“Now, Feeny, clear the platform to the left.  Take the other side, Wing,” says Drummond, quietly, to the officer at the front door of the next car.

In the very fraction of a second the first sergeant and a dozen men have leaped from the deck, and straight into the heart of the crowd they go.  “Back with ye!  Out o’ this!” are the stern, determined orders, emphasized by vigorous prods with the heavy carbine butts.  Astonished at methods so prompt and decided, there is only such resistance as the weight and bulk of those in rear can offer, and that is but momentary.  The sight of those gleaming Gatling barrels, the stern, brief orders and the rapid, confident advance combine to overcome all idea of resistance.  On both sides, at the head of the train, the huge crowd, half laughing, half suffocating, is heaved back upon itself and sent like a great human wave rolling up to the iron lattice at the office end.  Meantime, without an instant’s delay the battalion springs out from the cars, forms ranks on the north platform, counts fours, and then, arms at right shoulder, away it goes with swinging, steady tramp around the rear of its train, across the parallel rows of rails, and in another moment, greeted by tremendous cheers from the occupants of long lines and high tiers of stores, offices, business blocks, the grimy, dusty, war-worn campaigners come striding down the crowded street.  Heavens! how the people shout!  Staid old burghers, portly business-men, trot panting alongside waving their hats and cheering themselves hoarse.  “Them fellers hasn’t no boquets in their guns,” is the way a street gamin expresses it.

“Whither are they going?”—­“What have they first to do?” is the cry.  Police officials ride now with the captain temporarily in command:  a carriage has whisked the colonel over to head-quarters, but haste! haste! is the word.  On they go, silent, grim, with the alkali dust of the North Platte crossing still coating their rusty garb.  A great swing bridge looms ahead:  a dozen police deploy on either side and check the attending crowd.  Over they go at route step, and then, turning to the right, tramp on down a roughly-paved street, growing dim and dimmer every minute with stifling smoke.  Presently they are crossing snake-like lines of hose, gashed and useless; passing fire apparatus standing unhitched and neglected; passing firemen exhausted and listless.  Then occasional squads of scowling men give way before their steady tramp and are driven down alley-ways and around street-corners by reviving police.  Then the head of column turns to the left and comes full upon a scene of tumult,—­a great building in flames, a great mob surging about it defying police interference and bent apparently on gutting the structure from roof to cellar and pillaging the neighboring stores.  Now, men of the ——­th, here’s work cut out for you!  Drive that mob! bloodlessly if you can, bloodletting if you must!