"Fingerless" Fraser's voice was louder now, as if for a signal. "Arrest me? What do you mean? Get out of my way." "You'd better come peaceably." Boyd heard a sharp exclamation--"Get him, Bill!" And then the sound of men struggling. He ran, followed by a roar from the strikers, in whose full view Fraser's encounter with the plain-clothes men was taking place. A backward glance showed him that Fraser had drawn his pursuers to the street. He had broken away and dodged out into the open, where the other officers responded at a call and seized him as he apparently undertook to break through the cordon. This diversion served an unexpected purpose. Not only did it draw attention from Emerson's retreat, but it also gave the mob its long-awaited opportunity. Recognizing in the officers' quarry the supposed figure of Emerson, the hated cause of all this strife, the strikers gave vent to a great shout of rage and triumph, and surged forward across the wide street, carrying the police before them with irresistible force. In a moment it became not a question of keeping the entrance to the wharf, but of protecting the life of the prisoner, and the policemen rallied with their backs to the wall, their clubs working havoc with the heads that came within striking distance. Scarcely had Boyd reached Big George, when a wing of the besieging army swept in through the unguarded entrance and down the dock like an avalanche, leaving behind them the battling officers and the hungry pack clamoring for the prisoner. "Drop that freight, and get aboard the best way you can!" Boyd yelled at the fishermen, and with a bound was out into the open crying to Captain Peasley on the bridge: "Here they come! Cast off, for God's sake!" Instantly a wild cry of rage and defiance rose from the clotted rigging and upper works of _The Bedford Castle_. Down the fishermen swarmed, ready to over-flow the sides of the ship, but, with a sharp order to George, Boyd ran up the gang-plank and rushed along the rail to a commanding position in the path of his men, where, drawing his revolver, he roared at them to keep back, threatening the first to go ashore. His lungs were bursting from his sprint, and it was with difficulty that his voice rose above the turmoil; but he presented such a figure of determination that the men paused, and then the steamship whistle interrupted opportunely, with a deafening blast. The dozen men who had been slinging freight on the dock hastened up the gang-plank or climbed the fenders, while the signal-man clung to the lifting tackle, and, at the piping cry of his whistle, was swung aloft out of the very arms of the rioters.