Mr. Bardolph I saw in person, a very pompous gentleman with manners the reverse of polite. He could scarcely contain his outraged feelings when it came to the question of the solicitor. "I can have no connection with such a case," he said firmly, and I again retired, feeling quite disreputable.

My next defeat occurred in the chambers of Mr. Anthony C. Frazer. No sooner did my eyes fall on that gentleman than I regretted my entry, and the utter hopelessness of my mission was borne in upon my mind, for I was beginning to realise the difficulties of the situation and to scent failure in the very air. Mr. Frazer requested me to be seated and eyed me curiously, as though I were some queer zoological specimen recently escaped from captivity, and listened with an incredulous smile to my narrative. He did not even wait for the missing solicitor. "This is scarcely in my line, madam," he said, rising. "You have certainly made some mistake." And he left his clerk to accompany me to the door.

I descended the stairs from this gentleman's chambers feeling distinctly crestfallen and tired, and at my wits' ends as to where next to go, when, turning the corner into another court, I became aware of rapid footsteps in my pursuit, and next moment I was overtaken by the youth who had ushered me out from the scene of my last defeat.

"I think, miss," he began, "that I can direct you to a—er—barrister who would just do for your business. On no account say that I recommended you to him, or you will get me into trouble. But you try Mr. Curtis in Brick Court. He undertakes the defence of burglars and swindlers and all sorts of people, and you'll find him cheap and satisfactory."

I thanked the youth, and although this did not strike me as altogether the most promising introduction, I thought it best to try my luck in this new direction, and, having at length discovered the house, I ascended the three rickety flights of stairs which led to Mr. Curtis's apartment and entered.

This Curtis was a small, wizened old man, of obsolete cut, but with remarkably up-to-date manners, and a pair of keen little eyes, penetrating as Roentgen rays. His hair was weedy, and his clothes snuffy and ill-fitting; but spite of this there was something uncommonly brisk and wide awake about the little man, and a certain business-like directness in his manner which impressed me favourably. I felt hopeful at once.

One of the first remarks he addressed to me—for we primarily discussed the financial aspect of his services—struck me by reason of its uncompromising common sense. "Five guineas down and another three next Tuesday, miss, and I make no inquiry where the money comes from," he said, "not so long as it is the current coin of the realm and paid punctually. Without this, however, I cannot undertake or proceed with the case."

On my immediately producing the required sum he requested me to be seated, and sitting down opposite me himself, he asked me for full particulars of the case. These I gave him to the best of my ability and he took notes.

The question of witnesses he tackled with the same uncompromising lack of veneer which had characterised his remarks on the money question. "Witnesses to character and so forth must be found," he said, "the more authentic and reputable the better, but at all costs they must be procured. Whom can you suggest?"

I confessed that I could for the moment think of nobody.

"You will think of somebody," he replied persuasively, "you must remember somebody," and there was that in his voice which did not brook or encourage contradiction, "some one in a respectable position, of course," he continued, "a man pursuing one of the liberal professions, or a business man of means. Plenty of doctors and professional men among your people, are there not? The evidence of such a man would carry weight. The court's belief in a witness's veracity is, generally speaking, proportionate to his means. Doubtless you will be able to think of a desirable man ... who knows the prisoners," he added, rapidly turning over his notes, and speaking in such a manner as to convey to me the idea that the exact extent of the witness's knowledge of the prisoners was not of any very great consequence, so long as he was prepared to swear to their respectability, and that his banking account and general appearance were satisfactory.

"I will look round and let you know the result to-morrow," I answered.

"Good," replied Curtis, "two witnesses at least, and men of position and education at all costs. Good afternoon."

I had enough to do during the remainder of the day in finding those witnesses, but found they were at last, though not without a tremendous effort on my part and some considerable degree of ingenuity. When attired in some of my brother Raymond's discarded clothes, and produced for Curtis's inspection the following day, they really made a respectable couple, and I felt proud of them—one a physician of superior accomplishments and aristocratic appearance, the other a master-tailor, of prosperous if not very distingue presence. I likewise discovered a cabman who had been present in Hyde Park at an allegedly incriminating speech made by Banter; and on jogging his memory with a little whisky he distinctly recalled several points valuable to the defence.

Up till the very day of the trial my time was kept well occupied with such errands. Indeed, remarkable as the fact may appear, practically the whole labour of preparing the defence devolved upon me.

It was neither an easy nor a very encouraging task. The greater number of the English Anarchists mysteriously disappeared at this approach of danger. Mindful of the truth of the axiom that discretion is the better part of valour, A thought it well to suddenly recollect his duties towards his family; B discovered that he had a capacious stomach, which required feeding; C, that the Anarchist policy was in discord with his own true principles. At such a moment, therefore, and surrounded, or rather unsurrounded by such men, the task in front of me was not easy, and in the actual state of public opinion it was not very hopeful either.

Public feeling was against the Anarchists. So long as violence and outrage had been reserved entirely for the benefit of foreign climes, the British public had regarded the Anarchists with tolerance and equanimity. But the mysterious death of Myers had alarmed and disquieted it, and heavy sentences were generally invoked against the prisoners.

That the whole conspiracy was a got-up affair between Jacob Myers and the police was evident. Neither Banter nor O'Flynn was a dangerous man; a little loud and exaggerated talk was the utmost extent of their harmfulness. Neither of them was any better capable of making a bomb than of constructing a flying-machine, and they were less capable of throwing it than of flying. But political detectives would have a slow time of it in this country unless they occasionally made a vigorous effort on their own behalf, and an unscrupulous and impecunious man like Myers proved a valuable tool to help such gentlemen along, and fools of the Banter type suitable victims.

And thus it was that these two men now found themselves in the dock with twelve serious-minded tradesmen sitting in solemn conclave to consider their crimes.

The trial itself was a ridiculous farce. Jacob Myers, who would have been the one witness of any importance, was not subpoenaed; he had in fact discreetly quitted the country under his wife's escort. The police, with imperturbable gravity, brought ginger-beer bottles into court which had been found in O'Flynn's apartment, and which, they averred, could be converted into very formidable weapons of offence. Many gaseous speeches made by the prisoners, or attributed to them, were solemnly brought up against them, and a shudder ran through the court at the mention of such phrases as "wholesale assassination" and "war to the death."

The evidence, however, sufficed to impress the jury with the extreme gravity of the case and to alarm the public, and the prisoners were found guilty.

I well recollect the last day of the trial, which I attended throughout in more or less remote regions of the Old Bailey, recruiting recalcitrant witnesses, sending food in to the defendants, &c. Two other cases were being tried at the same time, one of which was a particularly revolting murder, for which three persons were on trial. The prisoners' relatives were waiting below in a state of painful excitement. "Guilty or not guilty," was on all their lips, "release or penal servitude, life or death, which was it to be?" Friends were constantly running in and out of the court giving the women news of the progress of the trials. "It is looking black for the prisoners!" "There is more hope!" "There is no hope!" and finally "guilty" in all the cases was reported. The wife of a horrible German murderer who had strangled his employer's wife, while a female accomplice played the piano to divert her children's attention from her cries, swooned away at the news. O'Flynn's old mother went into hysterics and became quite uncontrollable in her grief when, a few minutes later the news, "Five years' penal servitude," was brought down.



CHAPTER V

TO THE RESCUE

The first weeks of my experience in the Anarchist camp had flown by with astounding rapidity. The chapter of my experiences had opened with the expulsion of an alleged spy and agent provocateur, and had closed with a sentence of penal servitude passed on two of my new-found comrades. Between these two terminal events I seemed to have lived ages, and so I had, if, as I hold, experience counts for more than mere years. Holloway and Newgate, Slater's Mews and the Middle Temple, barristers and solicitors, judges and juries and detectives; appointments in queer places to meet queer people—all this had passed before me with the rapidity of a landscape viewed from the window of an express train; and now that the chapter had closed, I found that it was but the preface to the real business I had set my shoulder to.

