There was no time to strike again.  There was a loud battering, then a crash as the door was kicked open.

“Hello!  What is all this row here?”

It was Sergeant Cameron, pushing his big body through the crowd as a man bursts through a thicket.  An awed silence had fallen upon all, arrested, sobered by that weird cry.  Some of them knew that cry of old.  They had heard it in the Old Land in circumstances of heart-chilling terror, but never in this land till this moment.

“What is all this?” cried the Sergeant again.  His glance swept the room and rested upon the huddled heap of men in the furthest corner.  He seized the topmost and hauled him roughly from the heap.

“Hello!  What’s this?  Why, God bless my soul!  The man is dying!”

From a wound in the neck the blood was still spouting.  Quickly the Sergeant was on his knees beside the wounded man, his thumb pressed hard upon the gaping wound.  But still the blood continued to bubble up and squirt from under his thumb.  All around, the earthen floor was muddy with blood.

“Run, some of you,” commanded the Sergeant, “and hurry up that Dr. Wright, Main Street, two corners down!”

Jacob Wassyl, who had come in from the room above, understood, and sent a man off with all speed.

“Good Lord!  What a pig sticking!” said the Sergeant.  “There is a barrel of blood around here.  And here is another man!  Here you!” addressing Jacob, “put your thumb here and press so.  It is not much good, but we cannot do anything else just now.”  The Sergeant straightened himself up.  Evidently this was no ordinary “scrap.”  “Let no man leave this room,” he cried aloud.  “Tell them,” he said, addressing Jacob, “you speak English; and two of you, you and you, stand by the door and let no man out except as I give the word.”

The two men took their places.

“Now then, let us see what else there is here.  Do you know these men?” he enquired of Jacob.

“Dis man,” replied Jacob, “I not know.  Him Polak man.”

The men standing about began to jabber.

“What do they say?”

“Him Polak.  Kravicz his name.  He no bad man.  He fight quick, but not a bad man.”

“Well, he won’t fight much more, I am thinking,” replied the Sergeant.

A second man lay on his back in a pool of blood, insensible.  His face showed ghastly beneath its horrible smear of blood and filth.

“Bring me that lantern,” commanded the Sergeant.

“My God!” cried Jacob, “it is Rosenblatt!”

“Rosenblatt?  Who is he?”

“De man dat live here, dis house.  He run store.  Lots mon’.  My God!  He dead!”

“Looks like it,” said the Sergeant, opening his coat.  “He’s got a bad hole in him here,” he continued, pointing to a wound in the chest.  “Looks deep, and he is bleeding, too.”

There was a knocking at the door.

“Let him in,” cried the Sergeant, “it is the doctor.  Hello, Doctor!  Here is something for you all right.”