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"They've smashed the barricades," a boy from a telegraph pole called
out.
Duff and his men fought to hold their places, but they became conscious
of a steady pressure backwards.
"What's doing now, boy?" shouted Duff to the urchin clinging to the
telegraph pole.
"The fusileers--they are sticking their bayonets into them."
Before the line of bayonets the crowd retreated slowly, but Duff and his
company held their ground, allowing the crowd to ebb past them, until
they found themselves against the line of bayonets.
"Let me through here, sergeant, with my party," said Duff. "I'm under
orders of Colonel Kavanagh."
The sergeant, an old British army man, looked them over.
"Have you an order, sir--a written order, I mean?"
"No," said Duff. "I haven't, but the colonel expects us. He is waiting
for me now."
"Sorry, sir," replied the sergeant, "my orders are to let no one through
without a written pass."
Duff argued, stormed, threatened, swore; but to no purpose. The N. C. O.


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