The morning after the conclusion of the trial I met Armitage by appointment, and together we wended our way towards Slater's Mews. The doctor was preoccupied, and for some minutes we proceeded in silence; the problem of what to do with the Bomb was evidently weighing on his mind. At last he spoke: "It is our duty," he said, "to see that the movement be not unduly crippled by the loss of these two men. Poor fellows, they are doing their duty by the Cause, and we must not shirk ours. The Bomb must be kept going at all costs; we can ill afford to lose two workers just now, but the loss of the paper would be a yet more severe blow to our movement. How thankful I am that you are with us! It is always so. The governments think to crush us by imprisoning or murdering our comrades, and for one whom they take from us ten come to the fore. I am sure you must agree with me as to the paper."

"I quite agree with you in the main," I replied, "but I fear that the Bomb itself is past hope. It strikes me it had got into somewhat bad hands, and I fear it would be useless to try to set it on its feet again. It is hardly fair to a paper to give it a Jacob Myers for editor. Really it seems to me to have died a natural death. The entire staff has disappeared—Myers, the editor; Banter, the publisher; O'Flynn, the printer—who remains? where are the others? It seems to me they have all vanished and left no trace behind."

"Oh, that is hardly the case, I think," said the doctor in a tone of deprecation. "I went up to the office last night and found Short sleeping on the premises."

"Short? Is not he the man whom I first saw wrapped in the red flag of glory?"

"Yes, that is the man; perhaps his appearance is somewhat disadvantageous, but he is constant to the Cause, anyhow."

"Well, I should not have thought him much of a staff to lean on; still, appearances are often deceptive. But, anyhow, do you not think it would be advisable to start a new paper, rather than to attempt to galvanise a corpse?"

"The idea would not be a bad one; in fact I think you are right, quite right," returned Armitage. "It is not wise to put new wine into old skins. Anyhow, here we are, I dare say other comrades have mustered in the office who will have something to say in the matter."

We had now reached our destination, and passing the curious scrutiny of several cabmen and scavengers assembled at the entrance of the mews, we prepared to ascend the break-neck ladder leading to the office. I had but put my foot on the first step when I heard the loud yelping of a dog followed by a string of oaths, and the office door opened, emitting a tall brawny man in shirt-sleeves with a very red face and close-cropped hair, who appeared holding out at arm's length a pair of tongs which gripped some repulsive-looking fronts and collars. On seeing me, he exclaimed, "Take care," and proceeded to drop the objects on a heap of rubbish below. We were both somewhat surprised at this apparition, but realised without difficulty that the office was still in the possession of the police. They were, in fact, contrary to the doctor's expectation, the sole occupants of the place. The comrades had not seen fit so far to muster round the paper. To say there was none, however, is an injustice, for there on the sofa, still huddled in the red flag, lay Short, apparently little affected by what had taken place since I last saw him. He had been aroused from his slumbers by the yelping of his dog, whose tail had been trodden on by one of the detectives, and he had raised himself on his elbow, and was looking round, uttering curses volubly. He nodded slightly on seeing us enter, but did not change his position. There he lay, quite heroic in his immovable sloth; of all the many fighters he alone remained staunch at his post; and that because he was positively too lazy to move away from it.

Dr. Armitage on entering had gone up to one of the three detectives and spoken to him, and the man now turned to me.

"We are just having a final look round before leaving, miss," he remarked. "It is not at all pleasant work, I assure you, to be put in to search such a filthy place. Look there," he exclaimed, pointing at the recumbent Short with his outstretched tongs. "I shall have to burn every rag I have on when it is over, and I'd advise you to be careful," and he resumed his occupation, which consisted in raking out some old papers, while his two companions, having contrived to resume an official appearance, prepared to leave.

The police once gone Dr. Armitage and I found ourselves in sole possession of the office and the lethargic Short. It was no sinecure, to be sure. Heaps of "pie," some due to the police and some to Banter, who previous to his arrest had put his foot through several "forms" which it was inadvisable to let fall into the hands of the police, encumbered the floor. Everything was intensely chaotic and intensely dirty, from the type cases and the other scanty belongings to the dormant compositor. Armitage understood nothing of printing and I very little, and there we stood in the midst of a disorganised printing-office whence all had fled save only the unsavoury youth on the couch. I looked at Armitage and Armitage looked at me, and such was the helpless dismay depicted in our faces that we both broke into a laugh.

"Well," I said at last, "what shall we do? Suggest something. We cannot stay on here."

"The only thing I can think of," he rejoined after a pause, "is that I should go around and look up some of the comrades at their addresses whilst you remain here and get Short to help you put up the type, &c., as best you can, so that we may remove it all elsewhere. Here certainly nothing can be done and we must start our new paper amidst new surroundings."

"So you are thinking of starting a new paper?"

We looked round, surprised at this interruption, for Short had apparently returned to his slumbers, but we now saw that he had emerged from the banner and was standing behind us, fully dressed (I discovered later on that he had discarded dressing and undressing as frivolous waste of time), a queer uncouth figure with his long touzled black hair and sallow, unhealthy face. He had a short clay pipe firmly set between his teeth, and his large lips were parted in a smile. He held his head slightly on one side, and his whole attitude was somewhat deprecatory and cringing.

"Well," said the doctor, "Isabel and I think that would be the best plan. You see the Bomb seems thoroughly disorganised, and we think it would be easier and better to start afresh. I was just saying that I would go round and hunt up some of the comrades and get their views on the subject."

"Oh," rejoined Short, "you can save yourself that trouble. One half of them will accuse you of being a police spy, the others will be ill or occupied—in short, will have some excuse for not seeing you. They are all frightened out of their lives. Since the arrest of Banter and O'Flynn I have not seen one of them near the place, though I have been here all the time."

This remark confirmed what we both half suspected; and as Short, who by right of possession seemed authorised to speak on behalf of the Bomb, seemed willingly to fall in with our idea of starting a new paper, taking it for granted—which I was not exactly prepared for—that he would install himself in the new premises as compositor, we decided to take practical steps towards the move. Short informed us that six weeks' rent was owing, and that the landlord threatened a distraint if his claims were not immediately satisfied; and in spite of the advice, "Don't pay rent to robber landlords," which stared us in the face, inscribed in bright red letters on the wall, I and Armitage between us sacrificed the requisite sum to the Cause.

Whilst we were discussing these matters the dog warned us by a prolonged bark that some one was approaching, and the new-comer soon appeared. He greeted Short, who introduced him to us as Comrade M'Dermott. He shot a scrutinising glance at us from his keen grey eyes and proceeded to shake hands with friendly warmth.

He was a very small man, certainly not more than five feet high, thin and wiry, with grey hair and moustache, but otherwise clean-shaven. His features were unusually expressive and mobile from his somewhat scornful mouth to his deep-set, observant eyes, and clearly denoted the absence of the stolid Saxon strain in his blood. His accent too, though not that of an educated man, was quite free from the hateful Cockney twang. His dress was spare as his figure, but though well worn there was something spruce and trim about his whole demeanour which indicated that he was not totally indifferent to the impression he created on others. He looked round the "office," took a comprehensive glance at Short, who was occupying the only available stool and smoking hard with a meditative air, and then walked over to me, and addressing me in an undertone, with the same ease as if he had known me all my life, he said, with a twinkle in his eye, jerking his head in the direction of Short, "There's a rotten product of a decaying society, eh?" This remark was so unexpected and yet so forcibly true, that I laughed assent.

"So you're the only ones up here," he continued. "I expected as much when I heard of the raid on the office. I was up in the North doing a little bit of peddling round the country, when I read the news, and I thought I'd come to London to see what was up. What do you think of doing with the paper anyway? It seems a pity the old Bomb should die. It would mean the loss of the only revolutionary organ in England."

"Oh, it must not die," I replied, "or at least if it cannot be kept up, another paper must take its place. Comrade Armitage agrees with me in thinking that that would be the best plan. You see this place looks altogether hopeless."

Armitage, who had been engaged in looking over some papers, now joined us and the conversation became general.

"Well, how did you get on up North?" inquired Short, who seemed to wake up to a sense of actuality. "How did you hit it off with young Jackson? Did you find him of much use?"

"Use!" retorted M'Dermott with an infinite depth of scorn in his voice. "A fat lot of use he was. If it was a matter of putting away the grub, I can tell you he worked for two, but as to anything else, he made me carry his pack as well as my own, on the pretext that he had sprained his ankle, and his only contribution to the firm was a frousy old scrubbing-brush which he sneaked from a poor woman whilst I was selling her a ha'p'orth of pins. He seemed to think he'd done something mighty grand—'expropriation' he called it; pah, those are your English revolutionists!" and he snorted violently.

