But at once the rough bodies, the terrible faces were upon him, surrounding him, pushing him.  He seized a little man who was jumping for his throat—­seized and shook the little beast.

“Get back!” he cried.

Fists pushed into his eyes, blows began to rain upon his body and his head.  He ducked.  He felt himself propelled backward by an irresistible force.  He felt his feet giving way.  Warm and reeking breath blew up his nostrils.  He heard confused cries of:  “Kill him!  That’s him!  We’ve got him!” Back and back he went, the torn center of a storm, and then something warm and sweet gushed over his eyes, earth opened under him and he sank, sank through soft gulfs, deeper and deeper, far from the troublous noise of life, far, far—­into an engulfing blackness.

The flood poured on, gushing down the stair-way, at the foot of which
Rann and his two men stood, all armed with wrenches and tools.

Rann shouted.

“I’ll break the head of any one who comes!”

The men in advance tried to break away, well content to leave their heads whole, but those in the rear pushed them on.  Whack! whack! went the wrench—­the leader fell.  But then with fierce screams the mob broke loose, the three men were swept into the vortex of a fighting whirlpool.  Some one opened the basement gate from the inside and a new stream poured in.  The press-room filled—­crowbars got to work—­while men danced and wildly laughed and exulted in their vandal work.  Then suddenly arose the cry of, “Police!” Tools dropped; the mob turned like a stampede of cattle, crushed for the doors, cried out, caught in a trap, and ran into the arms of blue-coated officers....

When Joe next opened his eyes and looked out with some surprise on the same world that he was used to, he found himself stretched in his bed and a low gas-flame eyeing him from above.  He put out a hand, because he felt queer about the head, and touched bandages.  Then some one spoke in his ear.

“You want to keep quiet, Mr. Blaine.”

He looked.  A doctor was sitting beside him.

“Where’s mother?” he asked.

“Here I am, Joe.”  Her voice was sweet in his ears.

She was sitting on the bed at his feet.

“Come here.”

She took the seat beside him and folded his free hand with both of hers.

“Mother—­I want to know what’s the matter with me—­every bit of it.”

“Well, Joe, you’ve a broken arm and a banged-up head, but you’ll be all right.”

“And you—­are you all right?”

“Perfectly.”

“They didn’t go in the kitchen?”

“No.”

“And the press?”

“It’s smashed.”

“And the office?”

“In ruins.”

“How about Rann and the men?”

“Bruised—­that’s all.”

“The police came?”

“Cleaned them out.”

There was a pause; then Joe and his mother looked at each other with queer expressions on their faces, and suddenly their mellow laughter filled the room.