At the warning cry there was a sudden slackening of activity among the invaders of the terrace. Then they began to drop over the wall to rejoin the retreating main body, and in a minute, with a panic rush, they were all gone. And while I caught my breath once more I had the satisfaction of seeing the mob driven like sheep before a company of some twenty-five policemen, who were savagely rapping with their clubs at every head they could reach. The crowd was flying from a body of men that it could have swallowed up, smothered, annihilated, by sheer force of numbers, awed less by the physical force represented by the clubs than by the moral force of law that lay behind them. I hailed the police captain as a brother and a preserver, and hastily explained the state of affairs. "It’s a bad night for us all," he said. "We’re fighting ’em from North Beach to Tar Flat. They’ve killed a dozen Chinamen, an’ I’ll bet my straps there isn’t a Chinese wash-house left with a window in the whole city." "I’m afraid we aren’t much better off here," I said, with a rueful look at the vacant sashes of Wharton Kendrick’s windows. "It’s bad--it’s bad," said the officer. "We got word they were coming here, and the chief sent us up to clear the avenue. Then we heard that they were settin’ fire to Stanford’s and Crocker’s so we rushed over to Nob Hill. It was only a small crowd there, though, and after chasin’ them out, we hurried up here." "You were just in time," I said. "We were hard pressed." "I’m sorry I can’t leave you a few men," said the captain, "but we’ve got too much work ahead of us. I don’t think they’ll try it again. But we’ll look around this way again in an hour or two." *CHAPTER XXII* *I BECOME A MAN OF BUSINESS* I was a sorry sight when I entered the house once more, with one sleeve torn from my coat, a large and growing lump over my right eye, and my clothing an impressionist study in grass-stains and earth colors. In the excitement of the moment I was not aware of the picturesque figure I made until I saw the horror-stricken look that swept over Laura Kendrick’s face as she met me in the hall. "Oh," she cried, "you did go and get yourself murdered, after all!" "No, indeed. I had a day’s work crowded into a few minutes, but we got them driven off, and I’m as sound as a dollar." I spoke with the exultation of victory; but with the reaction from the excitement and fatigue of the battle I felt the need of a place to sit down and pull myself together. "Then you’re very well disguised," she returned anxiously. "Are those dreadful wretches all gone? Come into our hospital here--right away--and we’ll wash the blood off your face, and try to put you to rights." "How is Mr. Kendrick?" I asked, as she led me toward the "hospital."