Short gave vent to an unpleasing laugh. He always seemed to take pleasure at any proof of meanness or cowardice given by his fellows. Armitage looked pained. "Such things make us long for the Revolution," he said. "This rotten society which breeds such people must be swept away. We must neglect no means to that end, and our press is one. So now let's set to work to move the plant and start a new paper, as we seem all agreed to that plan. Who'll go and look for a suitable workshop?"

Short volunteered, but M'Dermott scouted the idea, declaring that the mere sight of him would be enough to frighten any landlord, and this we all, including Short, felt inclined to agree with. At last we decided to fall in with M'Dermott's suggestion that he and I should sally forth together. "You see, my dear," he said with almost paternal benevolence, "you will be taken for my grand-daughter and we shall soften the heart of the most obdurate landlord."

The field of our researches was limited by a few vital considerations. The rent must not be high. For the present anyhow, the expenses of the paper would have to be defrayed by Armitage and myself. Short had proposed himself as printer and compositor, on the tacit understanding of free board and lodging, and the right to make use of the plant for his own purposes; I was willing to give my time to the material production of the paper, and to contribute to its maintenance to the best of my ability; and Armitage's time and means were being daily more and more absorbed by the propaganda, to the detriment of his practice; but he was not of those who can palter with their conscience. The individual initiative inculcated by Anarchist principles implied individual sacrifices. Another consideration which limited our choice was that the office must be fairly central, and not too far from my home, as, spite of my enthusiasm for Anarchy, I could not wholly neglect household duties. We talked over these points as we walked along, and M'Dermott suggested Lisson Grove, where a recent epidemic of smallpox had been raging, as likely to be a fairly cheap neighbourhood, but after tramping about and getting thoroughly weary, we had to acknowledge that there was nothing for us in that quarter. We were both hungry and tired, and M'Dermott suggested a retreat to a neighbouring Lockhart's. Seated before a more than doubtful cup of tea, in a grimy room, where texts stared at us from the walls, we discussed the situation, and decided to inquire about a workshop which we saw advertised, and which seemed promising. Our destination led us out of the slummy wilderness into which we had strayed, into cleaner and more wholesome quarters, and at last we stopped before some quite imposing-looking premises. "We seem destined to consort with the cabbing trade," I remarked; "the last office was over a mews, this place seems to belong to a carriage-builder." There was, however, no other connection between the unsavoury mews and the aristocratic carriage-yard, whose proprietor, resplendent in side-whiskers and a shiny chimney-pot hat, advanced to meet us, a condescending smile diffusing his smug countenance. I explained to him our object, and he showed us over the shop, which consisted in a large loft, well lighted and fairly suitable, at the back of the premises.

In answer to Mr. White's inquiries, I informed him that I needed it as a printing-office, for a small business I had, and he quite beamed on me, evidently considering me a deserving young person, and expressed the opinion that he had no doubt I should get on in that neighbourhood.

M'Dermott, who was greatly enjoying the fun of the situation, here broke in: "Yes, sir, my grand-daughter deserves success, sir; she's a hardworking girl, is my poor Emily," and here he feigned to wipe away a tear, whilst casting a most mischievous side-glance at me.

"Dear, dear, very affecting, I'm sure," muttered the prosperous carriage-builder.

Everything was soon satisfactorily settled. I gave him my name and address, and that of my brother's Socialist friend as a reference, and we agreed that I should move in on the following Monday morning.

Great was the amusement at Slater's Mews at the account of our adventures, given with a few enlargements by M'Dermott. He had an artist's soul, and would never consent to destroy the effect of a tale by slavish subservience to facts.

"Well, I fear he will find he has taken in wolves in sheep's clothing," Armitage remarked; "anyhow, I am thankful that matter is settled and that we can get to work without further delay. I met Kosinski, and he has promised to give us a hand with the move. I shall not be able to be here all the time as I have to attend an operation on Monday, but I will put in an hour or two's work in the morning. I suppose I can get in if I come here at five on Monday morning?" he said turning to Short who was "dissing pie," his inseparable clay pipe still firmly set between his yellow and decayed teeth.

"Oh, yes. I shan't be up, but you can get in," the latter surlily remarked. He was evidently no devotee of early hours.

On Monday a hard day's work awaited me. At Slater's Mews I found the poor doctor, who had already been there some two hours, packing up the literature, tying up forms, and occasionally turning to Short for instruction or advice.

The latter, seated on a packing-case, was regaling himself on a bloater and cheesecakes, having disposed of which he took up a flute and played some snatches of music-hall melodies. He seemed quite unconcerned at what took place around him, contenting himself with answering Armitage's questions. Soon after I arrived on the scene Kosinski appeared. It was the first time I had seen him since the memorable evening at Chiswick, and I felt a little nervous in his presence, overcome by a half-guilty fear lest he should think I was merely dallying, not working in true earnest. I was conscious of my own sincerity of purpose, yet feared his mental verdict on my actions, for I now realised that his uncompromising words and scathing denunciation of dilettanteism had had much to do with my recent conduct; more than all Armitage's enthusiastic propagandising, much as I liked, and, indeed, admired the latter. Kosinski shook hands with Armitage and Short. The latter had stepped forward and assumed an air of unwonted activity, having pulled off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves, and there he stood hammering up a form and whistling "It ain't all Lavender" —very appropriate verses, considering the surroundings. The Russian merely recognised my presence with a slight bow, not discourteous, but characterised by none of the doctor's encouraging benevolence; I, however, felt more honoured than snubbed, and worked away with a will.

"Well, I must be going," said Armitage; "it is nearly ten, and at half-past eleven I have an appointment at a patient's house. You will stay, won't you, Kosinski, and help our comrades to move the plant?"

"I will do what I can," replied the Russian. "I do not understand printing, but I will wheel the barrow, and do anything I may be told."

"That's right. Well, good luck to you, comrades. I will try and get round about five. I suppose you will then be at the new place?"

"Oh, yes," I replied, "you will be in time to help us get things ship-shape."

"Well, good-bye, Isabel; good-bye, comrades," and he was off.

For some time we all worked with a will. Kosinski was set to stowing away the literature in packing-cases. Short "locked up" forms and "dissed" pie, and I busied myself over various jobs. M'Dermott had come round, and he stood at my elbow discussing the propaganda and the situation generally. He was much rejoiced at the turn matters were taking on the Continent, and deplored the lukewarmness of English Anarchists. "You cannot have a revolution without revolutionists," was a favourite phrase of his, and he was at no trouble to conceal his opinion of most of the comrades. I was as yet too new to the movement and too enthusiastic to endorse all his expressions, but the little man was congenial to me; his Irish wit made him good company, and there was an air of independent self-reliance about him that appealed to me.

"That Kosinski's a good fellow," he continued. "He knows what Revolution means. Not but what there is good material in England too, but it is raw material, ignorant and apathetic, hoodwinked and bamboozled by the political humbugs."

"Have you known Kosinski long?" I inquired, interrupting him, for I saw he was fairly started on a long tirade.

"Oh, some seven years," he replied. "He was over here in '87 at the time of the unemployed riots; he and I were at the bottom of a lot of that movement, and we should have had all London in revolt had it not been for the palaver and soft-soap of the official labour-leaders. After that he went to America, and has only been back in England some six months."

Our preparations were now well advanced, and M'Dermott and I set out to procure a barrow whereon to transport our belongings.

I had expected on my return to find everything in readiness. Short had spoken as if he would work wonders, and I had hoped that within an hour we should be off. What was my surprise, then, to find that during the half-hour of my absence a change had come o'er the scene. Instead of the noise of the mallet locking up forms, the melodious notes of a flute greeted my ear as I approached the office, and I must confess that my heart sank, though I was not yet prepared for the truth. On entering I found things just as I had left them, not a whit more advanced, but Short was again seated, and opposite him lounged the weak-kneed youth whom I had noted on the occasion of my first group-meeting, Simpkins by name, as I had since found out; between them stood the small hand-press which Short had promised to take to pieces for removal, on the "bed" of which now stood three bottles of ginger-beer, a parcel of repulsive and indigestible-looking pastry, and a packet of tobacco. My look of dismay and surprise was answered by Short, who explained that his friend had come up, bringing with him the wherewithal for this carouse; which statement Simpkins supplemented by the information that he had been occupied that week in "planting" an aunt and possessing himself of his share of the good lady's property.

