The roll-call was made, and Peter sent off a line to headquarters, stating that his regiment, with only eighteen reported “missing” was mustered and ready for further orders.  Then the regiment broke ranks, and waited.

Just as two o’clock struck a despatch was handed Peter.  A moment later came the rap of the drum, and the men rose from the floor and fell in.  A few sharp, quick words were passed from mouth to mouth.  Guns rose to the shoulders with a click and a movement almost mechanical.  The regiment swung from a long straight line into companies, the door rolled open, and without a sound, except the monotonous pound of the regular tread, the regiment passed into the street.  At the corner they turned sharply, and marched up a side street, so narrow that the ranks had to break their lines to get within the curbs.  So without sound of drum or music they passed through street after street.  A regiment is thrilling when it parades to music:  it is more so when it marches in silence.

Presently it passed into a long tunnel, where the footfall echoed in a startling way.  But as it neared the other end, a more startling sound could be heard.  It was a low murmur, as of many voices, and of voices that were not pleasant.  Peter’s wisdom in availing himself of the protection and secrecy of the tunnel as an approach became obvious.

A moment later, as the regiment debouched from the tunnel’s mouth, the scene broke upon them.  A vast crowd filled Fourth Avenue and Forty-second Street.  Filled even the cut of the entrance to the tunnel.  An angry crowd, judging from the sounds.

A sharp order passed down the ranks, and the many broad lines melted into a long-thin one again, even as the regiment went forward.  It was greeted with yells, and bottles and bricks were hurled from above it, but the appearance of the regiment had taken the men too much by surprise for them to do more.  The head entered the mob, and seemed to disappear.  More and more of the regiment was swallowed up.  Finally, except to those who could trace the bright glint of the rifle-barrels, it seemed to have been submerged.  Then even the rifles disappeared.  The regiment had passed through the crowd, and was within the station.  Peter breathed a sigh of relief.  To march up Fifth Avenue, with empty guns, in a parade, between ten thousand admiring spectators is one thing.  To march between ten thousand angry strikers and their sympathizers, with ball cartridges in the rifles, is quite another.  It is all the difference between smoking a cigar after dinner, and smoking one in a powder magazine.