Black
the left eye of each rascal. I'll black both of Jim Duff's."
Two heavy, sodden impacts sounded during a brief pause in the noise,
attesting to the fact that the gambler had been decorated.
"Stop all this! Stop!" roared Tom Reade. "Men, we're not savages, just
because these other fellows happen to be! Stop it, I tell you. Are
there no foremen here?"
"I'm trying to reach you, Mr. Reade," called the voice of Superintendent
Hawkins. "But this is a heavy crush to get through."
In truth it was. There were more than a hundred laborers in the cellar,
while the stairs were blocked by a mob of enraged workmen.
"Stop it all, men!" Tom again urged, and this time there was silence,
save for his own strong voice. "We don't want to prove ourselves to be
as despicable as the enemy are. Bring 'em up to the street, but don't
be brutal about it. We'll look the scoundrels over so that we'll know
them to-morrow. Come along. Clear the stairs, if you please, men!"
Tom was now once more in control, as fully as though he had his force of
toilers out on the desert at the Man-killer quicksand.
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