The Rattle of the Looms

Sun (Christchurch), Volume IV, Issue 960, 9 March 1917, Page 3

The Rattle of the Looms

GRAFTER Xl.—(Continued.)

THE ATTACK ON BRIDGE HOUSE

Faruborough walked briskly down the street. Before raising what might be a false alarm at Bridge House he would first satisfy himself that the hunchback had spoken truth. It meant a rapid walk to intercept the strikers, if they were marching from Tibbitses —a big piece of waste land, that had once been used as a brickfield until the supply of clay ran out. He broke into a run as soon as he left the pavements behind, and in a little while came out on the road that led from Tibbitses to the higher ground beyond Bridge House. Ho looked back towards the opeu country; there was no sign of such a mob as he had expected. He said then that the hunchback had made a mistake, and was on the point of retracing his steps when his ears caught a murmur of sound that checked him. He ran in the opposite direction, and found his suspicions verified alarmingly. A mighty crowd was flocking along the way, not with yells aud clamour, but almost, in silence —a far more terrible thing than Uproar of the noisiest. These men wore determined to find satisfaction for what they called their wrongs, and a great fear beset the foreman as he came within hailing distance of the rear. He could not arrest their progress; they would not listen to him; since he had sided definitely with the forces of law and order he "had been a marked man. He had been insulted on every side. Only the size aud strength of him had saved him from actual violence on more occasions than one. If he retraced his steps and made for the town again, he might warn the police, but time would be lost in organising the men, and this crowd might do incalculable damage before the constabulary arrived. It was plainly his duty to warn Josiah Benson —and thinking this he had a vision of Muriel, white and proud, in the hands of the mob. They would not be inclined to show her mercy; she had been mobbed in the town", subjected to vile insults; women had climbed on the step of her car when it was arrested by a crowd, and had thrust their starving children towards her, demanding her attention.No, they would not show mercy now. He halted; he was gaining too rapidly on the crowd. If they saw him ami suspected his errand they would put it out of his power to convey the warning. There was a low wall beside, the road, beyond it some rough ground. But a man might make a short cut of the fields, by dint of climbing a few walls, and arrive at Bridge House ahead of the mob. He leaped downwards, felt himself shaken in every joint,' recovered, and set off at his fastest pace across the uneven ground. His breath was coming brokenly now; his head pulsed, the cut he had received that morning burst out bleeding afresh, and deluged his face. He took no heed to the circumstances, but hastened on. There were lights ahead, shining from the offices of the big house; but his approach was unchallenged. It had not been expected that' any demonstration would take place that night; the officials held to the opinion that the morning's lesson would have effect.

Famborough opened a gate that led from a narrow road, and entered the back-garden. A dog rushed out at him, barking loudly. He apoke a word, and the animal seemed to recognise him, for it crouched fawningly. He ran to the front of the house and mounted the steps —there were lights showing. The murmur of the approaching mob reached Ms ears as he pi essed the bell, but growing impatient, as there was no immediate response, he turned the handle, and the door shot open. He darted into the hall, and Muriel Benson arose from her seat, a magazine in her hand. He saw the shriek forming on her lips, and sprang towards her. "Your father?" he panted. "Quick, where is he?" She, seeing the blood and mud on his face, merely gasped. He raised his voice as a servant came running from the back premises in reply to the bell. "I must see Mr Benson," he urged sharply. "It's life or death ''

"Well, what is it?" Josiah Benson came through from the dining-room, and in the bright light Famborough saw that his face was pale and aged; it had lost much of its old, fine robustness. The strain was telling on the manufacturer at last.

"The strikers have made it up to attack the house," panted Famborough. "They ari coming now—there's no time to lose. Quick! telephone for the police! " "Coming here, are they? The devils. Then let them come; they've done enough mischief one way and another

"But Miss Benson —yourself;" have you thought?" cried the foreman. ''They're mail, drunk and mad, they're ripe for devilment. Sen I for assistance, quick! Benson appenre I ' ;■.:•; p hold of himself, a (lush of colour runic to his face. lie was remembering that, he was master, whilst, these who came were merely his employees, men who owed their very existence to his bounty. And Bridge House had been his pride in the days that were gone. "What's to do!" he asked with more alertness than lie had hitherto shown. "Wc must take precautions; barricade the windows and doors —call the servants to help. But send for the police at once." Already Famborough was dragging heavy pieces of furniture against the door by which he had entered; and Muriel, seized by a sudden n?ed for action, lent, her slim strength in aid. Benson hastened away to the telephone, and they could hear his voice grjwing increasingly angry as he shouted into the instrument. A moment later he was back in the hall.

"Can't get. any reply—wait a bit." On'e again lie disappeared, the while Fainborough, Muriel, and the maidservants dragged the furniture to such points as promised weakness. They've cut. the wires, the devils!" said Benson, coming back. "Here, you girls, upstairs with you ami get, down the beds; sharp's the word. Barricade tlios? lower windows-—come with me, Fan borough." He led the way upstairs, into big bedrooms, and the mattresses were dragged from the beds and flung down the staircase. All were working as briskly as beavers now, for the need was very urgent. They could hear the

By FRANK H. SHAW, Author of "The Love Tides," "The Bondage of Hate," etc

CHAPTER XII MURDER!

growing roar of the mob boating through the walls of the house. "They're here," said Faruborough, drawing in deep breaths, and as lie spoke a volley of stones crashed against the defended windows; loose glass fell tinkling into the rooms. A jagged flint smashed a mirror close beside Muriel's head. It must have crushed in her forehead but that Faruborough instinctively threw himself against her and hurled her to one side. .

