Ambrose was enough of a machinist to appreciate the difficulty of operating this complicated arrangement of wheels and rollers and frames by lantern light.

Taking five velvet-footed men, he set off around the back of the store, and across the corner of the square to the “quarters.”  The building so designated was in the middle of the side of the square facing the river.

It was a low, spreading affair, of several dates of construction.  Once Gaviller’s residence, it was now used to house the white employees of the company and chance travelers.

Greer’s room was in the end of the building nearest the store.  The policeman slept at the other side, separated by several partitions.

The room they were making for had a door opening directly on the yard.  It was not locked.  Ambrose merely lifted the latch and walked in with his five men at his heels.

Inside, in the thick darkness they heard the sound of deep breathing.  Ambrose flashed his light around.  A typical boy’s room was revealed, with college banners, colored prints, photographs and firearms.

On a bed in the corner lay the owner, a good-looking blond boy sleeping on his back with an arm flung above his head.  He was a hearty sleeper.

Not until the command was twice repeated in no uncertain tones, did he waken.  It was to find himself looking into the blazing white eye of the electric torch.

“What time is it?” he murmured, blinking.

One of the men chuckled.

“Time to get up,” said Ambrose grimly.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” cried the voice from the bed in accents of honest alarm.

“Get up and dress,” commanded Ambrose.

“What for?” stammered the boy.

“I have five armed men here,” said Ambrose.  “Do what you’re told without asking questions.  If you make a racket you’ll be cracked over the head with the butt of a gun.”

As he spoke Ambrose flashed the light from one to another of his men.  The sight of the quiet dark-skinned breeds, each with a Winchester on his arm was sufficiently intimidating.  The boy swung his legs out of bed.

“All right,” he said, philosophically.  “Throw your light on my clothes, will you?”

He commenced to dress without more ado.  Presently he asked coolly; “What do you want me for, and who are you anyway?”

“I’m Ambrose Doane,” said Ambrose.  “I’ve seized the flour mill.  You’ve got to run it.”

“There’s no grain there,” said Greer.

“I brought my grain with me,” said Ambrose.

A sound like a chuckle escaped the boy.  No doubt he was well-informed as to the situation.  “You didn’t lose much time,” he said.

They started back to the mill, a breed on either side of Greer with a hand upon his shoulder.

“If you make a break, you’ll be knocked down and carried in,” warned Ambrose.

Apparently Greer had no such intention.  He was a matter-of-fact youth and prone to laughter.  He laughed now.  “Golly! the old man will be in a wax when he hears of it!  How many men have you got?”