The colonel is again at the head.  All are on foot.  “Left front into line, double time;” the first company throws its long double rank from curb to curb, Drummond, its commander, striding at its front; Wing, his subaltern, anxiously watching him from among the file-closers.  Already they have reached the rearmost of the rioting groups and, with warning cries and imprecations, these are scurrying to either side and falling into the hands of the accompanying police.  Thicker, denser grows the smoke; thicker, denser the mob.

“Clear this street!  Out of the way!” are the orders, and for a half-block or so clear it is.  Then comes the first opposition.  On a pile of lumber a tall, stalwart man in grizzled beard and slouching hatevidently a leader of mark among the mob—­is shouting orders and encouragement.  What he says cannot be heard, but now, tightly wedged between the rows of buildings, the mob is at bay, and, yelling mad response to the frantic appeals and gesticulations of their leader, at least two thousand reckless and infuriated men have faced the little battalion surging steadily up the narrow street.

“You may have to fire, Drummond,” says the colonel, coolly.  “Get in rear of your company.”  Obedient, the tall lieutenant turns and follows his chief along the front of his advancing line so as to pass around the flank.  He is not fifty paces from the pile on which the mob leader, with half a dozen half-drunken satellites, is shouting his exhortations.  Just as the lieutenant’s arm is grazing grim old Feeny’s elbow as he passes the first sergeant’s station a brick comes hurtling through the air, strikes full upon the back of the officer’s unprotected head, and sends him, face forward, into the muddy street.  In the yell of triumph that follows, Wing’s voice for an instant is unheard.  Obedient to its principle, “Never load until about to fire,” the battalion’s carbines are still empty, but all on a sudden “C” troop halts.  “With ball cartridges load!” is Wing’s hoarse, stern order.  “Now aim low when I give the word. Fire by company. Company, READY!” and, like one, the hammers click.  But no command “Aim” follows.  “Look out!  Look out!—­For God’s sake don’t fire!  Out of the way!” are the frantic yells from the throats of the mob.  Away they go.  Scattering down side streets, alley-ways, behind lumber-piles, everywhere—­anywhere.  Many even throw themselves flat on their faces to escape the expected tempest of lead.  “Don’t fire,” says the colonel, mercifully.  “Forward, double time, and give them the butt.  We’ll support you.”  Down from the lumber-piles come the erstwhile truculent leaders.  “Draw cartridge, men,” orders Wing in wrath and disappointment.  “Now, butts to the front, and give them hell. Forward!” And out he leaps to take the lead, dashing straight into the thick of the scattering mob, his men after him.  There is a minute of wild yelling, cursing, of resounding blows and trampling feet, and in the midst of it all a single shot, and when Wing, breathless, is finally halted two squares farther on, only a dozen broken-headed wretches remain along the street to represent the furious mob that confronted them a few minutes before.  Only these few and one writhing, bleeding form, around which half a dozen policemen are curiously gathered, and at whose side the battalion surgeon has just knelt.