the avalanche of water passed than the policemen who, forewarned, had sought refuge along the walls, rushed forward and seized a man who lay gasping on the snow.  Dazed, half drowned, he had dropped his pistol.  They handcuffed him and dragged him away through the ranks of the soldiers, which opened for him to pass.  The mob, including those who had been flung down, bruised and drenched, and who had painfully got to their feet again, had backed beyond the reach of the water, and for a while held that ground, until above its hoarse, defiant curses was heard, from behind, the throbbing of drums.

“Cossacks!  More Cossacks!”

The cry was taken up by Canadians, Italians, Belgians, Poles, Slovaks, Jews, and Syrians.  The drums grew louder, the pressure from the rear was relaxed, the throng in Faber Street began a retreat in the direction of the power plant.  Down that street, now in double time, came three companies of Boston militia, newly arrived in Hampton, blue-taped, gaitered, slouch-hatted.  From columns of fours they wheeled into line, and with bayonets at charge slowly advanced.  Then the boldest of the mob, who still lingered, sullenly gave way, West Street was cleared, and on the wider thoroughfare the long line of traffic, the imprisoned trolleys began to move again....

Janet had wedged herself into the press far enough to gain a view down West Street of the warehouse roofs, to see the water turned on, to hear the screams and the curses and then the shots.  Once more she caught the contagious rage of the mob; the spectacle had aroused her to fury; it seemed ignominious, revolting that human beings, already sufficiently miserable, should be used thus.  As she retreated reluctantly across the car tracks her attention was drawn to a man at her side, a Slovak.  His face was white and pinched, his clothes were wet.  Suddenly he stopped, turned and shook his fist at the line of soldiers.

“The Cossack, the politzman belong to the boss, the capitalist!” he cried.  “We ain’t got no right to live.  I say, kill the capitalist—­kill Ditmar!”

A man with a deputy’s shield ran toward them.

“Move on!” he said brutally.  “Move on, or I’ll roil you in.”  And Janet, once clear of the people, fled westward, the words the foreigner had spoken ringing in her ears.  She found herself repeating them aloud, “Kill Ditmar!” as she hurried through the gathering dusk past the power house with its bottle-shaped chimneys, and crossed the little bridge over the stream beside the chocolate factory.  She gained the avenue she had trod with Eda on that summer day of the circus.  Here was the ragpicker’s shop, the fence covered with bedraggled posters, the deserted grand-stand of the base-ball park spread with a milky-blue mantle of snow; and beyond, the monotonous frame cottages all built from one model.  Now she descried looming above her the outline of Torrey’s Hill blurred and melting into a darkening sky, and turned into