ted every block with stuff rangin'
in tensile strength from insults to asphalt pavements, and
noise!--say, all the racket in the world was a whisper. I caught a
glimpse of the old man leanin' out of the pilot house, where a window
had been, his white hair bristly, and his nostrils h'isted,
embellishin' the air with surprisin' flights of gleeful profanity.

"'Hooray! this is livin' he yells, spyin' me shovelin' the deck out
from under the junk. 'Best scrap I've had in years,' and just then
some baseball player throwed in from centre field, catching him in
the neck with a tomato. Gee! that man's an honour to the faculty of
speech.

"I was doin' bully till a cobble-stone bounced into the engine room,
makin' a billiard with my off knee, then I got kind of peevish.

"Rush Street Bridge is the last one, and they'd massed there on both
sides, like fleas on a razorback. Thinks I, 'If we make it through
here, we've busted the strike,' and I glances back at the 'Detroit'
just in time to see her crew pullin' their captain into the deck
house, limp and bleedin'. The barricade was all knocked to pieces
and they'd flunked absolute. Don't blame 'em much either, as it was
sure death to stand out in the open under the rain of stuff that come
from the bridges. Of course with no steerin' she commenced to swing
off.

"I jumps out the far side of the engine room and yells fit to bust my
throat.

"'Grab that wheel! Grab it quick--we'll hit the bridge,' but it was
like deef and dumb talk in a boiler shop, while a wilder howl went up
from the water front as they seen what they'd done and smelled
victory. There's an awfulness about the voice of a blood-maddened
club-swingin' mob; it lifts your scalp like a fright wig,
particularly if you are the clubee.

"'We've got one chance,' thinks I, 'but if she strikes we're gone.
They'll swamp us sure, and all the police in Cook County won't save
enough for to hold services on.' Then I throwed a look at the
opening ahead and the pessimisms froze in me.

"I forgot all about the resiliency of brickbats and the table manners
of riots, for there, on top of a bunch of spiles, ca'm, masterful and
bloated with perjuries, was Oily Heegan dictatin' the disposition of
his forces, the light of victory in his shifty, little eyes.

"'Ten dollars and costs,' I shrieks, seein' red. 'Lemme crawl up
them spiles to you.'

"Then inspiration seized me. My soul riz up and grappled with the
crisis,