Bill jumped down and fastened the horses with a rope which he tied to Tom's old tree-stump.

"Come on, fellows!" said Tom, going toward the house. Scarcely had he opened the door when his dog rushed madly past him out into the open, barking with all his might at something about a hundred yards behind the station.

"I guess he's found a gopher," said Tom, and then the three entered the hut, and Tom, taking a half-empty whisky bottle out of a cupboard, poured some into a cup without a handle, a shaving-cup, and an old tin cup.

"The express ought to pass in about ten minutes," said Tom, and then began the usual chat about the commonplaces of farm life, about the crops, and the price of cattle, while hunting anecdotes followed. Now and then Tom listened through the open door for sounds of the express, which was long overdue, till suddenly the back door was slammed shut by the wind.

It was Bill Parker's turn to treat, and he then told of how he had sold his foals at a good profit, and Bob launched out into all sorts of vague hints as to a big deal that he expected to pull off at Pendleton the next day. Bill kept an eye on his two horses, which he could just see through the window in the rear wall of the shanty.

"Don't let them run away from you," warned Tom; "horses as fresh as those generally skip off when the express passes by."

"Nothing like that!" said Bill Parker, glancing again through the open window, "but they are unusually restless just the same."

... "He was willing to give twenty dollars, was he?" asked Tom, resuming the former conversation.

But Bill gave no answer and continued to stare out of the window.

"Here's how, gentlemen!" cried Tom encouragingly, touching Bill's tin cup with his shaving-cup.

"Excuse me a minute," answered the latter; "I want to look after my—" He had got up and was moving toward the door, but stopped halfway, staring fixedly at the open window with a glassy expression in his eyes. The other two regarded him with unfeigned astonishment, but when they followed the direction of his glance, they also started with fright as they looked through the window.

Yes, it was the same window as before, and beyond it stood the same team of stamping, snorting horses before the same cart; but on the ledge of the window there rested two objects like black, bristling hedgehogs, and under their prickly skins glistened two pairs of hostile eyes, and slowly and cautiously two gun-barrels were pushed over the ledge of the window into the room. At the same moment the door-knob moved, the door was pushed open, and in the blinding sunlight which suddenly poured into the room appeared two more men in khaki clothes and also armed with guns. "Hands up, gentlemen!" cried one of them threateningly.

The three obeyed the order mechanically, Tom unconsciously holding up his shaving-cup as well, so that the good whisky flowed down his arm into his coat. He looked utterly foolish. Bill was the first to recover, and inquired with apparent nonchalance: "What are you gentlemen after?" In the meantime he had noticed that the two men at the door wore soldiers' caps with broad peaks, and he construed this as a new holdup trick.

The men outside were conversing in an unintelligible lingo, and their leader, who was armed only with a Browning pistol, looked into the hut and asked: "Which of you gentlemen is the station-master?" Tom lowered his shaving-cup and took a step forward, whereupon he was at once halted by the sharp command: "Hands up!"

But this one step toward the door had enabled Tom to see that there were at least a dozen of these brown fellows standing behind the wall of his shanty. At the same time he saw his dog slinking about outside with his tail between his legs and choking over something. He called the dog, and the poor creature crept along the ground toward him, evidently making vain attempts to bark.

"The damned gang," growled Tom to himself; "they have evidently given the poor beast something to eat which prevents his barking."

The man with the Browning pistol now turned to Tom and said: "Has the express passed yet?"

"No."

"No? I thought it was due at 9.30." The highwayman looked at his watch. "Past ten already," he said to himself. "And when is the local train from Umatilla expected?"

"It ought to be here at 10.30."

"The express goes through without stopping, doesn't it?" began the other again. "Good! Now you go out as if nothing had happened and let the express pass! The other two will remain here in the meantime and my men will see that they don't stir. One move and you can arrange your funeral for to-morrow."

The two bristly-headed chaps at the window remained motionless, and followed the proceedings with a broad grin. The two men from Swallowtown were compelled to stand with uplifted hands against the wall opposite the window, so that the gun-barrels on the window-sill were pointing straight at them. Winston had had sufficient time to study the two highwaymen at the window and it gradually dawned upon him what sort of robbers they were; in a low tone of voice he said to Tom: "They're Japs."

The man with the Browning overheard the remark; he turned around quickly and repeated in a determined voice: "If you move you'll die on the spot."

Then he allowed Tom to leave the station, and showed him how two of his men opened the shutters of the windows that looked out on the tracks and cut two oblong holes in them down on the side, through which they stuck the barrels of their guns. Then Bill's cart was pushed forward, so that only the horses were hidden by the station. One of the men held the horses to prevent their running away when the train came, and two armed men climbed into the cart and kneeled ready to shoot, concealing themselves from the railroad side behind two large bags of corn. Thereupon the leader told Tom once more that he was to stand in front of the station as usual when the train approached. If he attempted to make any sign which might cause the train to stop, or if he merely opened his mouth, not only he, but also the occupants of the train, would have to pay for it with their lives.

Ding—ding—ding—ding went the railway telegraph, ding—ding—ding—ding. The man with the Browning consulted his note-book and asked Tom: "What signal is that? Where is the express now?"

Tom did not answer.

"Go out on the platform!" commanded the other. With a hasty glance along the tracks, Tom assured himself that the spot back there, where the two tracks, which glittered like silver in the sun, crossed, was still empty. So there was still a little more time to think. Then he began to stroll slowly up and down. Fifteen steps forward, fifteen back, eighteen forward, twenty back. Suppose he ran to meet the train——

"Halloo! Where are you going?" shouted the leader to him. "Don't you dare go five steps beyond the station house!"

Fifteen steps forward, fifteen back. And suppose now that he did jump across and run along the tracks? What would it matter—he, one among millions, without wife or child? Yes, he would warn the engineer; and if they shot at him, perhaps the people on the train also had revolvers. The express must come soon—it must be nearly half past ten. Mechanically, he read the name Swallowtown on the old box-lid.

Not a sound from the interior of the station. Would they hit him or miss him when the train came? He examined the rickety old shutters. Yes, there was a white incision in the wood near the bottom, and above it the tin was bent back almost imperceptibly, while below it there was a small, blackish-brown ring. On the other side there was another little hole, and here the tin was bent back rather more, showing a second small, blackish-brown ring. And suppose he did call out as the train rushed by? He would call out!—A burst of flame from the two blackish-brown rings—If he could only first explain everything to the engineer—then they could shoot all they wanted to.

Horrid to be wounded in the back! Long ago at school there had often been talk about wounds in the back and in the chest—the former were disgraceful, because they were a sign of running away. But this was not running away—this was an effort to save others.

Were the rails vibrating? Four steps more, then a quiet turn, one look into the air, one far away over the prairie. He knew that the eyes behind the dark-brown rings were following his every movement. Now along the tracks—is there anything coming way back there? No, not yet. He walked past the station, then along the tracks again, and looked to the left across the prairie.

Now his glance rested on the cart. It stood perfectly still. Sure enough, there, between the sacks, was another one of those bristly heads! Where on earth had the fellows come from, and what in the world did they want? Winston had said they were Japs.

Could this be war? Nonsense! How could the fellows have come so far across country? A short time ago some one had said that a troop of Japs had been seen far away, down in Nevada, but that they had all disappeared in the mountains. That was two months ago. Could these be the same?

But it couldn't be a war. War begins at the borders of a country, not right in the middle. It is true that the Japanese immigrants were all said to be drilled soldiers. Had they brought arms along? These certainly had!

Now the turn again. Ah! there was the train at last. Far away along the tracks a black square rose and quite slowly became wider and higher. Good God! if the next ten minutes were only over—if one could only wipe such a span as this out of one's life! Only ten minutes older! If one could only look back on those ten minutes from the other side! But no; one must go through the horror, second by second, taste every moment of it. What would happen to the two inside? This didn't matter much after all—they couldn't, in any case, overpower the others without weapons. A thousand yards more perhaps and then the train would be there! And then a thousand yards more, and he would either be nothing but an unconscious mass of flesh and bones, or——

Now the rails were reverberating—from far away he heard the rumble of the approaching mass of iron and steel. And now, very low but distinct, the ringing of the bell could be distinguished—gang, gang, gang, gang, gang, gang— He threw a hasty glance at the two blackish-brown rings; four steps further and he could again see the cart. The next time——

"Stand straight in front of the station and let the train pass!" sounded close behind him. He obeyed mechanically.

