may have to fire, Drummond," says the colonel, coolly. "Get in
rear of your company." Obedient, the tall lieutenant turns and follows
his chief along the front of his advancing line so as to pass around
the flank. He is not fifty paces from the pile on which the mob
leader, with half a dozen half-drunken satellites, is shouting his
exhortations. Just as the lieutenant's arm is grazing grim old Feeny's
elbow as he passes the first sergeant's station a brick comes hurtling
through the air, strikes full upon the back of the officer's
unprotected head, and sends him, face forward, into the muddy street.
In the yell of triumph that follows, Wing's voice for an instant is
unheard. Obedient to its principle, "Never load until about to fire,"
the battalion's carbines are still empty, but all on a sudden "C"
troop halts. "With ball cartridges _load_!" is Wing's hoarse, stern
order. "Now aim low when I give the word. _Fire by company._
_Company_, READY!" and, like one, the hammers click. But no
command "Aim" follows. "Look out! Look out!--For God's sake don't
fire! Out of the way!" are the frantic yells from the throats of the
mob. Away they go. Scattering down side streets, alley-ways, behind
lumber-piles, everywhere--anywhere. Many even throw themselves flat on
their faces to escape the expected tempest of lead. "Don't fire," says
the colonel, mercifully. "Forward, double time, and give them the
butt. We'll support you." Down from the lumber-piles come the
erstwhile truculent leaders. "Draw cartridge, men," orders Wing in
wrath and disappointment. "Now, butts to the front, and give them
hell. _Forward!_" And out he leaps to take the lead, dashing straight
into the thick of the scattering mob, his men after him. There is a
minute of wild yelling, cursing, of resounding blows and trampling
feet, and in the midst of it all a single shot, and when Wing,
breathless, is finally halted two squares farther on, only a dozen
broken-headed wretches remain along the street to represent the
furious mob that confronted them a few minutes before. Only these few
and one writhing, bleeding form, around which half a dozen policemen
are curiously gathered, and at whose side the battalion surgeon has
just knelt.

"He's shot through and through," is his verdict, presently. "No power
can save him. Who is he?"

"About the worst and most dangerous ringleader of riot this town has
known, sir," is the answer of one of the police officials. "No one
k