But the Anarchists did not stop with writing letters. One night they held a small meeting in the rear room of a saloon on North Avenue, and there was a great deal of talk and bluster about what they ought to do to “bring the officials to their senses.” One suggested that they should blow up the house of Officer Michael Hoffman, but that officer appears to have had a friend there. That friend opposed the plan and said: “Cowards, if you want to do anything, why don’t you meet the man himself and attack him? Why do you seek to hurt his wife and innocent children?” This appealed to their sense of humanity, and they at once decided to abandon the scheme. Finally one cut-throat arose, and, in a braggadocio style, broke out, in a loud, coarse and beer-laden voice: “Well, we will drop that plan, but you all know where he lives and we all have bombs yet. Any one that does not care for a screeching woman or squealing young ones, let him go and see the shingles fly off the roof.” On a subsequent night about two o’clock in the morning a carriage drove up to the officer’s house, and one of the occupants shouted out, “Mike!” The officer drew to the window, and his wife opened it. At first, mistaking her for the officer, they halloaed, “We only want to see you for a moment.” When the woman asked what was wanted they said, “We don’t want to see you. Where is Mike?” Being informed that he was not at home, one of the burly fellows said, just as the carriage started away, “A d——d good thing for him that he is not at home.” This band of intimidators and cowards did not overlook me. On two occasions they sought to burn my house, but each time they were foiled in their attempt. They sneaked, true to their nature, into the back yard, and started a fire by means of a kerosene-saturated torch or by the use of an explosive. The fires, however, failed to do any damage.