§3. The night was dark. The purple arc-lamp that burned directly in front of the main entrance to the factory flared vividly upon a circle of the street beneath it, but beyond this circle, which was long empty, one could scarcely see, one could rather only feel, the presence of a slowly gathering, silent crowd. In the main office, Luke was again consulting with the Captain, Breil, and a policeman. The policeman, as if acting under instructions, had sneered at the idea of further trouble so long as the crowd was unmolested, and Luke would not ask again for aid from City Hall. His lieutenants were standing about the room in attitudes of uncertainty. All were agreed against precipitating a fight by attempts to disperse the enemy. The Captain drew up his boyish form. "My men——" he began. "Your kids," corrected Breil. "We’re all right, anyhow," the Captain lamely concluded, his cheeks hot under this indignity. Raucous cries came now and then from the street. "You’ve got enough to take care of with your own affairs," said Luke. He turned to the policeman. "Are there many in that crowd out there?" he asked. "Not many," said the policeman, "but I think there’s more comin’!" Still smarting under Breil’s rebuke, the Captain felt some show of his bravery to be a duty to the organization to which he belonged. "We can handle ’em all right," he said, "however many there are. They’re mostly nothin’ but foreigners, anyhow." Luke wanted above all to preserve harmony in his ranks, but an imp of perversity whipped his tongue. "What’s your name?" he asked the Captain. "Antonio Facciolati," said the Captain, "but I’m a naturalized American citizen." Luke patted his shoulder. "That’s all right," he said reassuringly. "What have your men got in their guns, Captain? Blank cartridges?" "Not much," said the Captain boldly: "ball." "Good," Luke smiled. "But don’t use it. Butts are best for this work." He decided that Forbes, well or ill, ought to know how things were going. He bent to the telephone, placing the receiver to his ear. There was no answer. He rattled the hook impatiently. "What’s the matter with this ’phone?" he growled. He rattled the hook again, but could get no reply. Breil left the room. Presently he returned. "I’ve tried the one in the hall," he said, "and the one in the cloth-room. The wires are cut." For a moment nobody spoke. Facciolati’s hand crept to his sword-hilt, and the sword clattered. From somewhere far up the street came a choral murmur of voices: "_Hall_eyloolyah, I’m a bum—bum!" Breil stepped to the window. "That’s them. That’s the others. They’re comin’," he said. §4. The men ran to their posts. Luke climbed to the upper office and went to its window.