On the morning of June eighth the news was spread in Tacoma that the city would that day receive a Japanese garrison, as several transport-steamers had arrived at Seattle. Up to that time only one Japanese company had been stationed at Tacoma, and they had occupied the railroad station and the gas and electric works and intrenched themselves in the new waterworks outside the town. Through some strange trick of fortune the gun-depot for the arming of the national guard which had been removed to Tacoma a year ago and which contained about five thousand 1903 Springfield rifles had escaped the notice of the enemy. The guns had been stored provisionally in the cellars of a large grain elevator and it had been possible to keep them concealed from the eyes of the Japs, but it was feared that their hiding-place might be betrayed any day. This danger would of course be greatly increased the moment Tacoma received a stronger garrison. Martin Engelmann, a German who had immigrated to the great Northwest some twenty years ago, owned a pretty little home in the suburbs of Tacoma. The family had just sat down to dinner when the youngest son, who was employed in a large mercantile establishment in the city, entered hurriedly and called out excitedly: "They're coming, father, they're in the harbor." Then he sat down and began to eat his soup in haste. "They're coming?" asked old Engelmann in a serious tone of voice, "then I fear it is too late." The old man got up from the table and going over to the window looked out into the street. Not a living thing was to be seen far and wide except a little white poodle gnawing a bone in the middle of the street. Engelmann stared attentively at the poodle, buried in thought. "How many of them are there?" he asked after a pause. "At least a whole battalion, I'm told," answered the son, finishing his soup in short order. "Then it's all over, of course. Just twenty-four hours too soon," sighed Engelmann softly as he watched the poodle, who at that moment was jumping about on the street playing with the gnawed bone. Engelmann tried hard to control himself, but he did not dare turn his head, for he could hear low, suppressed sobbing behind him. Martha, the faithful companion of his busy life, sat at the table with her face buried in her hands, the tears rolling uninterruptedly down her cheeks, while her two daughters were trying their best to comfort her. Old Engelmann opened the window and listened. "Nothing to be heard yet; but they'll have to pass here to get to the waterworks," he said. Then he joined his family, and turning to his wife, said: "Courage, mother! Arthur will do his duty." "But if anything should happen to him--" sobbed his wife. "Then it will be for his country, and his death and that of his comrades will give us an example of the sacrifices we must all make until the last of the yellow race has been driven out."