The rioters seemed
triumphant. Then Coleman's brigade fell upon them.
Whack, whack, whack, fell the pick-handles upon the backs, shoulders,
sometimes heads of rioters. It was like a systematic tattoo. Coleman's
voice was heard directing, here and there, cool and dispassionate. A
couple of locomotive headlights threw their glare upon the now
disordered gangsters. Whack! Whack! Whack!
Suddenly the rioters, bleating, panic-stricken, fled like frightened
sheep. They scattered in every direction leader*-less, completely
routed. The fire engines resumed work. An ambulance came up and the work
of attending the wounded began. The fight was over.
CHAPTER LXVII
DENNIS KEARNEY
Weeks went by and brought no further outbreak. Chinatown which, for a
time, was shuttered, fortified, almost deserted, once again resumed its
feverish activities. In the theaters, funny men made jokes about the
labor trouble. In the East strikes had abated. All seemed safe and
orderly again.
But San Francisco had yet to deal with Dennis Kearney.
Dennis, born in County Cork just thirty years before, filled adventurous
roles since his eleventh year, mostly on the so-called "hell-ships"
which beat up and down the mains of trade.
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