The I. W. W. lurched out of his seat and shoved against Shotwell.
“Get the hell out o’ here,” he snarled; “––go on! Beat it! And take your lady-friends, too.”
Brisson said: “No use talking to them. You’d better take the ladies out while the going is good.”
But as they moved there was an angry murmur: the I. W. W. gave Palla a violent shove that sent her reeling, and Shotwell knocked him unconscious across a bench.
Instantly the hall was in an uproar: there was a savage rush for Brisson, but he stopped it with levelled automatic.
“Get the ladies out!” he said coolly to Shotwell, forcing a path forward at his pistol’s point.
Plain clothes men were active, too, pushing the excited Bolsheviki this way and that and clearing a lane for Palla and Ilse.
Then, as they reached the rear of the hall, there came a wild howl from the audience, and Shotwell, looking back, saw Sondheim unfurl a big red flag.
Instantly the police started for the rostrum. The din became deafening as he threw one arm around Palla and forced her out into the street, where Ilse and Brisson immediately joined them.
Then, as they looked around for a taxi, a little shrimp of a man came out on the steps of the hall and spat on the sidewalk and cursed them in Russian.