"All but two, sir," replied the operator. "D and P don't answer. I guess they beat it."
"How do they report the bulletin men?"
"On the job," replied the wireless man.
The stout young man turned to Lyons.
"Well, sir," said he, "I don't know whether we or the hand of death will be called on to quiet them"—he paused for an instant with uplifted hand; the roar and crash and wail of the city-wide riot surged into the gap of his silence—"but if it is we," he went on, "our little arrangements are made. My men know what to do, and my men are on the job," he concluded proudly.
Lyons nodded again.
"We have all done our best," said he. "Now, gentlemen, I do not see how we can possibly accomplish anything more by remaining here. My automobile is in concealment in the old stable in the rear of 127. My yacht is standing off the Battery awaiting signal to come in. We have," he glanced at his watch, "over an hour before the threatened catastrophe."
He looked up expectantly. The men all glanced uneasily at one another, except Simmons, who stared at his batteries stolidly.
"Come, gentlemen," urged Lyons, after a moment. "There is really not much time to lose, for you know the yacht must steam beyond the danger zone."
"Beat it," spoke up Simmons, at last. "There ain't any good of you here. If anything comes in, I can handle it. It's just a case of send out orders to your bulletin men."