"Volunteers wanted for dangerous service."
His discouraging form of statement did not dismay all of the company before him. At least fifty men stepped forward at the call.
"Take your pick," said Coleman with a wave of his hand. "If they haven’t revolvers, I will supply them. You’d better take the clubs for ordinary service."
I selected a score of men whose faces showed vigor and determination, looked to their arms, directed them to the pile of pick-handles, and when each man had satisfied himself of the virtue of his weapon by knocking down an imaginary enemy, I led the way to the street.
"Where are we going?" asked one of the men with the easy familiarity of the volunteer.
"Secret service," I replied. "Don’t make any more noise than you have to." If we were to arrest the conspirators without bloodshed it was necessary to take them by surprise, and we approached their meeting-place with as much caution as I could contrive.
The House of Blazes blinked more furtively than ever on the darkness. The outer door was but half opened, and the lights within burned but dimly. Yet a faint murmur that thrilled the air gave warning of many voices in converse, and stray gleams of light from the shuttered windows above bore ample witness to the fact that there was hidden activity in the den of the revolutionists.
I posted a number of men in position to prevent escape through the windows, and instructed the remainder to await my signal outside the main entrance. Then pushing open the swinging door, I entered the saloon.
The long room was almost deserted. A man in an apparent stupor sat with his head on a table in the dim light at the farther end of the place. Another lay on a bench snoring in drowsy intoxication. A short, round-faced young fellow with a dirty white apron stood behind the bar, and looked up with cheerful expectancy as I entered.
"Take me to the Council," I said peremptorily. "I am just from Mr. Parks."
"The Council!" stammered the man. "I don’t--I don’t know what you mean."
At the sound of my voice, the fat pasty face of H. Blasius appeared through the doorway at the right of the bar.
"Ah, Meestaire--Meestaire--friend of Park," he said, recognizing me and coming forward. "I salute a brozaire in arms." And he would have embraced me but for my nimbleness in avoiding his odious clutch.