"My married sister got in first, but father waited his opportunity, and whilst they went out to 'ave a 'alf-pint at the pub round the corner, he got in. They thought themselves mighty clever, for they had locked the door and taken the key, but father got in by the scullery window which they had forgotten to latch, and when they came back they found themselves sold. The guv'nor's a sharp one, 'e is, but I was fly too; 'e always keeps me short, grumbles 'cause I won't let myself be exploited by the capitalists; but I did 'im this time. I 'ad a good old-fashioned nose round whilst the guv'nor left me in charge whilst 'e went for a drink, and I found ten bob the old girl 'ad 'idden away in a broken teapot, so I just pocketed 'em. We planted 'er the day before yesterday; she was insured for twelve quid, an' everything was done 'ansome. Yesterday I felt awful bad, but to-day I thought I'd come an' see 'ow the paiper was getting on."

"Well, you see we're moving," I said. "If you care to give us a hand you'll be welcome. Come, Short, the barrow's here; let's get the things down."

"Oh, I'm going to have a half-day off," was his cool reply; "I'm tired. Armitage woke me up at five this morning, and I couldn't get any sleep after he came, he made such a damned noise."

"But surely you're going to help us get this move over; to-morrow you can sleep all day if you like."

"You can do as you like; I'm not going to move," was his only reply, and he calmly filled his pipe and puffed luxuriously. Simpkins giggled feebly; he evidently was wavering as to his proper course, but Short's calm insolence won the day.

I confess that at the moment I was blind to the humour of the situation. I fancy people with a keen sense of humour are rarely enthusiasts; certainly when I began to see the ludicrous side of much of what I had taken to be the hard earnest of life, my revolutionary ardour cooled. My indignation was ready to boil over; I could have wept or stamped with annoyance. "Oh, but you must help!" I exclaimed. "You promised. How are we ever to do anything if you go on like this?"

Short merely puffed at his pipe complacently.

For the first time since his arrival Kosinski spoke. I had almost forgotten his presence; he was working quietly, getting things ready, and now he stepped forward.

"The comrade is right," he said; "he does not want to work; leave him alone; we can do very well without him. Let us get off at once. There is enough ready to make a first load, anyhow."

The calm indifference of Kosinski seemed to take some of the starch out of Short, who looked more than foolish as he sat over his ginger-beer, trying to feign interest in the flagging conversation with Simpkins. I was relieved at the turn matters had taken, which threw the ridicule on the other side, and before long we were ready, little M'Dermott having made himself very useful, running actively up and down the ladder laden with parcels. We must have looked a queer procession as we set off. The long stooping figure of Kosinksi, wrapped in his inseparable dark-blue overcoat, his fair hair showing from under his billycock hat, pushing the barrow, heavily laden with type-cases and iron forms, packets of literature and reams of printing paper; I in my shabby black dress and sailor hat, bearing the furled-up banner, and M'Dermott following on behind, carrying with gingerly care a locked-up form of type, the work of poor Armitage, which was in imminent danger of falling to pieces in the middle of the street. We found that quite a crowd of loafers of both sexes, the habitues of the "Myrtle Grove Tavern," had assembled outside to witness our departure, and, as I never missed an opportunity to spread the light, I distributed among them some hand-bills entitled "What is Anarchy?" regardless of their decidedly hostile attitude. The London loafer has little wit or imagination, and their comments did not rise above the stale inquiry as to where we kept our bombs, and the equally original advice bestowed upon Kosinksi to get 'is 'air cut. A half-hour's walk brought us to our destination, but our Odyssey was not so soon to end. The man who accompanied the carriage-builder when he showed us over the shop was waiting at the entrance to the yard, and, recognising me, he asked me to step into the office. He had a rather scared appearance, but I did not notice this particularly at the moment, and supposing that Mr. White wanted to give me the keys I told my friends I should be back in a minute. The carriage-builder was awaiting me in the little office where he usually received his fashionable clients. He was still the self-same consequential figure, resplendent in broadcloth and fine linen, but the benevolent smile had vanished from his unctuous features, and he looked nervous and ill at ease.

"I am sorry to say, Miss Meredith," he began, "that I find I am unable to let you the shop. I much regret having caused you inconvenience, but it is quite impossible."

This was a staggerer for me. Everything had been settled. What could have happened?

"What on earth does this mean?" I exclaimed. "Why, Saturday evening you called at my house and told me you were satisfied with the references, and that I could move in to-day."

The poor man looked quite scared at my indignation.

"I am very sorry, I assure you, but I cannot let you the shop," was all he replied.

"But surely you will give me some explanation of this extraordinary behaviour. I am not to be trifled with in this way, and if you will not answer me I will get some of my friends to speak to you."

This last threat seemed quite to overcome him. He looked despairingly at me, and then determined to throw himself on my mercy.

"Well, you see, the fact is I did not quite understand the nature of your business—that is to say, I thought it was a printing business just like any other."

Light dawned upon me. The police had evidently been at work here. I was too new to the revolutionary movement to have foreseen all the difficulties which beset the path of the propagandist.

"And since Saturday night you have come to the conclusion that it is an unusual printing office?" I inquired somewhat derisively. I could still see in my mind's eye the benevolent smile and patronising condescension with which he had beamed on M'Dermott and me on the occasion of our first meeting.

"You are a sensible person, Miss Meredith," he said, with an almost appealing accent, "and you will, I am sure, agree with me that it would be impossible for me to have revolutionary papers printed on my premises. It would not be fair to my clients; it would interfere with my business success. Of course every one has a right to their opinions, but I had no idea that you were connected with any such party. In fact I had gone out of town, and intended staying away two or three days when yesterday afternoon I received this telegram," and he handed me the document. It was from Scotland Yard, and warned him to return at once as the police had something of importance to communicate.

"Of course I came back," continued the tremulous White. "At first I thought it must be all a mistake, but I was shown a copy of the Bomb, and told that that was what you intended printing. Now you must agree that this is not a suitable place for such an office."

"I cannot see," I replied with some warmth, "that it can make any difference to you what I print. I pay you your rent, and we are quits. Of course if you refuse to give me the keys of the shop I cannot force myself in, but I have reason to think that you will regret your extraordinary conduct."

"Is that a threat?" inquired White, growing visibly paler, and glancing nervously towards the door.

"No, it is only the expression of a personal opinion," I replied. At this moment the door opened, and M'Dermott appeared.

"Well, are you coming with the keys? We are getting tired of waiting," he inquired.

"This man," said I, pointing with scorn at the abject carriage-builder, "now refuses to let me the shop on the ground that he disapproves of revolutionary literature."

M'Dermott gave a low whistle, "Oh, that's how the wind blows, is it?" he remarked; "I thought I saw some 'narks' hanging round. So this is the turn your benevolent interest in my grand-daughter has taken? Well, come along, Isabel, we have no time to waste, and I am sure this good gentleman will not feel comfortable till we are off the premises. He is afraid we might waste some dynamite on him, I do believe."

At the word dynamite White seized a bell-pull and rang it violently, and we could not help laughing heartily, as we left the office, at his evident terror. Whilst crossing the yard we saw two well-known detectives lurking on the premises. White had evidently thought it necessary to take precautions against possible outrage.

We found Kosinski patiently waiting. He did not seem much surprised at our news, and in answer to my inquiry as to what on earth we were to do, he suggested that we should take the barrow back to Slater's Mews, and then resume our search for a shop. This advice was so obvious and tame that it almost surprised me coming from him, still there was nothing for it, and back we went, looking somewhat more bedraggled (it had now come on to rain) and decidedly crestfallen. We found Short as we had left him, but I was still too indignant at his conduct to deign to answer his inquiries. I was tired and worried, and could almost have wept with annoyance. Kosinski at last came to the rescue. When he had brought the last parcel up the stairs and deposited it on the floor he came up to me.

"If you like we might go and look at a workshop I have heard of and which might suit. Some German comrades rented it for some time; I believe they used it as a club-room, but I dare say it would answer your purpose, and I believe it is still unoccupied."

