CHAPTER II "Down with the Reds!"

"COME on, Fismes, old boy; you've been with us in more than one pinch and saw us safely through," called Jay a few mornings later to the famous dog of war that he and Dick Monaghan had brought home with them from the North Sea.

Ensigns Thacker and Monaghan, home less than a week, were losing no time. It was only three months until the opening of Brighton Academy for the fall term, and both lads were keen on getting back again to finish their preparatory school courses. A job! That was what they wanted. The chance to earn a few dollars that would go a long way toward seeing them through their final year at Brighton.

Jay was a fatherless lad whose dad had lost his life some years previously in the big shipyard that was one of the major industries of the hustling New England city of Bridgeford. His mother had been able to make things go by reason of a small English estate left her by an aunt, together with an allowance provided by the shipbuilding company. An only sister had made ready money during the war in the central offices. Jay had helped work his way through three years at Brighton and was all set on a college career.

His chum, Dick Monaghan, came of a family of moderate means. Neither lad was averse to good honest toil, and invariably spent the summer recess between school years working in the shipyards at one job or another. Tall, well-built as a result of their athletic training on the football field and in the "gym" at Brighton, they could stack up against the toughest kind of work and get away with it.

Back from war, without funds except for the final pay-off, they were out again for a summer job. The home-coming had been a joyous reunion; hearty handshakes, reminiscences of the long campaign and a friendly succession of "Good work, boys," and "We're proud of you." But the job was now the thing—and the sooner the better for this pair.

"Come on, Fismes, you'll have to help us put this over," sang out Dick, as he swung alongside his chum, and together they set their faces toward the waterfront, with the dog tagging along at their heels.

"Think we'll have any trouble horning in again at the old works," suggested Dick as they elbowed their way along, bowing to various friends whom they chanced to pass.

"Well, they've been laying some of the hands off, according to what I hear," answered Jay. "However, there's no telling until we try; there may be a chance for a couple of retired seadogs."

"Here's hoping," was Dick's optimistic sally.

Soon they were in sight of the familiar old shipyard; the giant steel-framed shipways looming against the sky like monster spider webs; the throbbing rat-tat-tat of the riveting machines borne into their ears with a haunting familiarity.

"Just the same as ever, kiddo," laughed Jay, as he turned to his chum.

"Only bigger and busier than ever finishing up contracts," came the reply.

They were edging toward the main gate, when some one came hurrying up behind and literally threw himself upon the two lads.

"Well, I'll be horn-swaggled if it ain't me good old buddies Jay Thacker and Dick Monaghan," came the precipitous cry. "Mit me, boys, I'm tickled to death to see you all again."

Turning, the Brighton boys found themselves face to face with their old friend, Larry Seymour, one of their old Bridgeford crowd who had gone away into the army early in the war. Larry, the life of the party, who could find fun in a funeral and keep things stirring all the time.

"Hello, Larry," the chums exclaimed in unison, fairly hugging the newcomer. It had been more than two years since they had last met. And what a lot had happened! Larry was in overalls and begrimed with all the firsthand evidences of toil.

"Working in the yard?" asked Dick after the hand-pumping had subsided and they had told somewhat in hurried detail where they had been and what they had been doing since last they were together.

"Am I working? Say, bo, if rivets was railroad spikes I'd have built a line to Mars by way of Venus and all around to the moon again," was the bantering reply.

"Think we can land a job again?" asked Dick.

"Aces beat deuces every time, fellows," was Larry's somewhat flippant reply. "If you guys can't get a job at the works again then the figure of Justice in the courthouse has lost the scales she's been carrying in her good right fist all these years."

Dick and Jay were absorbing some of the optimism of their stout-hearted old friend. They had been a bit dubious about being able to get a job right away; and time meant a whole lot when it was only ninety days or so until the opening of Brighton.

"Montey Brown still boss of the yard?" queried Jay of the newcomer. He referred to Montague Brown, who for years had been yard superintendent of Bridgeford's bustling shipbuilding industry. Brown had told the boys when they went away into the service that their old jobs would be ready for them.

"Bet your life he's still around," was Larry's reassuring reply, to which he added, somewhat facetiously: "Montey couldn't be pried away from Bridgeford Yard by all the king's horses and all the king's men."

In lightning style Seymour traced the activities of the old workshop during the period of his re-employment following the expiration of his army term. During the war, it appeared, the yard had sailed serenely along, turning out new tonnage at a record-breaking clip, particularly vessels and equipment for the United States Navy.

Since the armistice there had come a change over the works. The places of hundreds of men who had gone out into the service had been taken for the most part by workmen of foreign birth. Many of them illiterate and unappreciative of American freedom, they had fallen easy prey to the radical labor leaders who had sprung up within the works like mushrooms growing overnight.

Preaching the doctrines of the Russian Reds, these extremists in economic thought had sown discord among the rank and file of the men, particularly the foreigners, preaching the dictatorship of the proletariat, which meant that the men who work with their hands must be the masters. Jay and Dick heard to their surprise that during the time the brave boys of America had been offering their services, their very lives, for their country, these Bolshevists had been openly plotting against the whole republican plan of American life.

