The men on the porch watched that sinister mass with apprehension. The effect was far more suggestive than that of the noisier portion of the camp. Suddenly the mass of men by the hospital stirred, heaved, and moved. From a hundred throats came a dull roar. “Rigas is dead,” said Loring, shutting his watch with a snap. The crowd of men by the hospital began to roll towards the mess. As a huge swell rolls in from the sea, so the black mass, swaying, rising, falling, swept on. As it drew nearer, the white of the men’s faces stood out in the glare of the electric lights even as the foam upon that wave. “Put out the porch lights!” yelled Knowlton. “I am manager here, and they stay lit,” shouted Loring back to him. Even as the surf curls before breaking and sweeping up the beach, so the wave of men seemed to rise and draw itself together, before surging up the steps. Stephen had stepped forward to the edge of the steps in front of Knowlton. He raised his fist for silence, and such was the compelling force in his eyes that for a moment he was obeyed. But as he started to speak, a great hiss arose from the crowd, like the sound of escaping steam from some giant locomotive. Loring gripped the railing of the porch hard, and again shouted something. “God, he’s crazy!” yelled Knowlton to McKay. “He is going to try and argue.” Knowlton’s hand lay tightly on the gun in his belt. “Steve has lost his head again,” thought McKay bitterly. “I might have known that he didn’t have the stuff in him.” A bottle whizzed by Loring’s ear, breaking with a crash against the wall behind him. For an instant the sound of breaking glass caught the attention of the crowd. “You want the money in the safe?” shouted Loring. “_Sí_, _sí_, yes, _sí_, yes, _sí_!” roared the crowd, in a mixture of two languages. The sound lulled for a second. Stephen waved his keys in the air. “You shall have it.” The shouting was wilder than before, and echoed from end to end of the camp. “Coward!” moaned McKay, sickened by such an exhibition. Some one in the crowd fired at Loring, luckily with drunken aim. The bullet kicked up the dust at the foot of the steps. Knowlton jumped to his feet, and leveled his gun at the crowd. “Sit down!” roared Stephen. Not knowing why he did so, Knowlton lowered his gun and sank again into his chair. “Do you want Knowlton?” shouted Loring, pointing to the deputy beside him. As he spoke, he glanced at his watch, which lay in his hand. His face was reeking with sweat. “Do you want Knowlton?” he shouted again. The howl that went up from the mob was as if from the throats of blood-hungry beasts. Knowlton’s face was white; but his eyes showed their scorn of Loring. He looked at him in contempt, and looking, to his surprise, saw the tense lines of his face light with the gleam of victory. “You want Knowlton?” he shouted for the last time. “Then come and take him!”