"Nearer to the house—right against the wall!" He obeyed.

All his muscles tightened. If he could now take a leap forward and manage to get hold of something—a railing or something—as the train rushed by, then they could shoot as much as they liked. A rumbling and roaring noise reached his ears, and he could hear the increasing thunder of the wheels on the rails, the noise of the bell—gang, gang, gang—growing more and more distinct. The engine, with its long row of clattering cars behind, assumed gigantic dimensions before his wide-open eyes.

Not a sound came from the house; now the rails trembled; now he heard the hissing of the steam and the rattle of the rods; he saw the little curls of steam playing above the dome of the boiler. Like a black wall, the express came nearer, rushing, rumbling, hammering along the tracks. Yes, he would jump now—now that the engine was almost in front of him! The rush of air almost took his breath away. Now!

The engineer popped his head out of the little cab-window. Now! Tom bent double, and, with one tremendous leap he was across the narrow platform in front of his shanty, and flew like a ball against the line of rushing cars, of railings and steps and wheels. He felt his hand touching something—nothing but flat, smooth surfaces. At last! He had caught hold of something! With a tremendous swing, Tom's body was torn to the left, and his back banged against something. Something in his body seemed to give way. As in a dream, he heard two shots ring out above the fearful noise of the roaring train.

Too late! Tom was clinging to a railing between two cars and being dragged relentlessly along. He was almost unconscious, but could hear the wheels squeaking under the pressure of the brakes as he was hurled to and fro. But his hand held fast as in a vise. The wheels scraped, squeaked, and groaned. The train began to slow down! He had won! The train stood still.

Tom's body fell on the rail between two cars, almost lifeless; he heard a lot of steps all about him; people spoke to him and asked him questions. But his jaws were shut as if paralyzed; he couldn't speak a word. He felt the neck of a bottle being pushed between his lips, and the liquid running down his throat. It was something strong and invigorating, and he drank greedily. And then he suddenly shouted out loud, so that all the people stepped back horrified: "The station has been attacked by Japs."

Excited questions poured in from all sides. "Where from? What for?" Tom only cried: "Save the two others; they're shut up in the station!" More people collected round him. "Quick, quick!" he cried. "Run the train back and try to save them!"

Tom was lifted into a car and stretched out on a soft end-seat. Some of the passengers stood round him with their revolvers: "Tell us where it is! Tell us where they are!" Slowly the train moved back, slowly the telegraph poles slipped past the windows in the opposite direction.

Now they were there, and Tom heard wild cries on the platform. Then a door was pulled open and some one asked: "Where are the robbers?" Tom was lifted out, for his right shin-bone had been smashed and he couldn't stand. A stretcher was improvised, and he was carried out. Dozens of people were standing round the station. The wagon was gone, and so were the horses. Where to? The wide, deserted prairie gave no answer. A great many footprints in the sand showed at least that Tom had spoken the truth. He pointed out the holes made in the shutters by the bandits, and told the whole story a dozen times, until at last he fainted away again. When he came to half an hour later it all seemed like a horrible dream—like a scene from a robber's tale. He found himself in a comfortable Pullman car on the way to Umatilla, where he had to tell his story all over again, in order that the fairly hopeless pursuit of the highwaymen might be begun from there.



Chapter IV

ECHOES IN NEW YORK

WALLA WALLA, May 7.

"This morning, at ten o'clock, the station Swallowtown, on the Oregon line, was surprised by bandits. They captured the station in order to hold up the express train to Umatilla. The plot was frustrated by the decisive action of the station official, who jumped on the passing train and warned the passengers. Unfortunately, the robbers succeeded in escaping, but the Umatilla police have started in pursuit. The majority of the bandits are said to have been Japanese."

In these words the attack on Swallowtown was wired to New York, and when John Halifax went to the office of the New York Daily Telegraph at midnight, to work up the telegrams which had come in during Sunday for the morning paper, his chief drew his attention in particular to the remark at the end of the message, and asked him to make some reference in his article to the dangers of the Japanese immigration, which seemed to be going on unhindered over the Mexican and Canadian frontiers. John Halifax would have preferred to comment editorially on the necessity of night rest for newspaper men, but settled down in smothered wrath to write up the highwaymen who had committed the double crime of desecrating the Sabbath and robbing the train.

But scarcely had he begun his article under the large headlines "Japanese Bandits—A Danger no longer Confined to the Frontier, but Stalking about in the Heart of the Country,"—he was just on the point of setting off Tom's brave deed against the rascality of the bandits, when another package of telegrams was laid on the table. He was going to push them irritably aside when his glance fell on the top telegram, which began with the words, "This morning at ten o'clock the station at Connell, Wash., was attacked by robbers, who——"

"Hm!" said John Halifax, "there seems to be some connection here, for they probably meant to hold up the express at Connell, too." He turned over a few more telegrams; the next message began: "This morning at eleven o'clock—" and the two following ones: "This morning at twelve o'clock—" They all reported the holding up of trains, which had in almost every instance been successful. John Halifax got up, and with the bundle of telegrams went over to the map hanging on the wall and marked with a pencil the places where the various attacks had taken place. The result was an irregular line through the State of Washington running from north to south, along which the train robbers, apparently working in unison, had begun their operations at the same time. Nowhere had it been possible to capture them.

John Halifax threw his article into the waste basket and began again with the headlines, "A Gang of Train-Robbers at Work in Washington," and then gave a list of the places where the gang had held up the trains. He wrote a spirited article, which closed with a warning to the police in Washington and Oregon to put an end to this state of affairs as soon as possible, and if necessary to call upon the militia for aid in catching the bandits. While Halifax was writing, the news was communicated from the electric bulletin-board to the people hurrying through the streets at that late hour.

John Halifax read the whole story through once more with considerable satisfaction, and was pleased to think that the New York Daily Telegraph would treat its readers Monday morning to a thoroughly sensational bit of news. When he had finished, it struck him that all these attacks had been directed against trains running from west to east, and that the train held up at Swallowtown was the only one going in the opposite direction. He intended in conclusion to add a suggestive remark about this fact, but it slipped out of his mind somehow, and, yawning loudly, he threw his article as it was into the box near his writing table, touched a button, and saw the result of his labors swallowed noiselessly by a small lift. Then the author yawned again, and, going over to his chief, reported that he had finished, wished him a gruff "good morning," and started on his way home.

As he left the newspaper offices he observed the same sight that had met his eyes night after night for many years—a crowd of people standing on the opposite side of the street, with their heads thrown back, staring up at the white board upon which, in enormous letters, appeared the story of how Tom, with his bold leap, had saved the train. The last sentence, explaining that the robbers had been recognized as Japanese, elicited vigorous curses against the "damned Japs."

High up in the air the apparatus noiselessly and untiringly flashed forth one message after the other in big, black letters on the white ground—telling of one train attack after another. But of that living machine in the far West, working with clocklike regularity and slowly adding one link after the other to the chain, that machine which at this very moment had already separated three of the States by an impenetrable wall from the others and had thus blotted out three of the stars on the blue field of the Union flag—of that uncanny machine neither John Halifax nor the people loitering opposite the newspaper building in order to take a last sensation home with them, had the remotest idea. Not till the next morning was the meaning of these first flaming signs to be made clear.

* * * * *

At ten o'clock the telephone bell rang noisily beside John Halifax's bed. He seized the receiver and swore under his breath on learning that important telegrams required his presence at the office. "There isn't any reason why Harry Springley shouldn't go on with those old train-robbers," he grumbled; "I don't see what they want of me, but I suppose the stupid fellow doesn't know what to do, as usual."

An hour later, when he entered the editorial rooms of the New York Daily Telegraph, he found his colleagues in a great state of excitement. Judging by the loud talk going on in the conference room, he concluded at once that something out of the common must have happened. The editor-in-chief quickly explained to him that an hour ago the news, already disseminated through an "extra," had arrived, that not only were all messages from the Pacific coast, especially from San Francisco, held up, but the Canadian wire had furnished the news that a foreign strange squadron had been observed on Sunday at Port Townsend, and that it had continued its voyage through Puget Sound toward Seattle. In addition the news came from Walla Walla that since Sunday noon all telegraphic communication between Seattle, Tacoma, and Portland had been broken off. Attempts to reach Seattle and Tacoma over the Canadian wire had also proved vain while, on the other hand, the report came from Ogden that no trains from the west, from the direction of San Francisco, had arrived since Sunday noon, and that the noon express had been attacked this side of Reno by bandits, some of whom had been distinctly recognized as Japanese.

