"I told you so, Mister Johnny. You can't do anything. They live in darkness." Suddenly losing his English stoicism, Tom dropped to his knees, threw his arms around his master's knees and sobbed: "Oh, Mister Johnny. I'm afraid!"
"There, there, Tom." Although his heart was breaking, it warmed to this display of humanness in the old man. "We'll lick this thing yet. Tell you what.... Tonight we'll go to the factory, barricade the doors and windows ... keep the fools out until they come to their senses."
"It won't be any use." Tom rose slowly, his fat old face drawn in stern lines. "Nevertheless, we'll fight it out together, if you wish."
"Very well, Tom." Jonathan stretched out his hand and grasped that of the other over the body of the dead girl. "Together it is, then."
That night, after they had said a simple prayer over Jo's grave, they hurried to the plant, repaired the doors and spent long hours barricading them and the windows from within. Often they felt eyes upon them, but no one interfered with their work. Dawn was breaking by the time they finished.
The morning gong soon was followed by scuffling sounds of the gathering crowd outside. Like a pack of hounds, the workers sniffed around the building, trying to find an entrance. When this was unsuccessful, there was a long silence. Then, when the pair inside had begun to take hope, they heard the crash of some heavy weapon against the doors.
"They're thinking a bit, anyway," said Jonathan; "they've hit on the idea of using a log for a battering ram."
The hammering gathered force and rhythm, and began to be accompanied by a grunting chant which sounded oddly familiar.
"They're remembering something else." Tom held his jaw to stop his chattering teeth. "I haven't heard them sing for a score of years."