Of course I readily assented; it was indeed a relief to hear of some definite proposal, and together we set off. Little M'Dermott, who evidently did not much relish Short's company, armed himself with leaflets and set off on a propagandising expedition, and Kosinski and I wended our way in search of the office. At last we stopped in front of a little green-grocer's shop in a side street off the Hampstead Road. "The place I mean is behind here," explained Kosinski; "the woman in the shop lets it; we will go in and speak with her."

Kosinski stepped inside and addressed a voluminous lady who emerged from the back shop.

"Oh, good day, Mr. Cusins," she exclaimed, a broad smile overspreading her face; "what can I do for you?"

Kosinksi explained our errand, and the good lady preceded us up a narrow yard which led to the workshop in question. She turned out to be as loquacious as she was bulky, a fair specimen of the good-natured cockney gossip, evidently fond of the convivial glass, not over-choice in her language, the creature of her surroundings, which were not of the sweetest, but withal warm-hearted and sympathetic, with that inner hatred of the police common to all who belong to the coster class, and able to stand up for her rights, if necessary, both with her tongue and her fists. She showed us over a damp, ill-lighted basement shop, in a corner of which was a ladder leading to a large, light shop, which seemed well suited to our purpose, meanwhile expatiating on its excellencies. I was satisfied with it, and would have settled everything in a few minutes, but Mrs. Wattles was not to be done out of her jaw.

"I'm sure you'll like this place, my dear, and I'm glad to let it to you, for I've known your 'usband some time. I used to see 'im come when those others Germans was 'ere, and——"

"Kosinski is not my husband," I interrupted. "I'm not married."

"Oh, I see, my dear; just keeping company, that's all. Well, I don't blame yer; of course, 'e is a furriner; but I'm not one to say as furriners ain't no class. I was in love with an I-talian organ-grinder myself, when I was a girl, and I might 'ave married 'im for all I know, ef 'e 'adn't got run in for knifin' a slop what was always a aggravatin' 'im, poor chap. And I don't say but what I shouldn't be as well off as what I am now, for Wattles, 'e ain't much class."

I ventured some sympathetic interjection and tried to get away, but her eye was fixed on me and I could not escape.

"It was a long time before I forgot 'im, and when my girl was born I called 'er Ave Maria, which was a name I used to 'ear 'im say, and a very pretty one too, though Wattles does say it's a 'eathen-sounding name for the girl. I was just like you in those days, my dear," she said, surveying my slim figure with a critical eye. "No one thought I should make old bones, I was that thin and white, and nothin' seemed to do me no good; I took physic enough to kill a 'orse, and as for heggs an' such like I eat 'undreds. But, lor', they just went through me like jollop. It was an old neighbour of ours as cured me; she said, says she, 'What you want, Liza, is stimilant; stout 'ud soon set you right.' An' sure enough it did. I took 'er advice, an' I've never 'ad a day's illness since, though Wattles's been mighty troublesome at times, and would 'av driven me to my grave long ago if it 'adn't been for stout. You should take it, miss; you'd soon be as like me, and as 'arty too. Two glasses at dinner and two at supper is my allowance, and if I chance to miss it, why I jest seems to fall all of a 'eap like, an' I 'ears my in'ards a gnawin' and a gnawin' and a cryin' out for stout."

I felt quite overcome at this charming picture of my future self, if only I followed Mrs. Wattles's advice. I expressed my intention of thinking the matter over, and, after shaking hands, paying a deposit on the rent—which she informed me she should expend in drinking my health—and settling to move in on the morrow, I made good my escape.

Cheered and elated by our success, I returned with Kosinksi to the office of the Bomb. He was naturally very nervous and reticent with women, but the events of this long day had broken down some of the barriers between us, and I found it less difficult to talk to him as we trudged on our way.

"I hope you will help us with the new paper," I said. "I feel really very unfit for the responsibility of such a task, but Armitage thinks I shall manage all right, and I do not wish to be a mere amateur, and shirk the hard work entailed by our propaganda. You see, I remember your words that night at Chiswick. I hope you do not still think that I am merely playing."

He positively blushed at my words, and stammered out: "Oh no, I do not in the least doubt your sincerity. I am sure you do your best, only I have seen so much harm done by women that I am always on my guard when they propose to share in our work. But you are not a woman: you are a Comrade, and I shall take much interest in your paper."

We met Armitage coming up Red Lion Street. He greeted us with a look of relief. "Where on earth have you been?" he exclaimed; "I went to the address you gave me, but when I inquired for you the fellow looked as scared as if he had seen a ghost, and said he knew nothing about you, that I must have made a mistake; and when I insisted and showed him the address you had written, seemed to lose his head, and rang a bell and called for help as if I were going to murder him. I thought he must be mad or drunk, and so turned on my heel and came away. In the yard I recognised some of our friends the detectives, and I felt quite anxious about you. At Slater's Mews the door is locked; there is no light, and nobody answered when I knocked. I am quite relieved to see you. I was beginning to fear you had all got run in."

"Well, you see we are still alive and in fighting form. As you say the Bomb has closed, I suppose Short has gone off to the music-hall with Simpkins, as he hinted at doing. Anyhow, come home with me; you too, Kosinksi, if you don't mind; there is a lot to say, and many things to settle, and we can settle everything better there than here in the street."

My proposal was agreed to, and we all three repaired to Fitzroy Square, where over a cup of tea we settled the last details of the move, including the name of our new paper, which was to be known as the Tocsin.



CHAPTER VI

A FOREIGN INVASION

Thus was the question of the new paper and its quarters settled. The shop, as I had hoped, did well enough for our purposes. True, the district in which it lay was neither salubrious nor beautiful, and the constant and inevitable encounters with loquacious Mrs. Wattles and her satellites something of a trial; but we were absorbed in our work, absorbed in our enthusiasms, utterly engrossed in the thought of the coming revolution which by our efforts we were speeding on.

During the first months, besides writing and editing the Tocsin, I was very busily employed in learning how to set type, and print, and the various arts connected with printing—and as I grew more proficient at the work my share of it grew in proportion.

The original staff of the Tocsin consisted of Armitage, Kosinksi, and myself, with Short occupying the well-nigh honorary post of printer, aided by occasional assistance or hindrance from his hangers-on. But our staff gradually increased in number if not in efficiency; old M'Dermott was a frequent and not unwelcome visitor, and as time went on he gradually settled down into an inmate of the office, helping where he could with the work, stirring up lagging enthusiasms, doing odd cobbling jobs whenever he had the chance, and varying the proceedings with occasional outbursts of Shakespearian recitation. These recitations were remarkable performances, and made up in vigour for what they perhaps lacked in elegance and finesse. Carter would at times put in an appearance, mostly with a view to leaning up against a type-rack or other suitable article of furniture, and there between one puff and another at his pipe would grumble at the constitution of the universe and the impertinent exactions of landlords. Another Englishman who in the earlier days frequented the Tocsin was a tall, thoughtful man named Wainwright, belonging to the working-classes, who by the force of his own intelligence and will had escaped from the brutishness of the lowest depths of society in which he had been born.

Thus with little real outside assistance we worked through the spring and early summer months. Besides bringing out our paper we printed various booklets and pamphlets, organised Anarchist meetings, and during some six weeks housed a French Anarchist paper and its staff, all of whom had fled precipitately from Paris in consequence of a trial.

The lively French staff caused a considerable revolution in Lysander Grove, which during several weeks rang with Parisian argot and Parisian fun. Many of these Frenchmen were a queer lot. They seemed the very reincarnation of Murger's Bohemians, and evidently took all the discomforts and privations of their situation as a first-class joke. Kosinksi detested them most cordially, though, spite of himself, he was a tremendous favourite in their ranks, and the unwilling victim of the most affectionate demonstrations on their part: and when, with a shrug of his shoulders and uncompromising gait, he turned his back on his admirers, they would turn round to me, exclaiming fondly—

"Comme il est drole, le pauvre diable!"

They could not understand his wrath, and were obstinately charmed at his least charming traits. When he was singularly disagreeable towards them, they summed him up cheerfully in two words, Quel original! They soon learned, however, not to take liberties with Kosinski, for when one sprightly little man of their number, who affected pretty things in the way of cravats and garters, presumed to dance him round the office, the Russian, for once almost beside himself, seized his persecutor by the shoulders and dropped him over the balustrade below, amid the cheers of all present.

