Disasters -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Science fiction; Short stories
Up by King's Cross Station a still larger force of police had massed,
and here there was some considerable amount of bloodshed. But there
were thousands of men within easy distance of the fray, and the white
silence of the place became black with swaying figures and the noise of
turmoil carried far. Finally the police were beaten back, squeezed in
between two vastly superior forces and surrendered at discretion.
The victory was easier than it seemed, for obviously the constables had
no heart for the work before them. Not a few of them were thinking of
their own firesides, and that they would be better off in the ranks of
their antagonists.
Meanwhile, many of the local municipalities were being urged to call
out the military. With one accord they declined to do anything of the
kind. It was the psychological moment when one touch of nature makes
the whole world akin. In the House of Commons, to the agonised appeal
of Hayes and his partner, the Secretary for War coldly preferred to be
unable to interfere unless the Mayor of this or that borough applied
for assistance after reading the Riot Act. The matter was in the hands
of the police, who would know how to act upon an emergency.
Hustled and bustled and pushed good-naturedly, Fisher and his colleague
found themselves at length beyond a pair of huge gates that opened
into a yard just beyond Euston Station. There was a large square area
and beyond three small mountains of coal, all carefully stacked in the
usual way. Before the welcome sight the stolid demeanour of the two
thousand men who had raided the yard fairly broke down. They threw up
their hands and laughed and cheered. They stormed the office of the big
coal company, who were ostensible owners of all that black wealth, and
dragged the clerks into the yard. From behind came the crash and rattle
of the wheel-less carts as they were dragged forward.
"No cause to be frightened," the man in command explained. "We're
here to buy that coal, one or two or three hundredweight each, as the
case may be, and you can have your money in cash or vouchers, as you
please. But we're going to have the stuff and don't you forget it. You
just stand by the gates and check us out. You'll have to guess a bit,
but that won't be any loss to you. And the price is eighteen pence a
hundredweight."
The three clerks grinned uneasily. At the same moment the same strange
scene was being enacted in over a hundred other coal-yards. Three or
four hundred men were already swarming over the big mound, there was a
crash and a rattle as the huge blocks fell, the air was filled with a
grimy, gritty black powder, every face was soon black with it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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