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...
When still some blocks from the mills a patrol wagon filled with
officers careened past him, its gong emitting a staccato, exciting
alarm. Here was reality. Bonbright quickened his step; began to run.
Presently he entered the street that lay before the face of the
factory--a street lighted by arc lamps so that the scene was
adequately visible. As far as the main gates into the factory yards
the street was in the possession of the police; beyond them surged
and clamored the mob, not yet wrought to the pitch of attack.
Bonbright thought of a gate around the corner. He would enter this
and ascend to his office, whence he could watch the street from his
window.
Before the gate a man sat on a soap box, a short club dangling by a
thong from his wrist. As Bonbright approached he arose.
"What you want?" he demanded, taking a businesslike grip on his
weapon.
"I want to go in," said Bonbright. "I'm Mr. Foote."
The man grinned. "To be sure, Mr. Foote. Howdy, Mr. Foote.


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