He appeared, however, to be their natural prey, and his quaint habit of stumbling innocently into all manner of blunders was a perpetual fount of amusement to the humour-loving Gauls. His timidity with women, too, was a perennial joy, and innumerable adventures in which he figured as hero were set afloat.

One little escapade of Kosinski's came somehow to the knowledge of the French Comrades, and he suffered accordingly. Although careless and shaggy enough in appearance in all conscience, Kosinski happened to be fastidiously clean about his person. I doubt whether he was ever without a certain small manicure set in his pocket, and an old joke among his Russian friends was that he had failed to put in an appearance on some important occasion—the rescue of a Nihilist from prison, I believe —because he had forgotten his tooth-brush. This was of course a libel and gross exaggeration, but his extreme personal cleanliness was none the less a fact. Now when he first reached London he had scarcely left the station, besooted and begrimed after his long journey, when his eye was arrested by the appearance of a horse-trough. "Most opportune!" mused Kosinski, "how public-spirited and hygienic this London County Council really is!" and straightway divesting himself of his hat and collar and similar encumbrances, and spreading out on the rim of the trough his faithful manicure set and a few primitive toilette requisites secreted about his person, he commenced his ablutions, sublimely unconscious of the attention and surprise he was attracting. Before long, however, a riotously amused crowd collected round, and the Russian had finally to be removed under police escort, while attempting to explain to the indignant officer of the law that he had merely taken the horse-trough as a convenient form of public bath for encouraging cleanliness among the submerged tenth.

With the departure of the Ca-Ira the office resumed once more, during a brief interval, the even tenor of its ways. Kosinski who, in a spirit of self-preservation, had practically effaced himself during its sojourn, made himself once more apparent, bringing with him a peculiar Swede—a man argumentative to the verge of cantankerousness—who for hours and days together would argue on obscure questions of metaphysics. He had argued himself out of employment, out of his country, almost out of the society and the tolerance of his fellows. Life altogether was one long argument to this man, no act or word, however insignificant, could he be induced to pass over without discussing and dissecting, proving or disproving it. Free-love was his particular hobby, though this, too, he regarded from a metaphysical rather than a practical point of view. Like everything else in his life it was a matter for reason and argument, not for emotion; and he and Kosinski would frequently dispute the question warmly.

One day, not long before Christmas, and after I had been nearly a year in the movement, when all London was lost in a heavy fog and the air seemed solid as a brick wall, there landed at the Tocsin a small batch of three Italians fresh from their native country. It was the year of the coercion laws in Italy, of the "domicilio coatto" (forced domicile), and the Anarchists and Socialists were fleeing in large numbers from the clutches of the law.

None of these Southerners had ever been in England before, and having heard grim tales of the lack of sunshine and light in London, they took this fog to be the normal condition of the atmosphere. Stumbling into the lighted office from the blind stifling darkness outside, the leader of the party, a remarkably tall handsome man well known to me by reputation and correspondence, gave vent to a tremendous sigh of relief and exclaimed in his native tongue:

"Thank Heaven, friends, we have overcome the greatest danger of all and we are here at last, and still alive!"

They then advanced towards me and Avvocato Guglielmo Gnecco held out his hand. "You are Isabel Meredith?" he said in a sonorous voice, and I gave an affirmative nod. "I am very glad to meet you at last, Comrade," and we all shook hands. "So this is London! I had heard grim enough tales of your climate, but never had I conceived anything like this. It is truly terrible! But how do you live here? How do you get through your work?... How do you find your way about the streets? Why, we've been wandering about the streets ever since eleven o'clock this morning, walking round and round ourselves, stumbling over kerb-stones, appealing to policemen and passers-by, getting half run over by carts and omnibuses and cabs. Giannoli here sees badly enough at all times, but to-day he has only escaped by the skin of his teeth from the most horrid series of deaths. Is it not so, Giacomo?" Giannoli, who had been engaged in enthusiastic greetings with Kosinski, who was evidently an old friend, looked up at this.

"Oh, I've had too much of London already," he exclaimed fervently. "We must leave here for some other country to-night or to-morrow at the latest. We should be better off in prison in Italy than at liberty here. You see, Comrade," he said, turning to me with a smile, "we Anarchists all belong to one nationality, so I have no fear of wounding your patriotic sentiments."

"But London is not always like this, I assure you," I began.

"Oh, make no attempt to palliate it," Gnecco interrupted. "I have heard English people before now defending your climate. But I see now only too well that my compatriots were right in calling it impossible, and saying that you never saw the sun here," and all attempts to argue them out of this conviction proved futile.

The avvocato, as above mentioned, was an exceptionally good-looking man. Fully six feet two inches in height, erect and slim without being in the least weedy, he carried his head with an air of pride and self-confidence, and was altogether a very fine figure of a man. His features were regular and well cut, his abundant hair and complexion dark, and his eyes bright with the vivacity of the perennial youth of the enthusiast. The delicacy of his features, the easy grace of his walk, and the freedom and confidence of his manners, all suggested his semi-aristocratic origin and upbringing. He was evidently a man of romantic tastes and inclinations, governed by sentiment rather than by reason; a lover of adventure, who had found in Anarchism an outlet for his activities. His eloquence had made him a considerable reputation all over Italy as an advocate, but the comparative monotony of the life of a prosperous barrister was distasteful to him, and he had willingly sacrificed his prospects in order to throw in his lot with the revolutionary party.

Giannoli, in his way, was an equally interesting figure. Between Gnecco and himself it was evident that there existed the warmest bonds of fraternal affection—a sentiment whose fount, as I discovered later, lay in a mutual attachment for a certain Milanese lady, who on her side fully reciprocated their joint affection. Both these Italians were warm exponents of the doctrine of free-love, and, unlike their more theoretic Northern confreres, they carried their theories into practice with considerable gusto. Many Anarchists of Teutonic and Scandinavian race evidently regarded free-love as an unpleasant duty rather than as a natural and agreeable condition of life—the chaff which had to be swallowed along with the wheat of the Anarchist doctrines. I remember the distress of one poor old Norwegian professor on the occasion of his deserting his wife for a younger and, to him, far less attractive woman—a young French studentess of medicine who practised her emancipated theories in a very wholesale fashion.

"I felt that as an Anarchist it would have been almost wrong to repel her advances," the distressed old gentleman confided to me. "Moreover, it was ten years that I had lived with Rosalie, uninterruptedly.... Cela devenait tout-a-fait scandaleux, Mademoiselle.... I no longer dared show myself among my comrades."

I felt quite sorry for the poor old fellow, a humble slave to duty, which he performed with evident disgust, but the most heroic determination.

Giannoli, when seen apart from Gnecco, was a tall man. But at the time of his arrival in London he was already falling a victim to ill-health; there was a bent, tired look about his figure, and his features were drawn and thin. A glance at him sufficed to reveal a nervous, highly-strung temperament; his movements were jerky, and altogether, about his entire person, there was a noticeable lack of repose. He was about thirty-five years of age, though he gave the impression of a rather older man. The fact that he was very short-sighted gave a peculiar look to his face, which was kindly enough in expression; his features were pronounced, with a prominent nose and full, well-cut mouth hidden by a heavy moustache. There was a look of considerable strength about the man, and fanatical determination strangely blended with diffidence—a vigorous nature battling against the inroads of some mortal disease.

The third member of the trio was a shortish, thickset man of extraordinary vigour. He somehow put me in mind of a strongly-built, one-storey, stone blockhouse, and looked impregnable in every direction; evidently a man of firm character, buoyed up by vigorous physique. He was a man rather of character than of intellect, of great moral strength rather than of intellectual brilliancy—a fighter and an idealist, not a theoriser. I knew him very well by renown, for he was of European fame in the Anarchist party, and the bete noire of the international police. Enrico Bonafede was a man born out of his time—long after it and long before—whose tremendous energy was wasted in the too strait limits of modern civilised society. In a heroic age he would undoubtedly have made a hero; in nineteenth-century Europe his life was wasted and his sacrifices useless. These men, born out of their generation, are tragic figures; they have in them the power and the will to scale the heights of Mount Olympus and to stem the ocean, while they are forced to spend their life climbing mole-hills and stumbling into puddles.

