“Will you so?” cried Braunt truculently, rolling up his sleeves as he turned upon his opponent. “Then I warn you, send for help. You haven’t men enough here to take me in charge. Ah’ve had a meal to-day.” After glaring for a moment, Braunt turned and strode unmolested to the closed gate. The officer paid heed to the advice given him and sent for more men. He saw there was to be trouble of some sort. Braunt smote his huge fist against the panels and roared at the top of his voice: “Open the gates!” A slight flutter of listless interest seemed to pass over the crowd. The men elbowed closer together, shuffling their feet and craning their necks forward. Those to the rear pressed towards the front, wondering what was about to happen. The few policemen looked on without interfering, waiting for reinforcements. Braunt beat with his fist against the sounding timbers, the rhythmic thuds being the only break in the stillness except when he repeated his stentorian cry, “Open the gates!” The porter at the small wicket, fearing an attack, ran for Sartwell, and met the manager coming down the stairs. “I’m afraid there’s going to be another riot, sir,” said the porter, breathlessly. Sartwell did not answer, but walked quickly to the small gate, unbolted it, and stepped out. “What do you want?” he said. “We want our work!” cried Braunt. “Open the gates!” Sartwell’s glance swept swiftly over the men, who stood with jaws dropped, their gaunt faces and wolfish eyes turned towards the closed barriers. The manager quickly comprehended that it was no time for discussion or arranging of terms. What was needed was action, sharp and prompt. He turned towards the trembling porter, and said peremptorily: “Throw down the bar!” Whatever doubts the man may have had about the wisdom of such an order in the face of the hostile mob, he preferred to brave probable danger from the crowd rather than the certain wrath of the manager, and obeyed the command with haste. The heavy gates were slowly pushed open. “Now, men, in with you!” cried Braunt, with a scythe-like swing of his long arm. “The man that holds back now--ah, God!--Ah’ll break his back!” Some one stumbled forward, as if pushed from behind; then it was as if an invisible rope, holding the crowd back, had suddenly broken. The men poured through the open gateway in a steady stream. Gibbons, waving his hands like a maniac, cried: “Stop! Stop! Listen to me for a moment!” But no one stopped, and no one listened. Braunt, his face white with anger, struggled against the incoming tide, shouting: “Let me get at him! Ah’ll strangle the whelp!” “Braunt!” said Sartwell sharply, his voice cutting through the din of shuffling boots. “Leave him alone, and get inside yourself. Gather the men together in the yard. I want a word with them.”