"I'm not afraid."
"But I am—for you. Stay in this room. If they should break into the building, go up those stairs and get to the roof. They won't come there."
He went into the outer room, closing the door behind him.
From both directions and down a side street as well the dwellers in the slums straggled into the open space in front of the "Clarion" office. To Hal they seemed casual, purposeless; rather prankish, too, like a lot of urchins out on a lark. Several bore improvised signs, uncomplimentary to the "Clarion." They seemed surprised when they encountered the rope barrier with its warning placards. There were mutterings and queries.
"No serious harm in them," opined Dr. Elliot, to whom Hal had gone to see whether he wanted anything. "Just mischief. A few rocks maybe, and then they'll go home. Look at old Mac."
Opposite them, at his brilliantly lighted window desk, sat McGuire Ellis, in full view of the crowd below, conscientiously blue-penciling telegraph copy.
"Hey, Mac!" yelled an acquaintance in the street. "Come down and have a drink."
The associate editor lifted his head. "Don't be young," he retorted. "Go home and sleep it off." And reverted to his task.
"What are we doin' here, anyway?" roared some thirster for information.
Nobody answered. But, thus recalled to a purpose, the mob pressed against the ropes.