the swirling current. Poles and pails and clubs were active. What remained of the wall of barrels came down on the heads of the struggling mass of men. Amid the cursing and screaming and bellowing, the mob clawed at one another; hands or faces or clothes, anywhere and everywhere without distinction. Empty barrels bounced noisily off one struggling head on to another. It was no time for Yamaguchi to be distributing leaflets. Even though he managed to do it, there was no time for the people to pick them up and read them. He tried to put a check on the men, but it was no time for checking. His head was almost wrenched off with the force of a blow on the face. The bulky, square bundle of leaflets concealed around his body got in his way. Again and again he snatched some of them out and threw them at the heads of the jostling crowd. The coarse, rustling papers scattered above the heads and then fluttered everywhere.
Suddenly he was almost knocked over sideways.
“Son of a bitch!”
He stood firm and looked to see what had pushed him. By the dim electric light he saw a thug brandishing, unsheathed, a great Japanese sword, coming towards him. Everyone drew back. A path opened. Like lightning Machida rushed in from the side and threw himself on the thug.
“Look out!” Yamaguchi yelled from the rear, but Machida was deaf to everything. He was soon flattened between the shoulders of the mob and knocked right over. From all directions the
