There was silence now in the street. The crowd had swept past the house.
“But the town's full of strangers. You can't do anything, and Jim can't!”
“We can try. Look out for the children!”
And he was gone.
Mrs. McClintock turned to the boys, who were still at the table. “Go up-stairs to your room and stay there until I tell you to come down,” she commanded, peremptorily. “There, don't bother me with questions!” For Joe, the youngest boy, was already whimpering. The other two, with white, scared faces, sat bolt upright in their chairs. Some danger threatened; they didn't know what this danger was, and their very ignorance added to their terror.
“Do what I say!” she cried. At this they left the table and marched towards the stairs. Joe found courage to say: “Ain't you coming, too? George's afraid.” But his mother did not hear him. She was at the window closing the shutters. In the next yard she saw old Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Stapleton's mother, carrying her potted plants into the house and scolding in a shrill, querulous voice.
McClintock, pulling on his coat as he ran, hurried up the street past the little white frame Methodist church. The crowd had the start of him, and the town seemed deserted, except for the women and children, who were everywhere, at open doors and windows, some pallid and pitying, some ugly with the brutal excitement they had caught from brothers or husbands.
As he passed the Emorys', he heard his name called. He glanced around, and saw the doctor standing on the porch with Mrs. Emory and Constance.
“Will you go with me, McClintock?” the physician cried. At the same moment the boy drove his team to the door. McClintock took the fence at a bound and ran up the drive.
“There's no time to lose,” he panted. “But,” with a sudden, sickening sense of helplessness, “I don't know that we can stop them.”