Such, briefly, were the three men who suddenly emerged from the fog into the office of the Tocsin, and who formed the vanguard of our foreign invasion. All three were at once sympathetic to me, and I viewed their advent with pleasure. We celebrated it by an unusually lavish banquet of fried fish and potatoes, for they were wretchedly cold and hungry and exhausted after a long journey and almost equally long fast, for of course they all arrived in a perfectly penniless condition.

Seated round a blazing fire in M'Dermott's eleutheromania stove (the old fellow had a passion for sonorous words which he did not always apply quite appositely) the Italians related the adventures of their journey and discussed future projects. As the fog grew denser with the advance of evening, and it became evident that lodging-searching was quite out of the question for the time being, it was agreed that we should all spend the night in the office, where heaps of old papers and sacking made up into not altogether despicable couches. Moreover, publication date was approaching, and at such times we were in the habit of getting later and later in the office, the necessity for Short's assistance rendering it impossible to get the work done in an expeditious and business-like way.

We worked on far into the night, the Italians helping us as best they could with the printing, one or other occasionally breaking off for a brief respite of slumber. We talked much of the actual conditions in Italy, and of the situation of the Anarchist party there; of how to keep the revolutionary standard afloat and the Anarchist ideas circulating, despite coercion laws and the imprisonment and banishment of its most prominent advocates. Kosinksi joined enthusiastically in the discussion, and the hours passed rapidly and very agreeably. I succeeded at length in dissuading Giannoli and Gnecco from their original intention of precipitate flight, partly by repeatedly assuring them that the state of the atmosphere was not normal and would mend, partly by bringing their minds to bear on the knotty question of finance.

The three Italians settled in London; Gnecco and Bonafede locating themselves in the Italian quarter amid most squalid surroundings; while for Giannoli I found a suitable lodging in the shape of a garret in the Wattles's house which overlooked the courtyard of the Tocsin. They were frequently in the office, much to the indignation of Short, who could not see what good all "those —— Foreigners did loafing about." Short, in fact, viewed with the utmost suspicion any new-comers at the Tocsin.

"These foreigners are such a d——d lazy lot," he would say; "I hate them!" and there was all the righteous indignation in his tones of the hard-worked proletariat whose feelings are harrowed by the spectacle of unrighteous ease. Short had a habit of making himself offensive to every one, but for some mysterious reason no one ever took him to task over it. It was impossible to take Short seriously, or to treat him as you would any other human being. When he was insolent people shrugged their shoulders and laughed, when he told lies they did not deign to investigate the truth, and thus in a despised and unostentatious way—for he was not ambitious of reclame—he was able to do as much mischief and set as many falsehoods afloat as a viciously-inclined person with much time on his hands well can. His physical and mental inferiority was his stock-in-trade, and he relied on it as a safeguard against reprisals.

After a prolonged period of fog the real severity of the winter set in towards the end of January. One February morning, after all manner of mishaps and discomfort, and several falls along the slippery icy pavement, I arrived at the office of the Tocsin. The first thing that struck my eye on approaching was the unusual appearance of the Wattles's greengrocery shop. The shutters were closed, the doors still unopened. "What has happened?" I inquired of a crony standing outside the neighbouring pub. "Surely no one is dead?"

"Lor' bless yer, no, lydy," answered the old lady, quite unperturbed, "yesterday was the hanniversary of old Wattles's wedding-day, and they've been keepin' it up as usual. That's all."

I was about to pass on without further comment when my attention was again arrested by the sound of blows and scuffling inside the shop, mingled with loud oaths in the familiar voice of my landlady, and hoarse protests and entreaties in a masculine voice.

"But surely," I urged, turning once more to my previous informant, "there is something wrong. What is all that noise?" as cries of "Murder! murder!" greeted my ear.

"Why, I only just told you, my dear," she responded, still quite unmoved, "they've been celebratin' their silver weddin' or somethin' of the sort. It's the same every year. They both gets roarin' drunk, and then Mrs. Wattles closes the shop next mornin' so as to give 'im a jolly good 'idin'. You see, these hanniversaries make 'er think of all she's 'ad to put up with since she married, and that makes things a bit rough on poor old Jim."

Perceiving my sympathy to be wasted I proceeded, and on entering the office of the Tocsin I found that here, too, something unusual was going on.

A perfect Babel of voices from the room above greeted my ear, while the printing-room was bedecked with a most unsightly litter of tattered garments of nondescript shape and purpose laid out to dry. I was not surprised at this, however, as I had long grown used to unannounced invasions. Unexpected persons would arrive at the office, of whom nobody perhaps knew anything; they would stroll in, seat themselves round the fire, enter into discussion, and, if hungry, occasionally partake of the plat du jour. The most rudimentary notions of Anarchist etiquette forbade any of us from inquiring the name, address, or intentions of such intruders. They were allowed to stay on or to disappear as inexplicitly as they came. They were known, if by any name at all, as Jack or Jim, Giovanni or Jacques, and this was allowed to suffice. Every Anarchist learns in time to spot a detective at first sight, and we relied on this instinct as a safeguard against spies.

But on reaching the composing-room on this particular morning an extraordinary sight presented itself. Accustomed as I was to the unaccustomed, I was scarcely prepared for the wild confusion of the scene. What at first sight appeared to be a surging mass of unwashed and unkempt humanity filled it with their persons, their voices, and their gestures. No number of Englishmen, however considerable, could have created such a din. All present were speaking simultaneously at the top of their voices; greetings and embraces mingled with tales of adventure and woe. The first object which I managed to distinguish was the figure of Giannoli struggling feebly in the embrace of a tall brawny, one-eyed man with thick curling black hair, who appeared to be in a state of demi-deshabille. By degrees a few other familiar figures became one by one discernible to me as I stood mute and unobserved at the head of the stairs. Bonafede and Gnecco were there; they, too, surrounded by the invading mob, exchanging greetings and experiences. Old M'Dermott, standing up against his stove, was striking a most impressive attitude, for the old fellow had to live up to the reputation he had established among foreigners of being the greatest orator in the English revolutionary party. Two cloddish-looking contadini stood gazing at him, rapt in awe. Kosinksi stood little apart from the rest, not a little bewildered by the enthusiastic reception which had been accorded him by old friends. In one corner, too, I recognised my old friend Short, fully dressed, as usual, in his frowsy clothes, as though eternally awaiting the call-to-arms, the long-delayed bugles of the social revolution; there he lay, much as when I first set eyes on him, wrapped up in old banners and rugs, blinking his eyes and muttering curses at the hubbub which had thus rudely interrupted his slumbers.

The others were quite new to me. They were evidently all of them Italians —some ten or twelve in number—though at the first glance, scattered as they were pell-mell among the printing plant of the overcrowded work-room, they gave an impression of much greater number. They appeared mostly to belong to the working-classes. Their clothes, or what remained of them, were woefully tattered—and they were few and rudimentary indeed, for most of what had been spared by the hazards of travel were drying down below. Their hair was uncut, and beards of several days' growth ornamented their cheeks. Their hats were of incredible size and shape and all the colours of the rainbow seemed to be reproduced in them. Littered around on divers objects of furniture, they suggested to me a strange growth of fungi.

My advent, as soon as it was perceived amid the confusion and noise of the scene, created something of a sensation, for by now my name had become well known in the International Anarchist party. "Isabel Meredith" was exclaimed in all manner of new and strange intonations, and a host of hands were extended towards me from all directions.

At last Gnecco managed to make his voice heard above the din of his compatriots. "All these comrades," he explained in Italian, "have escaped like ourselves from the savage reaction which actually holds Italy in its sway. They arrived this morning after a fearful journey which lack of money compelled them to make mostly on foot."

Before he could get any further an outburst of song interrupted his words as the whole band broke into an Anarchist war-whoop. This over, my attention was arrested by the groans of a dark young man of extraordinarily alert physiognomy who had shed his boots and was gazing dolefully at his wounded feet. "What would I not give," he exclaimed, "to be back in prison in Lugano! Oh for the rest and comfort of those good old times!" He was utterly worn out, poor fellow, nipped up with the cold, and seemed on the verge of tears.

