After glaring for a moment, Braunt turned and strode unmolested to the closed gate.
The officer paid heed to the advice given him and sent for more men. He saw there was to be trouble of some sort.
Braunt smote his huge fist against the panels and roared at the top of his voice:
“Open the gates!”
A slight flutter of listless interest seemed to pass over the crowd. The men elbowed closer together, shuffling their feet and craning their necks forward. Those to the rear pressed towards the front, wondering what was about to happen. The few policemen looked on without interfering, waiting for reinforcements. Braunt beat with his fist against the sounding timbers, the rhythmic thuds being the only break in the stillness except when he repeated his stentorian cry, “Open the gates!”
The porter at the small wicket, fearing an attack, ran for Sartwell, and met the manager coming down the stairs.
“I’m afraid there’s going to be another riot, sir,” said the porter, breathlessly.
Sartwell did not answer, but walked quickly to the small gate, unbolted it, and stepped out.
“What do you want?” he said.
“We want our work!” cried Braunt. “Open the gates!”