“Good.  I could not recognize you in this darkness.  Are you armed?”

“Yes.”

“Then you and I will defend this door.  Who is inside?”

“The pressman—­Thursday Smith—­and three of the girls.”

“The compositors?”

“No; they’ve gone to the hotel.  Miss Doyle, Miss DeGraf, and—­Hetty Hewitt.”

West went into the hack room, which was faintly illumined by candles stuck here and there.  The girls and Smith were all bending over the imposing stone, where the forms of the paper were being made up.

“Here,” said West, taking a revolver from his pocket and laying it on the table; “I’m afraid there may be an attack on this office in a few minutes, for I understand the language of those strikers and have been listening to them.  If any of the mill hands attempt to break into this room don’t be afraid to shoot.”

“Why should the men wish to attack us, sir?” asked Patsy wonderingly.

“There are several reasons.  They’re after Smith, for one thing.  They’ve an old grudge against him to settle.  Aside from the mere matter of revenge I overheard one of them telling his friends to smash the press and keep the paper from coming out, and Mr. Boglin would pay them well for the job.”

Smith carelessly thrust the revolver into his hip pocket.

“The paper will come out if Mr. Wegg gives us the power,” he said.

“Can you let me have a revolver, Mr. West?” asked Hetty.

“Could you use it?”

“I think so.”

He looked at her a moment and then took a second revolver from his pocket.

“I’ve robbed my hardware stock,” he said with a smile.  “But I advise you girls to keep your hands off the thing unless a crisis arises.  I don’t imagine the gang will get past me and Booth at the entrance, but if any stragglers come your way Smith has authority to drive them back.  I’m justice of the peace, and I hereby appoint you all special officers of the law.”

He said this lightly, fearing to alarm the girls unnecessarily, and then passed through the doorway and joined Booth at the front.

The telephone rang and Patsy answered it.

“How soon will the forms be ready?” asked Arthur’s voice.

“In ten minutes—­perhaps five,” she answered.

“We’ll have the power on in ten minutes more.  Tell Smith not to lose an instant’s time in running off the edition, for we don’t know how long we can keep the line open.  The strikers are threatening us, even now.”

“All right,” called Patsy; “just give us the power for a few minutes, and we’ll be through for to-night.”

She went back to Thursday and reported.

“There may be a few typographical errors, and I’m afraid it’s a bad make-up,” he remarked; “but I’ll have the thing on the press in five minutes.”

With mallet and shooting-stick he tightened the quoins, then lifted the heavy iron frames filled with type and slid them onto the bed of the press.  They gave him all the light the flickering candles afforded as he adjusted the machinery, and all were bending over the press when a low, distant growl was heard, rising slowly to a frenzied shout.  A revolver popped—­another—­followed by wild cries from the street.