Marcel, helping along his uncle, made his way to the drain-pipe. From the yard they were seen returning safe and sound. An immense shout arose, almost deafening the roar of the flames. They reached the works, where the firemen had already taken up their positions with the object of preserving the buildings still intact. Once in the yard Uncle Graff sank down on a bale of wool, turned pale, and almost fainted. He had come to the end of his strength. “A glass of water!” exclaimed Marcel. In a moment a decanter was in his hand. No matter what he had asked for, his demand would have been immediately obeyed. Full of respect before courage and devotion, the mob regarded him with indulgent and reverent tenderness. The very men who had cried out only the night before, “Down with the masters!” were ready to shout out, Hurrah for M. Marcel! The reason was that he had just performed a feat none of them had had courage to attempt, and in their inmost souls they were conscious that he was braver and better than themselves, and, accordingly, they felt nothing but admiration for him. “Cardez, take these registers and the money home,” said Marcel. “We will go to my home, Uncle Graff. You must try to regain your strength completely.” “No! I feel better already. I can breathe more freely. Ah, Marcel, you came just in time. Another quarter of an hour and you would have found us all dead.” “I was miserable at the thought that I was not with you all the time.” “Had you been with us everything would have been lost! We were dying. Your absence was quite providential! But for that, all would have been over with us!” “But how did it all happen?” “We cannot understand anything yet! For an hour we had been discussing with the delegates, and I must say the peaceful settlement of the strike seemed very doubtful, when we were suddenly interrupted by shouts of ‘Fire! Fire!’ The workmen assembled in the yard awaiting the delegates had just seen a dense cloud of smoke issue from the stores. To tell the truth, they were ill-disposed towards us. When we crossed the yard on the way to the office they received us with a hostile silence. Not a head was uncovered. Veritable enemies on our own ground! In a moment the fire effected a complete change. They became like madmen when they saw the works burning. At bottom these workmen are not evil-disposed, for they rushed forth from every direction, shouting out, ‘To the pumps!’ When they saw me appear with Cardez they shouted: ‘M. Graff, this is not our work!’ A moment after one of the strangers, who has been here only a week, a native of Luxembourg, named Verstraet, being caught prowling about the works, they half killed him, accusing him of being the incendiary. We were obliged to tear him from their hands.”