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340 mingled with the crowd that was headed ominously toward the mills.

Forerunners hurried back to say that a company of scabs had entered the mill-yard, guarded by deputies armed to the teeth. The mob howled its defiance and derision, and pushed on.

The entrance to the Malleson mills was at the foot of a narrow street. In front of the works a broad plaza ran, blocked at both ends by buildings of the company. Along this street and across this plaza the army of employees, in working times, made their way to and from their place of employment. It was down this street now that the crowd swept, bent on presenting and enforcing their demand for work. But just above where the way opens into the plaza, stretched from wall to wall, two ranks of policemen stood, shoulder to shoulder, club in hand, ready to repel any invasion of the property of the rich. The leaders of the mob, scarcely able to resist the pressure from behind, halted when they reached the line of blue.

"What do you want?" inquired the captain of police.

"We want to see Richard Malleson," was the reply.

"You can't see him."

"We want our jobs."

"You can't go to the mills."

"We want to drive out the scabs."

"The first man that attempts to cross this line will go home with a cracked skull."

The mob howled with disappointment and rage. Who said the police were not the paid and servient tools of capital? Whoever said so lied!

Struggling, pushing, shouldering their way through the hostile crowd, the rector of Christ Church and Stephen Lamar got inch by inch toward the front. On the way down they had agreed to make one final appeal to Richard Malleson for peace. He alone could stay the red hand of riot. It was not believable that he would refuse.