John Halifax recalled the first message of the evening before, in which there was a mention of the Japanese. He quickly put the separate news items together, and, after having glanced hurriedly at the messages in the extra, turned to the managing editor and in a low voice, which sounded strange and hard even to himself, said: "I believe this means war!"

The latter slapped him on the back in his brusque fashion, crying: "John Halifax, we're not making war on Japan."

"But they're making war on us," answered Halifax.

"Do you mean to imply that the Japanese are surprising us?" asked the editor, staring at Halifax.

"Exactly, and it makes no difference whether you believe it or not," was the reply.

"The Japanese fleet is lying off the Pacific coast, there's no doubt about that," remarked a reporter.

"And, what's more, they're right in our country," said Halifax, looking up.

"Who? The fleet?" inquired Harry Springley in a lame effort to be funny.

"No, the enemy," answered Halifax coldly; "the so-called bandits," he added sarcastically.

"But if you really mean it," began the editor again, "then it must be a gigantic plot. If you think that the bandits—the Japanese——" he said, correcting himself.

"The Japanese outposts," interposed Halifax.

"Well, yes, the Japanese outposts, if you wish; if they have succeeded in destroying all railway connections with the West, then the enemy is no longer off our coast, but——"

A stenographer now rushed into the room with a new message. The editor glanced over it and then handed it to Halifax, who took the paper in both hands, and, while all listened attentively, read aloud the following telegram from Denver:

"According to uncertain dispatches, Sunday's attacks on trains were not made by gangs of robbers, but by detachments of Japanese troops, who have suddenly and in the most incomprehensible manner sprung up all over the country. Not only have single stations on the Union Pacific line been seized, but whole towns have been occupied by hostile regiments, the inhabitants having been taken so completely by surprise, that no resistance could be offered. The rumor of a battle between the Japanese ships and the coast defences at San Francisco has gained considerable currency. The concerted attacks on the various trans-continental lines have cut off the western States entirely from telegraphic communication and in addition interrupted all railway traffic."

The telegram shook in John Halifax's hands; he ran his fingers through his hair and looked at the editor, who could only repeat the words spoken by Halifax a few minutes before: "Gentlemen, I fear this means war."

Halifax collected the telegrams and went silently into his room, where he dropped into the chair before his desk, and sat staring in front of him with his head, full of confused thoughts, resting on his hands. "This means war," he repeated softly. Mechanically he took up his pen with the intention of putting his thoughts on paper, but not a line, not a word could he produce under the stress of these whirling sensations. Unable to construct a single sentence, he drew circles and meaningless figures on the white paper, scribbled insignificant words, only to cross them out immediately afterwards, and repeated again and again: "This means war."

Outside in the halls people hurried past; some one seized the door-knob, so he got up and locked himself in. Then he sat down again. The fresh, mild air blew in through the wide open windows, and the dull roar of the immense crowds in the street, now swelling and now retreating, floated up to him. His thoughts flew to the far West, and everywhere he could see the eager, industrious Asiatics pouring like a yellow flood over his country. He saw Togo's gray ships, with the sun-banner of Nippon, ploughing the waves of the Pacific; he saw the tremendous many-hued picture of a great international struggle; he saw regiments rush upon each other and clash on the vast prairies; he saw bayonets flashing in the sun; and he saw glittering troops of cavalry galloping over the bleak plains. High up in the air, over the two great opposing hosts, he saw the white smoke of bursting shells. He saw this gigantic drama of a racial war, which caused the very axis of the earth to quiver, unraveled before his eyes, and with ardent enthusiasm he seized his pen, at last master of himself once more.

Suddenly his mood of exaltation vanished; it seemed as though the sun had been extinguished, and cold, dark shadows fell across the brilliant picture of his imagination, subduing its colors with an ashy light. He began slowly to realize that this did not only mean war, but that it was his war, his country's war—a bitter struggle for which they were but poorly prepared. At this thought he shivered, and the man who had weathered many a storm laid his head down on both arms and cried bitterly. The mental shock had been too great, and it was in vain that they knocked at and shook his door. It was some time before John Halifax recovered his self-possession. Then he lifted his head bravely and proudly, and going to the door with a firm step, gave directions to the staff with the calmness of a veteran general.



Chapter V

FATHER AND SON

Mr. Horace Hanbury paced restlessly up and down his study, and presently stopped before a huge map on the wall and carefully traced the long lines of the trans-continental railroads across the Rocky Mountains. "Will Harriman sell? No, he'll buy, of course he'll buy; he'd be an idiot if he didn't. Of course he'll buy, and Gould and Stillman will buy, too. Well, there'll be a fine tussle in Wall Street to-day." Thus he soliloquized, puffing thoughtfully at his short pipe. Then he picked up the heap of narrow tape on his desk containing the latest news from the West, and read the reports once more as the paper slipped through his fingers.

"This fiendish plot of the yellow curs seems to be a pretty clever one," he murmured; "they've simply cut off all railway connections. I can't help admiring the fellows—they've learned a lot since 1904." He threw himself into his comfortable Morris chair, and after having carefully studied the Stock Exchange quotations of Saturday, went once more to the map on the wall, and marked several spots with a blue pencil; these he connected by means of a long line which cut off the Pacific States of Washington, Oregon, and California, and large districts of Nevada and Arizona from all communication with points to the East. He then looked at his watch and pressed one of the electric buttons on his desk.

The door opened noiselessly, and an East Indian, dressed in the bright costume of his native country, entered, and, crossing his arms, made a deep bow. "When Mr. Gerald Hanbury returns, tell him I want to see him immediately." The Indian disappeared, and Mr. Hanbury sat down on his desk, folded his hands under his knees, and swung his feet to and fro, puffing out the smoke of his pipe from between his teeth. "If only the boy won't spoil everything with his ridiculous altruistic ideas— Ah, Gerald, there you are!"

"Did you send for me, father?"

"Sit down, my boy," said the old gentleman, pointing to a chair; but he himself remained sitting on the desk.

The son was the very image of his father—the same slender, muscular figure, the same piercing eyes, the same energetic mouth. "Well, father, what do you think of it?"

"Think of it? What do you think of it?"

"Isn't it awful, this sudden attack on our country? Isn't it awful the way we have been taken by surprise? Think of it, three of our States in the enemy's hands!"

"We'll soon get them back, don't worry about that," said the old gentleman calmly.

"Have you read the orders for mobilization?"

"I haven't read them, and don't intend to."

"Colonel Smiles told me just now that it will not be possible to dispatch our troops to the West in less than three weeks. Fortunately there are about a dozen ships of the Pacific fleet off the west coast, and they will be able to attack the Japanese in the rear."

"If there's still time," supplemented his father. "Anyhow, we can leave these matters to others. It's none of our business; they can attend to all that at Washington. War is purely and simply a question of finances so far as the United States is concerned, and it's as plain as day that we can hold out ten times longer than those yellow monkeys. That the money will be forthcoming goes without saying; Congress will do all that is needed in that direction, and the subscriptions for the war-loan will show that we are fully prepared along that line. So let us drop that subject. The question is, what shall we do? What do you propose doing with our factory during the war?"

"Go on working, of course, father."

"Go on working—that is to say, produce surplus stock. If we go on working we shall have goods on our hands which no one will buy, and be compelled to store them. Ironclads, cannon, powder, uniforms, guns, these are the things for which there is a demand now; whisky, too, will be bought and bread will be baked, and the meat trust will make money hand over fist; but do you suppose the United States Government is going to buy our pianos to play tunes to the soldiers?"

"But what about our workmen?" interposed Gerald.

"Yes, our workmen," said the old gentleman, jumping energetically off the desk and standing before his son with his legs wide apart and his hands in his pockets: "Our workmen—that brings us to your favorite subject, to which you devote your entire time and interest!" He transferred his pipe into the right-hand corner of his mouth and continued: "I intend to dismiss our workmen, my boy, and shut up shop; we couldn't earn a cent more even if we kept the machines going. Besides, our Government needs soldiers now, not workmen. Let your dear workmen shoulder their guns and march to the West. When I was your age, and starting in with one hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket, no one offered me pensions for sickness and old age or insurance against non-employment or whatever this new-fangled nonsense is called. We ought to increase the energy of the people, instead of stuffing pillows for them. A man who has anything in him will make his way even in these times."

