait and see what to-morrow brings forth. In the meantime——"