fact.  Therefore they swarmed thither, forced an entrance, and began to arm themselves and their comrades.  A despatch to headquarters announced the attack at its commencement, and the force we have named was sent off in hot haste to wrest from the mob the means of more effective resistance.  Emerging into the avenue from 21st Street, Dilkes found the thoroughfare solid with rioters, who, instead of giving way, greeted the police with bitter curses.  Hesitating not a moment on account of vast inequality of numbers, the leader formed his men and charged.  The mob had grown reckless with every hour, and it now closed on the police with the ferocity of a wild beast.  A terrible hand-to-hand conflict ensued, and Merwyn found himself warding off and giving blows with the enemy so near that he could almost feel their hot, tainted breath on his cheek, while horrid visages inflamed with hate and fury made impressions on his mind that could not easily pass away.  It was a close, desperate encounter, and the scorching July sun appeared to kindle passion on either side into tenfold intensity.  While the police were disciplined men, obeying every order and doing nothing at random, they were men, and they would not have been human if anger and thoughts of vengeance had not nerved their arms as they struck down ruffians who would show no more mercy to the wounded or captured than would a man-eating tiger.

Since the mob would not give way, the police cut a bloody path through the throng, and forced their way like a wedge to the factory.  Their orders were to capture all arms; and when a rioter was seen with a carbine or a gun of any kind, one or more of the police would rush out of the ranks and seize it, then fight their way back.

By the time they reached the factory so many of the mob had been killed or wounded, and so many of their leaders were dead or disabled, that it again yielded to panic and fled.  One desperate leader, although already bruised and bleeding, had for a time inspired the mob with much of his own reckless fury, and was left almost alone by his fleeing companions.  His courage, which should have been displayed in a better cause, cost him dear, for a tremendous blow sent him reeling against a fence, the sharp point of one of the iron pickets caught under his chin, and he hung there unheeded, impaled and dying.  He was afterwards taken down, and beneath his soiled overalls and filthy shirt was a fair, white skin, clad in cassimere trousers, a rich waistcoat, and the finest of linen.  His delicate, patrician features emphasized the mystery of his personality and action.

When all resistance in the street was overcome, there still remained the factory, thronged with armed and defiant rioters.  Dilkes ordered the building to be cleared, and Merwyn took his place in the storming party.  We shall not describe the scenes that followed.  It was a strife that differed widely from Lane’s cavalry charge on the lawn of a Southern plantation, with the eyes of fair women watching his deeds.  Merwyn was not taking part with thousands in a battle that would be historic as Strahan and Blauvelt had done at Gettysburg.  Every element of romance and martial inspiration was wanting.  It was merely a life-and-death encounter between a handful of policemen and a grimy, desperate band of ruffians, cornered like rats, and resolved to sell their lives dearly.