"Father!" The young man jumped up from his chair and faced his father with all the idealistic enthusiasm of youth.

"Keep your seat, my boy, subjects of this nature can be better discussed sitting."

"No, father, I can't keep still. This question concerns four thousand workmen and their families."

"Three thousand of whom I shall dismiss at noon to-day," interrupted the old gentleman decisively.

"What! You don't mean to say you'll send three thousand workmen, quiet, industrious, faithful, reliable workmen, begging to-day? Why, father! That would be perfectly barbarous, that would be a crime against humanity! The people have stuck by us in days of prosperity, and now when our sales may perhaps," he emphasized the last word, "may perhaps be diminished, you will stop the wheels and shut down the factory?"

"Look here, my son, I'm not a socialists' meeting. Such sentiments may sound very nice from the platform, but there's no need of your trying your speeches on me. The question at issue is, shall we suffer the consequences or shall they, and I don't mind telling you that I prefer the latter. Do you suppose that I've worked hard all my life and worn myself out for the express purpose of turning our factory into a workingmen's home? No, my boy, I can't support you in your little hobby."

"But, father, capital and labor——"

"O, cut out those silly phrases," interrupted the old gentleman irritably, "Karl Marx and Henry George and all your other stand-bys may be all right in your library, and help to decorate your bookshelves, but I prefer to settle our practical problems on the basis of my experience and not of your books. As manager and proprietor of our plant I want to tell you that when the whistle blows at noon to-day I shall notify our workingmen that in consequence of the totally unforeseen breaking out of hostilities—here I shall insert a few words about the sacred duty of patriotism and of defending one's country—we are unwillingly forced to dismiss three thousand of our workmen. We'll pay wages for, let's say, a fortnight longer, but then good-by to the men; we'll shut up shop, and the thousand men that are left can finish the standing orders and any new ones that may come in. And if no new ones turn up, then the remaining workingmen will be dismissed at once. In the meantime I'll subscribe one hundred thousand dollars to the war-loan, and then engage passage on a Lloyd steamer, the most expensive cabins with every possible luxury, for your mother, your two sisters, myself, and I hope for you, too, and we'll be off to old Europe. Shall we make it the Riviera? We've been there before, and, besides, it's a little too hot there now—let's say Norway or Switzerland. In my humble opinion we had better watch developments from a distance, and, as I said, I earnestly hope that my only son and heir will join our party, unless he should prefer to remain here and become a lieutenant in our glorious army and draw his sword against the enemy? This is my final decision and the last word I have to say on the subject, unless you think that some friend of ours in the financial world may have a better suggestion to offer."

"I should never have thought, father, that you could be so hard-hearted and unfeeling, that you could be capable of ruining the lives of thousands with one stroke of your pen. Your attitude towards the relations between employer and employee is absolutely incomprehensible to me; the socialistic conscience——"

"Listen, my boy," said the old gentleman, going over to his son and laying his hand gently on his shoulder: "I've always allowed you an absolutely free hand in your schemes, and you know we've always tried to meet our employees more than half way in all their wishes, but now it's a question of who's to suffer—we or they? In times of peace there may be some excuse for these nice socialistic ideas: they give a man a certain standing and bring him into the public eye. There's a good man, they say; he understands the demands of the times. But there's a limit to everything. One man rides one hobby, and some one else another. One keeps a racing-stable, another sports a steam-yacht, and still another swears by polo or cricket, but these things must not be carried to excess. The minute the owner of the racing-stable turns jockey, he ceases to be a business man, and the same is true of the man who keeps a racing-yacht and spends all of his time at the start, and, after all is said and done, it's our business we want to live on. You've selected the workingman as your favorite sport, and that also has its limits. If we squander our hard-earned millions on socialistic improvements now, we'll have to begin over again in about two years' time. I doubt whether I should have sufficient genius left to discover a new piano-hammer, and I entertain still more serious doubts as to your ability to invent a panacea that will render the whole world happy and make you richer instead of poorer. Ergo, we'll shut up shop. In Hoboken we'll sing Yankee Doodle and as we pass the Statue of Liberty The Star Spangled Banner, in token of farewell, and then off we go! If things turn out better than we anticipate, we can come back, but this is my last word for the present: At noon the following notice will be posted at all the entrances and in all the rooms of our factory: 'Three thousand workmen are herewith dismissed; wages will be paid for a fortnight longer, when the factory will be closed indefinitely.' By the way, are you going to the Stock Exchange to-day?"

"I'm not in a mood for the Stock Exchange, father. If that is your last word, then my last word is: I am your partner——"

"So much the worse," said the father.

"—and therefore have a right to dispose as I please of my interest in the business. I therefore demand the immediate payment of so much of my inheritance as will be required to pay the wages of the workmen you've dismissed for at least another year, with the exception of the single men who enter the army."

"No, my boy, we won't do anything of the sort. Don't forget that I'm running this business. According to the contract made when you came of age, you may demand a million dollars upon severing your connection with the firm. This sum will be at your disposal at the bank to-day at noon, but not a cent more. What you do with it is a matter of complete indifference to me, but let me remind you that ordinarily when a man throws money out of the window, he at least likes to hear it drop."

"That surely cannot be your last word, father, otherwise we must part."

"All right, my boy, let's part till dinner-time. I hope to find you in a more sensible frame of mind when the family assembles this evening. I've told you what will be done in the factory in the meantime, and as for our trip, we'll discuss that to-night with your mother. Now leave me, I must get ready for Wall Street."

The door closed noiselessly after Mr. Hanbury, Junior. "The scamp," said the father to himself, "I can't help admiring him. Thirty years ago I entertained just such ideas, but what has become of them!" He thought a moment, passed his hand over his forehead, then jumped up quickly and exclaimed: "Now to work!" He pressed a button on the desk, his secretary entered, and the conversation that ensued dealt exclusively with coming events in Wall Street.



Chapter VI

A NIGHT IN NEW YORK

The New York Daily Telegraph had already issued several regular editions and a number of extras, without really having conveyed much definite information, for the dispatches consisted for the most part of rumors that arose like distant lightning on the western horizon, and it was quite impossible to ascertain just where. A dark bank of clouds lay over the Pacific States, completely shutting in the territory that had been cut off from all communication, both by wire and rail. The natural supposition was, that the Japanese outposts were stationed at the points just beyond which to the east telegraphic communication had not yet been interrupted, but the messages that were constantly pouring in from places along this border-line revealed clearly that these outposts were continually pushing further eastwards. A serious battle didn't seem to have occurred anywhere. The utter surprise caused by the sudden appearance of the Japanese troops, who seemed to spring up out of the ground, had from the very beginning destroyed every chance of successful resistance.

Shortly after the first vague rumors of battles said to have been fought at San Francisco, Port Townsend, and Seattle, had arisen, even these sources of information ran dry. The question from where all the hostile troops had come, remained as much of a riddle as ever. That was a matter of indifference after all; the chief consideration was to adopt measures of defense as speedily as possible.

But the War Department worked slowly, and the news received from headquarters at Washington consisted only of the declaration that the regulars were going to be sent to the West immediately, that the President had already called out the reserves, and that Congress would meet on May eleventh to discuss means for placing the militia on a war-footing and for creating an army of volunteers. The regular army! Three States with their regiments and their coast-defenses had to be deducted at the very start. What had become of them? Had they been able to hold their own between the enemy and the coast? What had happened to the Philippines and to Hawaii? Where was the fleet? None of these questions could be answered, simply because all telegraphic connection was cut off. The strength of the enemy was an absolutely unknown quantity, unless one cared to rely on the figures found in the ordinary military statistics, which had probably been doctored by the Japanese. Was this the Japanese army at all? Was it an invading force? Could such a force have pushed so far to the East in such a short space of time after landing? The press could find no satisfactory answer to these questions, and therefore contented itself with estimating the number of American soldiers available after subtracting the three coast States. The newspapers also indulged in rather awkward calculations as to when and how the troops could best be dispatched to the invaded territory. But this optimism did not last long and it convinced nobody.

Another serious question was, how would the masses behave upon the breaking-out of this sudden danger, and what attitude would be assumed by the foreign elements of the population. It was most important to have some inkling as to how the Germans, the Irish, the Scandinavians, the Italians and the various people of Slavonic nationality would act when called upon to defend their new country. It was of course absolutely certain that the two great political parties—the Republicans and the Democrats—would work together harmoniously under the stress of a common danger.

