“They might do it, for a while,” he said thoughtfully. “There's a tremendous foreign population in the mill towns around, isn't there? Does anybody in the crowd own a revolver? Or know how to use it if he has one.” “I've got one,” said the insurance agent. “Don't know how it would work. Found my wife nailing oilcloth with it the other day.” “Very well. If we're a representative group, they wouldn't need a battery of eight-inch guns, would they?” A little silence fell on the group. Around them the city went about its business; the roar of the day had softened to muffled night sounds, as though one said: “The city sleeps. Be still.” The red glare of the mills was the fire on the hearth. The hills were its four protecting walls. And the night mist covered it like a blanket. “Here's one representative of the plain people,” said Mr. Hendricks, “who is going home to get some sleep. And tomorrow I'll buy me a gun, and if I can keep the children out of the yard I'll learn to use it.” For a long time after he went home that night Willy Cameron paced the floor of his upper room, paced it until an irate boarder below hammered on his chandelier. Jinx followed him, moving sedately back and forth, now and then glancing up with idolatrous eyes. Willy Cameron's mind was active and not particularly coordinate. The Cardews and Lily; Edith Boyd and Louis Akers; the plain people; an army marching to the city to loot and burn and rape, and another army meeting it, saying: “You shall not pass”; Abraham Lincoln, Russia, Lily. His last thought, of course, was of Lily Cardew. He had neglected to cover Jinx, and at last the dog leaped on the bed and snuggled close to him. He threw an end of the blanket over him and lay there, staring into the darkness. He was frightfully lonely. At last he fell asleep, and the March wind, coming in through the open window, overturned a paper leaning against his collar box, on which he had carefully written: Have suit pressed. Buy new tie. Shirts from laundry. CHAPTER XI Going home that night Mr. Hendricks met Edith Boyd, and accompanied her for a block or two. At his corner he stopped. “How's your mother, Edith?” It was Mr. Hendricks' business to know his ward thoroughly. “About the same. She isn't really sick, Mr. Hendricks. She's just low spirited, but that's enough. I hate to go home.” Hendricks hesitated. “Still, home's a pretty good place,” he said. “Especially for a pretty girl.” There was unmistakable meaning in his tone, and she threw up her head. “I've got to get some pleasure out of life, Mr. Hendricks.”