"Here," I said, "see that nobody gets over that wall. You two," picking out a pair of the guards, "hold the stair. Come on, the rest of you. We must clear these fellows out. Double quick, now." At this command the men sprang forward by my side, and we ran to the invaded quarter, firing off our remaining cartridges as we charged. The mob was mostly of but poor stuff, after all. Half of those who had been bold enough to climb to the terrace halted at sight of our advance, and dropped over the wall to the sidewalk in panic. But we were, nevertheless, greatly outnumbered by those who stood their ground, and a scattering though harmless fusillade gave evidence that they were armed. In a moment we were in the thick of it. Fists, clubs and revolvers were flying, and the thud of body blows could be heard under the cries and curses that formed the dramatic chorus to the struggle. We used our empty revolvers as clubs, and we appeared to do more execution with them handled thus than with all the bullets we had fired. A bullet has a way of wandering from its mark, but a pistol-barrel brought down with a vigorous arm on a man’s head never fails in execution, and has a tendency to turn the most ardent warrior into the ways of peace. But in spite of good luck, discipline and desperation, we were far from having the battle all our own way. I had envied the ease with which my favorite heroes of romance bowled over half a dozen enemies with fist or sword, and I envied them still more when I found myself in a place to put their lessons into practice. I had not been in the conflict more than a minute when a knock on the head from a bony fist and a thump on the shoulder from a club sent me to the grass with a realization of how much better it is to give than to receive. But I was fortunate enough to be up again in a moment, and laying about me with a savage hope of repaying with usury the men who had sent me to the ground. How the battle would have gone if we had been left to our unaided strength, I shall leave to less partial historians to say. But just as I had been thoroughly impressed with the fact that seven men have their work cut out for them when they are called on to attack a score, I heard a roar from the mob that finally separated into an articulate cry of-- "Here come the cops! Look out for the police! Knock their heads off!" And a company of the guardians of order could be seen charging down the avenue. The pugilistic activities of the mob in the presence of the police, however, appeared to be purely vocal. So far as I was able to observe, the head-knocking business was wholly on the other side.