Francis Robertson, the well-known reporter of the New York Daily Telegraph—called the Flying Fish on account of his streaming coat-tails—had been on the go all day. He had scarcely finished dictating the shorthand notes made on his last tour of inspection, to the typewriter, when he received orders—it was at seven o'clock in the evening—to make another trip through the streets and to visit the headquarters of the various national and political societies. First he went to a restaurant a few doors away, and in five minutes succeeded in making way with a steak that had apparently been manufactured out of the hide of a hippopotamus. Then he jumped into a taxicab and directed the chauffeur at the corner of Twenty-ninth Street to drive as quickly as possible through the crowd down Broadway. But it was impossible for the chauffeur on account of the mob to move at more than a snail's pace, and the cab finally came to a dead stop at Madison Square, which was packed with excited people. Robertson left the cab and hurled himself boldly into the seething mass of humanity, but soon discovered that if he wished to make any progress at all he would have to allow himself to be carried forward by the slowly moving crowd. At the corner of Twenty-second Street he managed to disentangle himself and hurried through the block, only to find a new crowd on Fourth Avenue.

He intended to cross Fourth Avenue and then push on to Third Avenue, in order to reach Tammany Hall by that route, but he was doomed to disappointment, for the human stream simply carried him down Fourth Avenue as far as Union Square, where it ceased moving for a time. Presently it got under way again, proceeding even more slowly than before, and Robertson soon found himself in the middle of the square, being suddenly pushed against the basin of the fountain upon which he climbed for the double purpose of regaining his breath and of looking around to see if it were possible to make his way through to Tammany Hall. In vain! His eyes were greeted by an interminable sea of heads and hats, which did not offer the slightest chance of his being able to slip through. The trees, the statues and the fountain in the square appeared to be buried to a height of two yards in a black flood. He looked longingly across Sixteenth Street over to Third Avenue, but nowhere could he find an opening.

He felt like a ship-wrecked mariner cast ashore on a desert island. The sullen roar of the crowd echoed against the buildings enclosing the square like the dull boom of the surf. Over on Third Avenue the yellow lights of the elevated cars crossed the dark opening of Sixteenth Street at regular intervals, and recalled to Robertson a piece of scenery at a fair, where a lighted train ran continually between the mouths of two tunnels in the mountains. He pulled out his note-book and by the light of the electric arc-lamp made a note of the observation.

Then he jumped down from the ledge where he had taken refuge and once more joined the human stream. The latter, as if animated by a common purpose, was moving downtown, and if Robertson's neighbors were properly posted, it was headed for the Chinese quarter. It was evident that they intended to vent their fury for the present on these allies of the Japanese. This longing for revenge, this elementary hatred of the yellow race kept the crowd in Union Square in motion and shoved everyone without discrimination towards Broadway and Fourth Avenue. The square resembled a huge machine, which by means of some hidden automatic power forced tens of thousands of unresisting bodies into the narrow channels. The crowd rolled on unceasingly. Here and there a hat flew off into the air, came down again, bobbed up and down once or twice, and then continued its journey somewhere else on the surface. It was fortunate that those who had become insensible from the dreadful noise and the foul, dusty air were unable to fall down; they were simply held up by the close pressure of their neighbors and were carried along until a few blocks farther on they regained consciousness. Nevertheless a few fell and disappeared in the stream without leaving a trace behind them. No pen could describe their terrible fate; they must have been relentlessly ground to pieces like stones on the rocky bed of a glacier.

Above this roaring stream of human beings there swept unceasingly, in short blasts like a tearing whirlwind, the hoarse cry of a people's passion: "Down with the yellow race! Down with the Japanese! Three cheers for the Stars and Stripes!" The passionate cry of a crowd thirsting for revenge rose again and again, as if from a giant's lungs, until the cheers and yells of "down" turned into a wild, deafening, inarticulate howl which was echoed and re-echoed a thousand times by the tall buildings on both sides of the avenue. Now and then an electric street-car, to which clung hundreds of people, towered like a stranded vessel above the waving mass of heads and hats.

Robertson decided to give up the idea of reaching Tammany Hall and to drift with the crowd to the Chinese quarter. At Astor Place a branch of the human stream carried him to the Bowery, where he found himself on the edge of the crowd and was scraped roughly along the fronts of several houses. He stood this for another block, but determined to escape at the next corner into a side street. Before he could reach it, however, he was crushed violently against the wall of a house and turned round three or four times by the advancing throng; during this maneuver his right coat-tail got caught on something and before he knew it, he had left the coat-tail behind. At last he reached the corner and clung tightly to a railing with his right hand, but the next moment he flew like a cork from a champagne-bottle into the quiet darkness of Fifth Street, bumping violently against several men who had been similarly ejected from the current and who pushed him roughly aside.

Robertson was bursting with rage, for just before he had been propelled into Fifth Street, he had caught a glimpse of the grinning face of Bob Traddles, of the Tribune, his worst competitor, only a few feet away. The latter showed clearly how delighted he was at this involuntary discomfiture of his rival in the mad race for the latest sensational news. Robertson attempted for a while to get back into the current, but all of his efforts proved futile. Then he tried at least to find out what the people intended to do, and in spite of the contradictory information he received, he was pretty well convinced that they were really going to make an attack on the inhabitants of the Chinese quarter. Although hopelessly separated from Tammany Hall by the countercurrent of the human stream, he at last succeeded in reaching the Eighth Street station of the Second Avenue Elevated, where he took an uptown train to Forty-second Street. Then he walked over to Third Avenue and took a downtown train, which was crowded to suffocation, as far as Grand Street, for the purpose of reaching the Chinese quarter from the uptown side. The trip had consumed fully two hours. At the crossing of Grand and Mott Streets he found the entrance to the latter barred by a line of policemen standing three deep. He showed his badge to a sergeant and received permission to pass.

The dead silence of Mott Street seemed almost uncanny after the noisy roar of the mob, the echoes of which still rang in his ears. The basements of the houses were all barricaded with shutters or boards, the doors were locked, and there was scarcely a light to be seen in the windows of the upper stories. A person paying his first visit to this busy, bustling ant-hill of yore would, if he had not been reminded by the peculiar penetrating smell of the yellow race of their proximity, scarcely have believed that he was really in the notorious Chinese quarter of New York.

The policeman who acted as Robertson's guide told him that they had known all about the movements and intentions of the mob long before it had reached the police headquarters, by way of the Bowery and Elm Street, and begun to force its way from the Bowery through some of the side streets into the Chinese quarter. Fearing that the latter would be set on fire, the chief of police had given orders to protect it from the irresponsible mob by barricading the streets with all the available members of the force. In this attempt, however, they had been only partially successful. It was out of the question for six hundred men to hold out against tens of thousands; the enormous pressure from the rear had hurled the front rows like driftwood against the thin chain of policemen, which, after a stubborn resistance, had simply been broken through at several spots.

A hand-to-hand fight had ensued and shots were soon fired on both sides, so that the police had to content themselves with an effort to check the worst excesses. Then, too, the spirit of patriotism was just as rampant in the breasts of the police as it was in the breasts of those who urged on the mob. As it was impossible to catch hold of the treacherous invaders themselves, their natural allies should at least not escape unscathed. The Chinese were of course prepared for such an attack. The howling, raging mob found barricaded doors and windows wherever they went, and even when they did succeed, after considerable labor, in breaking these down, it was usually only to find that the birds had flown, that the occupants had made their escape in time. Wherever resistance had been offered by the Chinese, the mob had gone beyond all bounds in its frenzy.

"Several hundred Chinamen must have been killed," said the policeman, "and it would be best for the papers to hush up what went on inside the houses." Robertson and his companion stopped near a lamp-post, and the former hurriedly made some shorthand notes of all the information he had received.

"Look," said the policeman, "Judge Lynch has done his work well," and he pointed with his club to a lamp-post on the other side of the street from which two dark bodies were hanging. "Simply hanged 'em," he added laconically.

