Sartwell’s glance swept swiftly over the men, who stood with jaws dropped, their gaunt faces and wolfish eyes turned towards the closed barriers. The manager quickly comprehended that it was no time for discussion or arranging of terms. What was needed was action, sharp and prompt. He turned towards the trembling porter, and said peremptorily:
“Throw down the bar!”
Whatever doubts the man may have had about the wisdom of such an order in the face of the hostile mob, he preferred to brave probable danger from the crowd rather than the certain wrath of the manager, and obeyed the command with haste. The heavy gates were slowly pushed open.
“Now, men, in with you!” cried Braunt, with a scythe-like swing of his long arm. “The man that holds back now—ah, God!—Ah’ll break his back!” Some one stumbled forward, as if pushed from behind; then it was as if an invisible rope, holding the crowd back, had suddenly broken. The men poured through the open gateway in a steady stream. Gibbons, waving his hands like a maniac, cried:
“Stop! Stop! Listen to me for a moment!”
But no one stopped, and no one listened. Braunt, his face white with anger, struggled against the incoming tide, shouting:
“Let me get at him! Ah’ll strangle the whelp!”
“Braunt!” said Sartwell sharply, his voice cutting through the din of shuffling boots. “Leave him alone, and get inside yourself. Gather the men together in the yard. I want a word with them.”
Braunt’s truculence at once disappeared. He turned with the men, and came to where Sartwell stood looking grimly at the moving throng. No one glanced towards his master, but each went doggedly forward, with head down as though doing something he was ashamed of. Braunt stopped at Sartwell’s side and whispered:
“For God’s sake, Manager, set them at work, and don’t talk to them. They’re beaten, and there’s no more to be said. Be easy with them; there’s been talk enough.”