"Secret meetings, wild speeches and all kinds of goings on," muttered Larry. "All the time talking about strikes and walkouts, and even threatening among themselves to take over the whole blamed works and run 'em themselves."

To the two naval veterans, who had always shared a distinctive pride in the big shipyard, this seemed an incredible state of affairs; laborers who had enjoyed fancy wages during the time of the war while millions of loyal Americans were serving abroad now fanning the flames of industrial revolution!

"Looks like there was lots more good work cut out for us fellows right here at home," was Dick's rather caustic comment.

"You bet your life there is, and we are getting back on the job just in time so far as I can see," was Larry's rejoinder, as he went on to relate some of the later developments in the yard's labor situation. Only the previous night, it appeared, the strike leaders, in a long and noisy meeting, had decided to submit their claims forthwith for a seven-hour day and a forty percent increase in wages.

"Things are likely to open up right lively then on a moment's notice," remarked Dick.

"No telling when and what them bullshevicks is liable to pull off," offered Seymour.

By now the trio had arrived before the main gate of the yard. Old Bill Cavanaugh, the veteran watchman, recognized the two Brighton boys in an instant and gave them a hearty welcome. No need for a pass here, since no more popular boys had ever passed the gate than Dick and Jay. Fismes, too, got by with a wag of his tail.

"Hello, what's this," whistled Larry, as he directed attention across the yard to an open space fronting the administration building. Three or four score men, riggers, riveters, yard laborers of all kinds, were swaying to and fro around one who seemed buffeted about like a huge cork in a mountain brook. Loud cries, angry voices, mingled oaths and the strident tones of inflamed speakers rent the air. They seemed to be venting their anger on the lone figure in the midst of the turbulent group.

"Looks like a sure enough riot," surmised Dick.

The three youths came to a dead stop eager to get a line on what was going on and to make out if possible what it was all about.

"Let's move up closer and get an earful," suggested Dick. At once the trio headed across the yard toward the scene of trouble.

"Likely more of this Red stuff," Seymour was saying. Hardly had the words escaped his lips before the demonstration, indeed, became a regular riot. With one accord, it seemed, the crowd closed in upon the beleaguered one in their midst. Louder and louder grew their voices. Cries of "Punch the stiff!" and "Soak him!" could be heard at this distance.

"Looks like rough stuff here, boys," cried Dick, alarmed at the antics of the crowd and fearful for the fate of the lone figure whose face was lost in the pack of swirling humanity.

"And just about time that we took a hand in it; what do you say, boys?" came Jay's response.

"With you all the way," replied the other two.

Suiting action to words, Jay broke into a run, closely followed by Dick and Larry, with Fismes flying at their heels, barking furiously.

Like a flying wedge the trio of sturdy war veterans descended upon the wrangling mob. Coming closer, the boys found the central figure in the mass now defending himself against clenched fists that were reaching out from every direction, trying to land blows on his face and body. He was a stalwart man of middle age who was hammering back blow for blow now against the heavy odds pressing against him.

"Into them, fellows; lay it on thick," yelled Jay as he flung himself on the outer rim of rioters.

Bang! Biff! Crack! Three flying figures, two of them in the uniform of the Navy, the third in blue, begrimed overalls, waded into the mass before them. Right and left they swung on their opponents, a snarling canine at their heels leaping with them into the midst of the mêlée.

"Give it to them, fellows," roared Larry above the tumult as he laid out a greasy looking six-foot brute with a right uppercut under the chin, and followed suit with a smashing solar plexus on the abdomen of another towering belligerent.

In another moment the fighting trio had cleaved a lane clear through the rioters to the side of that one lone figure who was still standing his ground. One swarthy and bewhiskered rioter who seemed to be the leader of the workmen was pummeling his victim with smashing blows.

"This for you," bellowed Jay as he let loose with a terrific right arm swing full in the face. Down he went with a grunt of rage. Jay leaped to get another of the ring-leaders, but ere he landed the furry figure of a great dog flashed through the air, full upon Jay's intended victim. With a snarl of rage the animal set his teeth in the left leg of the surprised foreigner.

"Bully for you, Fismes," cried Dick, as he closed with another antagonist.

The fight lasted not more than a minute. Two bronzed navy veterans, an ex-soldier with a fine record and a good old dog who had sense enough to stick with his friends against any odds—they were more than a match for a bunch of rioting strikers. Back fell the crowd before the fierce onslaught, scattering right and left, but not quick enough to evade the mounted shipyard police who came up on the gallop, swinging riot clubs with telling effect.

With their backs to the rescued, the rescuers stood their ground until order had been restored. Only then did they turn to the man they had saved against the wrath of the mob.

"Well, of all things, our old friend Montey Brown," cried Jay in surprise, recognizing at once the yard superintendent!

"Jay Thacker! And Dick Monaghan! Did you ever? And Larry Seymour," exclaimed the veteran official, bruised and battered, but smiling through it all.