As the policeman would not allow him to enter any of the houses because, as he said, it meant certain death, Robertson decided to go to the nearest telephone pay-station in order to 'phone his story to the paper. The policeman went with him as far as the police-station. By the uncertain light of the street-lamps they stumbled along the pavement, which was often almost entirely hidden by heaps of rubbish and regular mountains of refuse. They saw several more bodies suspended from lamp-posts, and the blood on the pavement before many of the mutilated houses testified eloquently to the manner in which the mob had wreaked its vengeance on the sons of the Celestial Kingdom. Ambulance officers were carrying away the wounded and dead on stretchers, and after Robertson had stayed a little while at the police-station and received information as to the number of people killed thus far, he walked in the direction of Broadway, having found the entrance to the Subway closed.

At Broadway he again came upon a chain of police, and learned that the troops had been called out and that a battalion was marching up Broadway.

Robertson plunged once more into the seething human whirlpool, but made little progress. For about fifteen minutes he stood, unable to move, near a highly excited individual, who, with a bloody handkerchief tied around his head and with wild gesticulations was reciting his experiences during the storming of a Chinese house. This was his man. A momentary lull in the roar around him gave him a chance of getting closer to him and screaming into his ear: "I'll give you two dollars if you'll step into the nearest hallway with me and tell me that story!"

The man stared at him in astonishment but when Robertson added, "It's for the New York Daily Telegraph," he was posted at once. They made their way with considerable difficulty to the edge of the crowd and managed to squeeze into a wide doorway full of people, whose attention, however, was not directed to the doings on Broadway, but rather to a meeting that was being held in a large rear room. Robertson managed to find an unoccupied chair in a neighboring room, which was packed to the door, and sitting astride it, proceeded to use the back of the chair as a rest for his note-book. The story turned out to be somewhat disjointed, for every time a push from the crowd sent the man flying against the hard wall, he uttered a long series of oaths.

"For Heaven's sake," said Robertson, "quit your swearing! Make a hole in the wall behind you and hustle with your story!"

"This'll mean at least a column in the Telegraph," mused Robertson as the story neared its end. But he was already listening with one ear to what was going on in the big room, whence the sharp, clear tones of a speaker could be heard through the suffocating tobacco fumes. Over the heads of the attentive crowd hung a few gas-lamps, the globes of which looked like large oranges. Robertson gave his Mott Street hero the promised two dollar bill and then made his way to the rear room. Standing in the doorway, he could clearly distinguish the words of the speaker, who was apparently protesting in the name of some workmen against a large manufacturer who had at noon dismissed three thousand of them.

The orator, who was standing on a table in the rear of the room, looked like a swaying shadow through the smoke, but his loud appeal completely filled the room, and the soul-stirring pictures he drew of the misery of the workmen, who had been turned out on the streets at the word of the millionaire manufacturer, caused his hearers' cheeks to burn with excitement.

"—and therefore," concluded the speaker, "we will not submit to the absolutely selfish action of Mr. Hanbury. As leader of our Union I ask you all to return to work at the factory to-morrow at the usual hour, and we will then assert our right to employment by simply continuing our work and ignoring our dismissal. Of course the simplest and most convenient thing for Mr. Hanbury is to shut down his plant and skip with his millions to the other side. But we demand that the factory be kept running, and if our wages aren't paid, we'll find means for getting them. Our country cannot fight the enemy even with a thousand millionaires. When the American people take the field to fight for the maintenance of American society and the American state, they have a right to demand that the families they are compelled to leave at home shall at least be suitably cared for. Again I say: We'll keep Mr. Hanbury's factory open."

The air shook with thunderous applause, and a firm determination lighted up hundreds of faces, wrinkled and scarred from work and worry. And who would have dared oppose these men when animated by a single thought and a common purpose? Again and again enthusiastic shouts filled the room, and the speaker was assured that not a man present would fail to be on hand the next morning.

Leaning against the door-post, Robertson made notes of this occurrence also and then looked round in a vain endeavor to find a means of escape from the suffocating atmosphere. While doing so his glance fell on the spot where only a few moments before he had observed the swaying shadow of the speaker. The latter's place had been taken by another, who was making a frantic but vain effort to secure quiet and attention. With his arms waving in the air he looked through the murky atmosphere for all the world like a quickly turning wind-mill.

Gradually the applause ceased, while everybody in the room, Robertson included, was startled by the announcement of the chairman that Mr. Hanbury was most anxious to address the assemblage. A moment of astonished silence and then Bedlam broke loose. "What, Mr. Hanbury wants to speak?" "Not the old one, the young one!" "He must be mad. What does he want here?" "Three cheers for Mr. Hanbury!" "Down with him! We don't want him here, we can manage our own affairs!" "Let him speak!" "Three cheers for Mr. Hanbury!" "Be quiet, damn you, why don't you shut up?" These and other similarly emphatic shouts reached Robertson's ears. He hunted for his last pencil in his vest-pocket, and when he looked up again, he saw through the cloud of smoke a tall, refined person standing on the table.

"We don't want to be discharged! Don't let our wives starve!" the voices began again, and it was some time before it became possible for the speaker to make himself heard.

"Is that really Mr. Hanbury?" Robertson asked one of his neighbors.

"Yes, the son."

"It seems incredible! He's taking his life in his hands."

Gerald Hanbury's first words were lost in the uproar, but gradually the crowd began to listen. He spoke only a few sentences, and these Robertson took down in shorthand:

"—The demand just made by your speaker, and supported by all present, that my father's factory should not be shut down in these turbulent times, was made by myself this very morning, the moment I heard the news of the base attack on our country. I don't want any credit for having presented the matter to my father in most vigorous fashion, and I regret to say I have accomplished nothing thus far. But the same reasons which you have just heard from the lips of Mr. Bright have guided me. I, too, should consider it a crime against the free American people, if we manufacturers were to desert them in this hour of national danger. I am not going to make a long speech; I have come here simply to tell you that I shall go straight to my father from here and offer him the whole of my fortune from which to pay you your wages so long as the war lasts, and not only those employed in the factory, but also the families of those who may enter the army to defend their homes and their country."

Such an outburst of passionate enthusiasm, such wild expressions of joy as greeted this speech Robertson had never witnessed. The crowd screamed and yelled itself hoarse, hats were thrown into the air, and pandemonium reigned supreme. Mr. Hanbury was seized by dozens of strong arms as he jumped down from the table and was carried through the room over the heads of the crowd. After he had made the rounds of the hall several times and shaken hundreds of rough hands, the group of workmen surrounding the foreman on whose shoulders young Hanbury was enthroned marched to the entrance, while the whole assembly joined in a marching song.

By pure chance Robertson found himself near this group as they came to a halt before the door, just in time to save Mr. Hanbury from having his skull smashed against the top. So they let him slide down to the ground, and then the whole crowd made a rush for the Broadway entrance. Such a jam ensued here, that another meeting was held on the spot, which, however, consisted chiefly in cheers for Mr. Hanbury.

Suddenly some one shouted: "We'll go with Mr. Hanbury to his father!" Inch by inch they moved towards Broadway, whence a terrific roar and wild shouts greeted the ears of the closely packed mass at the entrance.

Robertson was standing close to Mr. Hanbury, whose face shone with happy excitement. Just as they reached the entrance to the street, the crowd outside suddenly started to run north in mad haste.

"This is the proudest day of my life as an American citizen!" said Robertson to Hanbury. Hardly had he finished the sentence, when a crashing sound like thunder rent the air and resounded down the whole length of Broadway, as if the latter were a canon surrounded by precipitous walls of rock.

"They're firing on the people," burst from thousands of lips in the wildest indignation.

Some one shouted: "Pull out your revolvers!" and in response red sparks flashed here and there in the crowd and the rattle of shots greeted the troops marching up Broadway. The mob seemed to be made up largely of Russians.

Just in front of Robertson and Gerald Hanbury a young woman, who had been wounded by a stray shot, lay on the pavement screaming with pain and tossing her arms wildly about.

"Three cheers for Mr. Hanbury!" came the loud cry once more from the entrance. At this instant a big workman, apparently drunk, and dressed only in shirt and trousers, stepped in front of the door, and swinging the spoke of a large wheel in his right hand shouted: "Where's Mr. Hanbury?" And some one shouted as in reply: "The blackguard has turned three thousand workmen out on the streets to-day so that he can go traveling with his millions." The workman yelled once more: "Where is Mr. Hanbury?" Gerald moved forward a step and, looking the questioner straight in the eye, said: "I'm Mr. Hanbury, what do you want?"

The workman glared at him with wild, bloodshot eyes and cried in a fierce rage: "That's what I want," and quick as a flash the heavy spoke descended on Hanbury's head. The terrific blow felled Gerald to the ground, and he sank without uttering a sound beside the body of the wounded woman lying at his feet.

