The sounds of the racket now began floating up the stairs as
the folding doors revolved.
"They're coming up!" cried Bartholomew.
Edith turned anxiously to Henry.
"They're coming up, Henry."
From down-stairs in the lower hall their cries were now quite audible.
"--God Damn Socialists!"
"Pro-Germans! Boche-lovers!"
"Second floor, front! Come on!"
"We'll get the sons--"
The next five minutes passed in a dream. Edith was conscious that the
clamor burst suddenly upon the three of them like a cloud of rain,
that there was a thunder of many feet on the stairs, that Henry had
seized her arm and drawn her back toward the rear of the office. Then
the door opened and an overflow of men were forced into the room--not
the leaders, but simply those who happened to be in front.
"Hello, Bo!"
"Up late, ain't you!"
"You an' your girl. Damn _you_!"
She noticed that two very drunken soldiers had been forced to the
front, where they wobbled fatuously--one of them was short and dark,
the other was tall and weak of chin.
Henry stepped forward and raised his hand.
"Friends!" he said.
The clamor faded into a momentary stillness, punctuated with
mutterings.
"Friends!" he repeated, his far-away eyes fixed over the heads of the
crowd, "you're injuring no one but yourselves by breaking in here
to-night. Do we look like rich men? Do we look like Germans? I ask you
in all fairness--"
"Pipe down!"
"I'll say you do!"
"Say, who's your lady friend, buddy?"
A man in civilian clothes, who had been pawing over a table, suddenly
held up a newspaper.
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