"No, uncle dear. We must wait for that until they force an entrance." She was cool enough in her desperation, cooler far than he.
"Yes," he nodded reluctantly, "perhaps you're right, but the suspense is—killing. Hark! Listen, they are coming at us again. I wonder what it is to be this time."
The harsh voices of the drunken mob could be plainly heard. They were coming nearer. Brutal laughter assailed the straining ears inside, and set their nerves tingling afresh. Then came a hush. It lasted some seconds. Then a single laugh just outside the door broke upon the silence.
"Try again," a voice said. "Say, here's some more. 'Struth you're a heap of G—— d—— foolishness."
Another voice broke in angrily.
"God strike you!" it snarled, "do it your b—— self."
"Right ho!"
Then there came a shuffling of feet, and, a moment later, a scraping and scratching at the foot of the door. Chepstow glanced down at it, and Betty's eyes were irresistibly drawn in the same direction.
"What are they doing now?"
It was the voice of the wounded strike-leader on his bunk at the far end of the room. He was staring over at the door, his expression one of even greater fear than that of the defenders themselves. He felt that, in spite of the part he had played in bringing the strike about, his position was no better than these others. If anything happened to them all help for him was gone. Besides, he, too, understood that these men outside were no longer strikers, but wolves, whiskey-soaked savages beyond the control of any strike-leader.