Robertson flew at the drunken brute as he prepared for a second blow, but some of the other laborers had already torn his weapon out of his hand, and, as if in answer to this base murder, the troops discharged a fresh volley only a hundred yards away, which was again received with shots from dozens of revolvers.

Robertson felt a stinging pain in his left arm and, in a sudden access of weakness, he leaned for support against the doorway. His senses left him for a moment, and when he came to, he saw a company of soldiers passing the spot where he stood. The next instant the butt-end of a musket pushed him backwards into the doorway.

"This is madness!" he cried. "You're firing on the people."

"Because the people are murdering and plundering downtown!" answered an officer. Gradually the tumult calmed down. Another company passed by Robertson, who had sat down on the step before the door. He examined his arm and found that he was uninjured; a stone splinter must have struck his left elbow, for the violent pain soon disappeared. The mob was quickly lost to view up Broadway, while some ambulance surgeons appeared on the other side of the street. Robertson called over to them and told them Mr. Hanbury had been murdered, whereupon they crossed the street at once.

Gerald Hanbury's corpse was lifted on a stretcher.

"How terrible, they've broken in his skull," said one of the surgeons, and taking a gray shawl from the shoulders of the charwoman who was writhing with agony, he threw it over the upper part of Gerald's body.

"Where shall we take it?" asked one of the surgeons.

"To Mr. Hanbury's house, two blocks north," directed Robertson, and going up to one of the surgeons he added: "I'll take your place at the stretcher, for you can make yourself useful elsewhere."

"How about her?" asked one of the ambulance attendants, pointing to the woman on the ground.

"I'm afraid we can't do much for her," replied one of the surgeons, "she seems to be near death's door."

Then the men lifted their burden and slowly the sad procession walked up Broadway, which was now almost deserted.

A few shots could still be heard from the direction of Union Square; to the left the sky was fiery red while clouds of smoke traveled over the high buildings on Broadway, shutting out the light of the stars. Robertson looked back. The street lay dark and still. Suddenly far away in the middle of the street two glaring white lights appeared and above them flared and waved the smoky flames of the petroleum torches, while gongs and sirens announced the approach of the fire-engines. And now they thundered past, the glaring lights from the acetylene lamps in front of the fire-engines lighting up the whole pavement. Streams of light and rushing black shadows played up and down the walls of the buildings. Next came the rattling hook and ladder wagons and the hosecarts, the light from the torches dancing in red and yellow stripes on the helmets of the firemen. And then another puffing, snorting engine, with hundreds of sparks and thick smoke pouring out of its wide funnel, hiding the vehicle behind it in dark clouds. They're here one moment, and gone the next, only to make way for another hook and ladder, which sways and rattles past. The clanging of the gongs and the yells of the sirens grow fainter and fainter, and finally, through the clouds of sparks and smoke the whole weird cavalcade was seen to disappear into a side-street. Little bits of smoldering wood and pieces of red-hot coal remained lying on the street and burned with quivering, quick little flames.

As they walked on the man next to Robertson told him why the troops had been compelled to interfere. The excited mob which had tasted blood, as it were, in the Chinese quarter and become more and more frantic, had continued plundering in some of the downtown streets without any discrimination—simply yielding to an uncontrollable desire for destruction. As a result a regular battle ensued between this mob, which consisted chiefly of Russian and Italian rabble, on one hand, and Irish workingmen who were defending their homes, on the other. The Russian contingent seemed to consist largely of the riff-raff which had found such a ready refuge in New York during the Russian Revolution, and some of these undesirable citizens now had recourse to dynamite. Some of the bombs caused great loss of life among the Irish people living in that part of town, and several policemen had also been killed in the performance of their duty. It was at this point that the authorities deemed it advisable to call out the troops, with whose arrival affairs immediately began to take on a different turn.

The soldiers did not hesitate to use their bayonets against the rabble. At several corners they encountered barricades, but they hesitated resorting to their firearms until several bombs were thrown among the troops while they were storming a barricade defended by Russian Terrorists. That was the last straw. With several volleys the soldiers drove the gang of foreign looters up Broadway, where a volley discharged near the spot where Gerald Hanbury had been murdered, dispersed the last compact mass of plunderers.

In the meantime the men had reached Mr. Hanbury's house and Robertson rang the bell. Not until they had rung loudly several times did the butler appear, and then only to announce gruffly that there was no one at home. A policeman ordered him to open the door at once, so that Mr. Hanbury's dead body might be brought in.

"But Mr. Hanbury is at home, you can't possibly have his dead body there!"

"Tell Mr. Hanbury right away!" interrupted the policeman. "It's young Mr. Hanbury, and he's been murdered. Open the door, do you hear!"

Silently the heavy bronze door turned on its hinges and, with the policeman in the lead, the men were ushered into the high marble entrance-hall of the Hanbury palace. They carried the stretcher on which lay the murdered body of the son of the house up the broad staircase, the thick carpets deadening the sound of their steps. At the top of the stairs they lowered their burden and waited in silence. Doors opened and shut in the distance; from one of them a bright stream of light fell on the shining onyx pillars and on the gilt frames of the paintings, which in the light from strange swinging lamps looked like huge black patches. Then the light from the door disappeared, a bell rang somewhere and figures hurried to and fro. A fantastically dressed East Indian next appeared and made signs to the ambulance-men to carry the stretcher into a room which, in its fabulous, Oriental splendor represented one of the most beautiful of the Indian mosques. The men carried their burden carefully into the middle of the room and then set it down and looked at one another in embarrassment. The policeman assumed a dignified posture and cleared his throat. Suddenly the heavy gold-embroidered curtain before one of the doors was pushed aside by a brown hand and fell back in heavy folds; an old white-haired man stood for a moment in the doorway and then advanced towards the officer with a firm step.

The latter cleared his throat again and then began in a dry and business-like tone to give his report of Gerald Hanbury's murder, ending with the words "—and these gentlemen picked him up and brought him here."

"I thank you, gentlemen," said the old man, and taking out his pocket-book he handed each of them, including Robertson, a twenty-dollar bill. Then he sat down wearily on the edge of the stretcher and rested his head in his hands. He seemed to be oblivious of his surroundings. The men stood round for a few moments not knowing what to do, until finally the policeman led the ambulance-men and Robertson to the door, which opened automatically.

As the Indian closed the door behind them the officer said to Robertson: "This is like the last act in a Third Avenue melodrama."

"Life has a liking for such plays," answered Robertson. As they left the Hanbury mansion the clock of Grace Church struck midnight. Robertson glanced down Broadway once more and saw that the long thoroughfare was almost deserted; only here and there the bluish-white light from the electric lamps shone on the bayonets of the sentinels patrolling up and down at long intervals. Then he repaired to the Daily Telegraph offices to dictate his notes, so that the huge rolls of printed paper might announce to the world to-morrow that the first victims of the terrible war had fallen on the streets of New York.

The factory of Horace Hanbury & Son was not shut down.



Chapter VII

THE RED SUN OVER THE GOLDEN GATE

Too-oo-ot, bellowed the whistle of a big steamer that was proceeding gingerly through the fog which enveloped the broad Bay of San Francisco early on the morning of May seventh. The soft, white mist crept through the Golden Gate among the masts and funnels of the ships made fast to the docks, enveloped the yellow flame of the lanterns on the foremast in a misty veil, descended from the rigging again, and threatened to extinguish the long series of lights along the endless row of docks. The glistening bands of light on the Oakland shore tried their best to pierce the fog, but became fainter and fainter in the damp, penetrating, constantly moving masses of mist. Even the bright eye on Angel Island was shut out at last. Too-oo-ot, again sounded the sullen cry of warning from the steamer in the Golden Gate—Too-oo-ot. And then from Tiburon opposite the shrill whistle of the ferry-boat was heard announcing its departure to the passengers on the early train from San Rafael. The flickering misty atmosphere seemed like a boundless aquarium, an aquarium in which gigantic prehistoric, fabulous creatures stretched their limbs and glared at one another with fiery eyes. Trembling beams of light hovered between the dancing lights on and between the ships, rising and falling like transparent bars when the shivering sentries on deck moved their lanterns, and threw into relief now some dripping bits of rigging, and again the black outline of a deck-house as the sailor hurried below for a drink to refresh his torpid spirits.