"Where are you going?" he demanded as Benson made for the foot of the stairs.

"I'm going to talk to 'cm; mark my words, I'll give 'em something to think about! " He broke away from the foreman's hand ami dashed upstairs; Faruborough followed closely. Benson threw up a bedroom window and looked out upon a seething, swaying crowd of humanity that seemed to fill the garden

from wall to wall. They were trampling the j-ose-beds to ruin; they had uprootsaplings and shrubs; they poured, a thunderous wave, towards the s.olid stone front. "What do you want?" roared Benson, and at sight of his face a yell of execration broke out from below. Stones flew in clouds, the glass above him was shattered.

"We want you, Josh Benson! Bread for our kids! Down wi' capital, up wi' labour!" The ci'ies were shrill and threatening now. "Is that how you come to ask for favours?" bawled the old man, every hair on his head a-bristle with anger. "Send your representatives peaceably >' Another bellow of rage followed, more stones were flung. A surge of humanity swayed towards the door and beat upon it with clubs. Benson moved away from the window, and Faruborough lifted up his voice in warning. "The police are coming," he shouted. "I advise you to clear out. It will save further trouble." "Who is it?" "Mcester Faruborough!" A chorus of boos and curses greeted the mention of his name. The front door was being beaten down; up above there Faruborough could hear the splintering of timber as the solid wood »ave way. He thought of Muriel in the half below, and trembled with fear. These men were furious with drink and hunger, aud if she fell into their hands He dashed downstairs, to find her standing, calm and white, not far from the noisy door.

"You" must shelter! These men are desperate. If they see you they will do vou an injury." The big oaken wardrobe and ttie dower-chest that had been jammed against the door gave inwards. Farnborough looked about him for a weapon. A curtain-pole had been dragged down in the confusion; he snatched it up and stood in readiness. The furniture moved a little more, the door fell abroad. Pomcono leaped inwards, and was mowed down by a crashing blow, someone followed him. lie in his turn sank to the mosaic flooring as the curtainpole took him squarely, and no others ventured. But, something gleaming and emitting an acrid stench of smoke (lashed inwards, the torch caught a curtain and shrivelled it, the flames leaped swiftly upwards. Farnborough tore the draperies down and stamped them underfoot. He picked up the torch and hurled it whence it had come; the mob swung back with howls. "Get these things shoved back.' The foreman threw himself on the furniture, dragging and thrusting with all his strength. A roar of voices from outside greeted some new announcement on the part of the ringleaders; a servant rushed in to say the strikers were attacking the back premises.» Farnborough rushed through the kitchen, leaving Muriel in the hall, and heard the windows clatter to ruin. But the windows were high, and the servants had piled everything they could heave or lift against the doors; there was no pressing danger there. He went back, in time to see a hiccoughing ruffian leap over the barricade that guarded the ruined door, and seize Muriel Benson in his arms. "Here's th' wench," coughed the man. And he dragged her white, imploring face towards his own. Farnborough, "with every energy behind the blow, struck over Muriel's shoulder, and the man dropped down like a log.

"He—he kissed me!" cried the girl in horror-struck indignation. "Oh! the beast, the cowardly beast!" Famborough dragged the prostrate body of the man he had struck down to the door, lifted it, and thrust it out towards its companions. "I warned you to hide," he said sharply. "Haven't you any sense?" "I—l didn't—think," she said piteously, looking at him with large, frightened eyes. Then she gave a little sob, and lurched forward into his arms. For a second that seemed an eternity of deli rinus delight, he held her so, her face on his shoulder, her weight of sweet womanhood upon his breast. But such mad enchantment could not endure for long. He bor- 3 . her to a couch, in the lounge, where she would be sheltered from the hardly-ceasing volleys of stones, and laid her down. When he straightened himself there was a look on his face such as a Knight of the Round Table might have worn when questing for the Holy Grail. He was no longer merely the loyal servant fighting for his master's good; lie was the lover fighting for the honour and well-being of his lady. In such moments men have risen to great heights. He was ready now to challenge the whole of the raging crowd to combat, one man against a township, but as he started forward with some such intention half-formed in his mind, he heard from above two stunning reports. The crowd swung backwards, yells of fury poured from them; then there was an ugly forward surge. Owd Josh came down the stairs with an oldfashioned double-barrel in his hand; he had discharged it above the heads of the crowd, now he was thrusting fresh cartridges into the breech. "I'll teach them! "he panted. "The dogs, they deserve shooting!" "For heaven's sake, don't shoot" said Famborough, brought down to realities again. '•They'll go mad if you do it —they're ripe for anything."

"Their blood's on their own headsl Where's mj girl?" Farnborough jerked his head towards the lounge, and a

ragged surf of faces showed in the opening of the broken door. Benson threw the gun to his shoulder and pulled the triggers; but as ho fired the foreman dashed the barrels up, and the shot fetched down the plaster from the ceiling. "They'll tear the house down," he said. "You're on their side, you're on their side!" clamoured the old man. Jle was well-nigh beside himself with rage and fear. "Out. you go and join them there's no man stands by me." (To be continued.)