“Let me read you this letter,” cried Marsten, waving in his hand the letter from the firm, to command attention. He saw the crowd was in that dangerous state of excitement which requires but an injudicious word to precipitate a riot. His own friends, evidently abashed by his admission, were at the back of the hall, silent and disconcerted. The Gibbons gang were massed in front, wildly gesticulating, and vociferous with taunts and threats. They were loudly calling upon him to get down from the platform. He saw, too, that the old committee and others of Gibbons’s partisans were on the platform behind him, many standing up with their eyes on Gibbons, and the situation reminded him of the time when Braunt had been kicked off the platform and thrust outside. “Let me read this letter,” he repeated. “Presently, presently,” said Gibbons. “You will have your opportunity later on. I have the floor just now.” “I am secretary of the Union,” persisted Marsten, “and I demand a hearing. After that you may do as you please.” Here the chairman rose and called loudly: “Order, order! Mr. Gibbons has the floor. I may add for Mr. Marsten’s information, since he chose to absent himself from the meeting knowing it was in session, that Mr. Gibbons has been made secretary of the Union by a practically unanimous vote, and I ask Mr. Marsten to leave the platform until he is called upon to speak.” “I have a letter from the firm!” shouted Marsten, trying to lift his voice above the uproar. There was a chorus of howls, and roars of “Chair, Chair!” “Come down!” One of the men behind Marsten pushed him toward the edge of the platform, crying, “Obey the Chair!” This was the signal for a general onset, and, Marsten grappling with the foremost of his assailants, both went down together to the main floor. Instantly the meeting broke into an unmanageable mob, while Gibbons roared, “No violence, men!” and ineffectually waved his arms over the turbulent, seething, struggling mass. His appeals were as futile as Canute’s commands to the sea. The chairman pounded unheard on the table with his mallet. Once Marsten shook himself free and rose to his feet. His right hand, with the tattered letter still clenched in it, appeared above the heads of the combatants for a moment, then it suddenly disappeared, and he went down finally under the feet of the maddened, trampling horde. The police struck in promptly and with effect. The side door was thrown open, and Marsten was dragged out through it, accompanied by several struggling, torn, and bleeding rioters who had been nabbed by the law. Gradually the pounding on the table became audible, and Gibbons’s voice, now hoarse with useless calling for peace, could be heard.