The cold wind blew the damp fog into Market Street, forced it uphill and then let it roll down again, filling every street with its gray substance.

Too-oo-ot, came the whistle from the Golden Gate again and further off still another whistle could be heard. Over in Tiburon the ferry-boat had calmed down, as it found itself unable to budge in the fog. One after the other, the tower-clocks struck half-past four, the strokes sounding loud and unnatural in the fog. From Telegraph Hill at the northern end of San Francisco a splendid view could be obtained of this undulating sea of mist. A few of the isolated houses situated in the higher parts of the town looked like islands floating on the ever-moving glossy gray billows, while the top stories of several sky-scrapers rose up here and there like solemn black cliffs. A faint light in the east heralded the approach of day. Too-oo-ot, sounded the whistle of the approaching steamer once again; then its voice broke and died out in a discordant sob, which was drowned in the nervous gang, gang, gang of the ship's bell. The steamer had been obliged to anchor on account of the fog. Too-oo-ot, came from the other steamer further out. Then life in the bay came to a stand-still: nothing could be done till the sun rose and brought warmth in its train.

"This damned fog," said Tom Hallock, a telegraph boy, to his colleague, Johnny Kirkby, as he jumped off his bicycle in front of the Post Office, "this damned fog is enough to make one choke."

Johnny muttered some unintelligible words, for he was still half asleep; the effect of last night's eighteen drinks had not yet quite worn off. "You can't see the nearest lamp-post," he blurted out after a while. "I nearly ran into a company of infantry just now that suddenly popped up in front of me out of the fog. What's going on this morning, anyhow? What are they marching out to Golden Gate for?"

"Oh, you jay," said Tom, "naval maneuvers, of course! Are you blind? Haven't you read the Evening Standard? There are to be naval maneuvers this morning, and Admiral Perry is going to attack San Francisco."

"This war-game is a crazy scheme," grumbled Johnny. They both left their bicycles downstairs in a room in the Post Office and then went up to their quarters on the first story.

"Naval maneuvers?" began Johnny again. "I really don't know anything about them. It was in last night's Evening Standard. It said that the orders had been changed quite unexpectedly, and that the maneuvers would take place outside the bay to-day."

"It looks as though we'd have a long wait before daylight appears," said Tom impatiently, pointing out of the windows, while Johnny tackled the dilapidated tea-kettle in an effort to make himself an early morning drink. Tom stamped up and down the room to warm himself, remarking: "Thank the Lord it's Sunday and there isn't much going on, otherwise we'd all get sick chasing around with telegrams in this beastly fog."

Boom! The roar of a distant cannon suddenly made the windows rattle; boom again! It sounded as though it came from the Fort. "There you are," said Tom, "there's your naval maneuvers. Perry won't stand any nonsense. He's not afraid of the fog; in fact, it gives him a fine chance for an attack."

Johnny didn't answer, for he had meanwhile dozed off. As soon as he had with considerable trouble got his tea-kettle into working order, he had fallen fast asleep, and now began to snore with his nose pressed flat on the table, as if he meant to saw it through before his tea was ready.

Tom shrugged his shoulders in disgust, and said: "Those blamed drinks."

Another boom! from outside. The door opened behind Tom and a telegraph official looked in. "One, two," he counted, "two are there," and then he closed the door again.

Downstairs in the street a motor-cycle hurried past puffing and rattling, the rider's figure looking like a gigantic elusive shadow through the fog.

Tom started to walk up and down again as the clock in the hall struck a quarter to five. A bell rung in the next room. Steps were heard coming up the stairs and a colleague of the other two came in, swearing at the fog. He passed Johnny, poured out some of the latter's tea for himself and drank it, meanwhile looking at the sleeper inquiringly.

"It's the drinks," said Tom, grinning.

"H'm," growled the other. Another motor-cycle went by on the street below, and then another.

Later on a group of ten motor-cycles rode past.

"Did you see that, Harry?" asked Tom, who was standing at the window.

"What?"

"Didn't they have guns?"

"They probably have something to do with the naval maneuvers."

At this moment another group of ten men passed, and there was no doubt of the fact that they carried guns.

"I guess it is the naval maneuvers," asserted Tom.

Boom! came the sound of another shot.

"That's queer," said Tom. "What do you suppose it is?" He opened the window and listened. "Do you hear it?" he asked Harry, who admitted that he could also hear a rattling, scraping noise as though drums were being beaten far away or as though a handful of peas had been thrown against a pane of glass.

Tom leaned further out of the window in time to see a bicycle rider stop in front of the Post Office, take a big sheet of paper, moisten it with a large brush, and stick it on the wall near the entrance; then he rode off. Tom shut the window, for the fog seemed to be getting thicker and thicker, and now, in the pale light of approaching dawn, it was almost impossible to recognize the yellow spots of light on the lamp-posts. By this time Johnny had awakened and they all had some tea together.

They were interrupted by a fourth messenger boy, who entered the room at this moment and exclaimed:

"That's a great scheme of Admiral Perry's, and the fog seems to have helped him a lot. What do you think? He has surprised San Francisco. There's a notice posted downstairs stating that the Japanese have taken possession of San Francisco and that the Japanese military governor of San Francisco asks the citizens to remain quiet or the city will be bombarded from the harbor by the Japanese fleet."

"Perry is a great fellow, there's no use trying to fool with him," said Tom. "San Francisco surprised by the Japs—that's a mighty fine scheme."

Outside some one was tearing up the stairs two at a time, doors banged noisily, and several bells rang. "Somebody's in a h—- of a hurry," said Harry; "we'll have something to do in a minute."

A telegraph operator hurriedly opened the door and with great beads of perspiration rolling down his face, shouted at the top of his lungs: "Boys, the Japanese have surprised San Francisco."

A roar of laughter greeted this piece of information.

"Stung!" cried Harry. "Stung! Perry is the Jap."

"Perry?" inquired the newcomer, staring at the other four. "Who's Perry?"

"Don't you know, Mr. Allen, that there are naval maneuvers going on to-day and that Admiral Perry is to surprise San Francisco with the fleet?"

"But there are notices at all the street-corners saying that the Japanese governor of San Francisco begs the citizens——"

"Yes, that's where the joke comes in. Perry is going to attack the town as a Jap—that's his scheme."

"You haven't had enough sleep," cried Tom. "If all the Japs looked like Admiral Perry, then——"

Tom broke off short and dropped his tea-cup on the floor, staring blankly at the door as if he saw a ghost. Just behind Mr. Allen stood a Jap, with a friendly grin on his face, but a Jap all the same, most certainly and without the slightest doubt a Jap. He looked around the bare office and said in fluent English: "I must ask you to remain in this room for the present." With these words he raised his revolver and kept a sharp eye on the five occupants.

Johnny jumped up and felt instinctively for the revolver in his hip pocket, but in a flash the muzzle of the Jap's gun was pointed straight at him and mechanically he obeyed the order "Hands up!"

"Hand that thing over here," said the Jap; "you might take it into your head to use it," and he took Johnny's revolver and put it in his pocket. Several Japanese soldiers passed by outside. Mr. Allen sank down on a chair; not one of them could make head or tail of the situation.

They were kept waiting for half an hour. Down below in the street, where the wagons were beginning to rattle over the pavement, could be heard the steady march of bodies of soldiers, frequently interrupted by the noise of motor-cycles. There could no longer be any doubt—the affair was getting serious.

The lamps were extinguished and the gray light of dawn filled the rooms as the head Postmaster made his rounds, guarded by a Japanese officer.

The official was perspiring profusely from sheer nervousness. He begged the employees to keep calm, and assured them that it was no joke, but that San Francisco was really in the hands of the Japanese. It was the duty of the employees and the citizens, he said, to refrain from all resistance, so that a worse misfortune—a bombardment, he added in a whisper—might not befall the city.

The men were obliged to give up any weapons they had in their possession, and these were collected by the Japanese. At seven o'clock, when these details had been attended to, and the few telegraph instruments which were kept in commission were being used by Japanese operators—all the others had been rendered useless by the removal of some parts of the mechanism—one of the regular operators asked to be allowed to speak to the Postmaster. Permission having been granted by the Japanese guard, he told his chief, in a low voice, that the moment the Japanese soldiers had taken possession of the telegraph room he had hurriedly dispatched a message to Sacramento, telling them that San Francisco had been surprised by the Japanese fleet and that the whole city was occupied by Japanese troops.