Preaching the doctrines of the Russian Reds, these extremists in economic thought had sown discord among the rank and file of the men, particularly the foreigners, preaching the dictatorship of the proletariat, which meant that the men who work with their hands must be the masters. Jay and Dick heard to their surprise that during the time the brave boys of America had been offering their services, their very lives, for their country, these Bolshevists had been openly plotting against the whole republican plan of American life. "Secret meetings, wild speeches and all kinds of goings on," muttered Larry. "All the time talking about strikes and walkouts, and even threatening among themselves to take over the whole blamed works and run 'em themselves." To the two naval veterans, who had always shared a distinctive pride in the big shipyard, this seemed an incredible state of affairs; laborers who had enjoyed fancy wages during the time of the war while millions of loyal Americans were serving abroad now fanning the flames of industrial revolution! "Looks like there was lots more good work cut out for us fellows right here at home," was Dick's rather caustic comment. "You bet your life there is, and we are getting back on the job just in time so far as I can see," was Larry's rejoinder, as he went on to relate some of the later developments in the yard's labor situation. Only the previous night, it appeared, the strike leaders, in a long and noisy meeting, had decided to submit their claims forthwith for a seven-hour day and a forty percent increase in wages. "Things are likely to open up right lively then on a moment's notice," remarked Dick. "No telling when and what them bullshevicks is liable to pull off," offered Seymour. By now the trio had arrived before the main gate of the yard. Old Bill Cavanaugh, the veteran watchman, recognized the two Brighton boys in an instant and gave them a hearty welcome. No need for a pass here, since no more popular boys had ever passed the gate than Dick and Jay. Fismes, too, got by with a wag of his tail. "Hello, what's this," whistled Larry, as he directed attention across the yard to an open space fronting the administration building. Three or four score men, riggers, riveters, yard laborers of all kinds, were swaying to and fro around one who seemed buffeted about like a huge cork in a mountain brook. Loud cries, angry voices, mingled oaths and the strident tones of inflamed speakers rent the air. They seemed to be venting their anger on the lone figure in the midst of the turbulent group. "Looks like a sure enough riot," surmised Dick. The three youths came to a dead stop eager to get a line on what was going on and to make out if possible what it was all about. "Let's move up closer and get an earful," suggested Dick. At once the trio headed across the yard toward the scene of trouble.