Just then the front door opened, and Williams himself appeared on the threshold. A dog barked, other doors opened, lights gleamed in a score of windows, and the North End threw off its cloak of silence and darkness. “Keep quiet, and let me do the talking,” said McClintock over his shoulder. Then to the figure in the doorway: “We have come to help you move, John. I take it you will be wanting to leave here shortly.” “The hell you have!” responded Williams, roughly. “We'll give you a hand!” and the master mechanic pushed through the gate and took a step down the path. “Hold on!” cried Williams, swinging out an arm. “I got something to say about that!” There was a sound as of the clicking, of a lock, and he presented the muzzle of a shot-gun. “Oh, say,” said McClintock, gently; “you had better not try to use that. It will only make matters worse. Your house has got to come down.” “The hell it has!” “Yes,” said McClintock, still gently. “We got to save what we can of the town.” Williams made no answer to this, but McClintock saw him draw the butt of the gun up towards his shoulder. The men at his back were perfectly still. They filled the street, and, breathing hard, pressed heavily against the picket fence, which bent beneath the weight of their bodies. “You'd better be reasonable. We are losing precious time,” urged McClintock. “The hell you are!” It occurred to McClintock afterwards that there had been no great variety to Williams's remarks. “In an hour or two this place will be on fire.” “I've got no kick coming if it burns, but it sha'n't be pulled down.” “Put up your gun, and we'll give you a lift at getting your stuff out.” “No, you won't.” McClintock kept his eyes on the muzzle of the shotgun. “It ain't the property loss we are thinking of--it's the possible loss of life,” he said, mildly. “I'll chance it,” retorted Williams, briefly. “Well, we won't.” Williams made no reply; he merely fingered the lock of his gun. “Put down that gun, John!” commanded McClintock, sternly. At the same moment he reached around and took an axe from the hands of the nearest man. “Put it down,” he repeated, as he stepped quickly towards Williams. The listening men pressed heavily against the fence in their feverish anxiety to miss nothing that was said or done. The posts snapped, and they poured precipitously into the yard. At the same moment the gun exploded, and a charge of buckshot rattled harmlessly along the pavement at McClintock's feet. Then succeeded a sudden pause, deep, breathless, and intense, and then the crowd gave a cry--a cry that was in answer to a hoarse cheer that had reached them from the square. An instant later the trampled front yard was deserted by all save Williams in the doorway. He still held the smoking gun to his shoulder. CHAPTER XXV