"Well," exclaimed M'Dermott at last, "propaganda implies propagandists, and propagandists entail bellies! All these fellows seem pretty well starving. What would they say to a little grub?"

On my interpreting the old fellow's suggestion he and it were received with universal acclaim. Bonafede produced from the innermost depths of his pockets a huge quantity of macaroni which was put on to boil, and several bottles of wine; one of the new arrivals, a sober-looking young fellow with a remarkably long nose, contributed an enormous lobster which he had acquired en route, while Kosinski volunteered to fetch bread and other provender. A Homeric repast ensued, for all these Anarchists had cultivated the digestions of camels; they prepared for inevitable fasts by laying in tremendous stores when chance and good fortune permitted. While they were eating a noticeable silence fell on the scene, and I had leisure to observe the immigrants more in detail.

Beppe, the tall, one-eyed man, already referred to, seemed to be the life and spirit of the band. He was a rollicking good-natured fellow, an unpolished homme du peuple, but not inadmirable in his qualities of courage and cheerfulness—the kind of man who would have cracked a joke on his death-bed and sung lustily en route to the gallows. He possessed, too, a heroic appetite, and as he made away with enormous heaps of macaroni his spirits rose higher and higher and his voice rose with them.

The long-nosed youth was something of an enigma. From the scraps of conversation which, during the repast, fell principally on the subject of food, or the lack of food, during the tramp, I gathered that they had relied principally on his skill and daring in the matter of foraging to keep themselves from actually dying of hunger on their journey. Yet there was about him such a prudent and circumspect air that he might well have hesitated to pick up a pin that "wasn't his'n." He was evidently of an acquisitive turn, however, for over his shoulder was slung a bag which appeared to contain a collection of the most heterogeneous and unserviceable rubbish conceivable. "Eh!... possono servire!" ... was all he would volunteer on the subject when I once chaffed him on the subject of his findings. "They may serve yet!..."

Somehow this youth struck me at once as a man who had made a mistake. At home as he appeared to be among his comrades, there was yet something about him which suggested that he was out of his proper sphere in the midst of the Anarchists, that he was desoriente. He was cut out for an industrious working-man, one that would rise and thrive in his business by hard work and thrift; he was destined by nature to rear a large family and to shine in the ranks of excellent family men. He was moulded for the threshold, poor boy, neither for the revolutionary camp nor for the scaffold, and it was thwarted domestic instinct which led him to steal. There was good nature in his face and weakness; it was the face of a youth easily led, easily influenced for good or bad. As a revolutioniser of his species he was predestined to failure, for years would certainly show him the error of his ways. Old age seemed to be his proper state, and youth in him was altogether a blunder and a mistake. I found myself vainly speculating what on earth could have led him among the Anarchists.

The others comprised a silent young artisan who was evidently desperately in earnest with his ideas, a red-haired, red-bearded Tuscan of clever and astute aspect, a singularly alert and excitable-looking young man of asymmetrical features, who looked half fanatic, half criminal, and others of the labouring and peasant class. One other of their number arrested my attention, a stupid, sleepy young man, who seemed quite unaffected by the many vicissitudes of his journey. His features were undefined and his complexion undefinable, very greasy and suggestive of an unwholesome fungus. He was better dressed than his companions, and from this fact, combined with his intonation, I gathered that he belonged to the leisured classes. There was something highly repellent about his smooth yellow face, his greasiness and limp, fat figure. M'Dermott christened him the "Buttered muffin."

Dinner over, the one-eyed baker, Beppe, proceeded to give us their news, and to recount the vicissitudes of their travels. Gnecco and Giannoli were anxious for news of comrades left behind in Italy. So-and-so was in prison, another had remained behind in Switzerland, a third had turned his coat, and was enjoying ill-gotten ease and home, others were either dead or lost to sight.

The present party, who were mostly Northern Italians, had left Italy shortly after Giannoli and Gnecco, and had since spent several weeks in Italian Switzerland, whence at last they had been expelled in consequence of the circulation of an Anarchist manifesto. Beppe gave a glowing account of their stay in Lugano, and consequent flight to London. "You know," he said, "that I reached Lugano with two hundred francs in my pocket in company with all these comrades who hadn't got five francs among them. It is not every one who could have housed them all, but I did. I could not hire a Palazzo or a barrack for them, but we managed very comfortably in one large room. There were fourteen of us besides la Antonietta. There was only one bed, but what a size! We managed well enough by sleeping in two relays. However, even in two relays it took some organisation to get us all in. It was a fine double bed, you know, evidently intended for three or four ... even for five it was suitable enough, but when it came to seven!... there was not much room for exercise, I can tell you.... But with four at the top and three at the bottom, we managed, and Antonietta slept on a rug in a cupboard. We did our best to make her comfortable by sacrificing half our clothes to keep her warm, but we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for she deserted us for the first bourgeois who came along. She was not a true comrade, but I will tell you all about her later on.

"We had some trouble with the landlord, a thick-headed bourgeois who got some stupid idea into his head about overcrowding. I have no patience with these bourgeois prejudices. One day he came round to complain about our numbers, and at not receiving his rent. But we were prepared for him. We assembled in full force, and sang the Marseillaise and the Inno dei Lavoratori, and danced the Carmagnole. I took out my eye and looked very threatening—one glance at us was enough for the old fellow. He made the sign of the cross and fled before we had time to tear him to pieces.

"Well, my two hundred francs was a very large sum, and not paying the rent was economical, but it dwindled, and I had to look round again for ways and means to feed us all. The money came to an end at last and then the real struggle began. Old Castellani, the landlord, kept a large stock of sacks of potatoes in a cellar, and every day he used to go in and take a few out for his own use, and then lock the cellar up again, mean old brute! But once again I was one too many for him. I collected large quantities of stones in the day-time, and then at night with a skeleton key I had acquired—it came out of Meneghino's bag which we always jeered at—I let myself in and from the farthest sacks I abstracted potatoes and refilled them with stones. I calculated that at the slow rate he used them he would not notice his loss till March. What a scene there will be then, Misericordia! During the last fortnight of our stay we lived almost entirely on my potatoes. I don't know how the devil they would all have got on without me. It is true that a waitress at the Panetteria Viennese fell in love with Meneghino, and used to pass him on stale bread; but then you all know his appetite! He ate it nearly all himself on the way home. One day I sent Bonatelli out to reconnoitre. He returned with one mushroom!" It would be quite impossible to convey an idea of the intense contempt contained in these last words. It was a most eloquent denunciation of impotence and irresolution.

"All the same we had a grand time in Lugano. And the week I and Migliassi spent in prison was a great treat. Why, they treated us like popes, I can tell you—as much food as you like, and the best quality at that; no work, a comfortable cell, and a bed all to yourself! And the bread! I never tasted anything like it in my life: they sent to Como for it all. Lugano bread was not good enough. Ah, Swiss prisons are a grand institution, and I hope to spend a happy old age in such a place yet.

"Then came Bonafede's manifesto, and that scoundrel Costanzi betrayed us all to the police. Then the real trouble began. We had not ten francs among the lot of us, and we twelve had orders to clear out of the country within forty-eight hours! Once again they were all at a loss but for me!" and here he tapped his forehead in token of deference to his superior wits. "I had noticed the fat letters Mori received from home the first day of every month, and how jolly quiet he kept about them. I also noticed that he used to disappear for a day or two after their receipt, and return very sleepy and replete, with but scant appetite for dry bread and potatoes."

At this point Mori, the greasy Neapolitan youth, blinked his eyes and laughed foolishly. He seemed neither ashamed of himself nor indignant at his companions, merely sluggishly amused.

"Well," continued Meneghino, "that letter was just due, and I intercepted it. It contained one hundred and eighty francs; would you believe me? and that went some way to get us over here. Altogether we managed to collect sufficient money to carry us to the Belgian frontier, and for our passage across from Ostend. But that tramp across Belgium, dio boia!"

Here a clamour of voices interrupted Beppe, as each one of the travellers chimed in with a separate account of the horrors of that ghastly tramp across country in mid-winter.

For many years Europe had not experienced such an inclement season. Everywhere the cold counted innumerable victims. Along the country highways and byways people dropped down frozen to death, and the paths were strewn with the carcasses of dead birds and other animals who had succumbed to the inclemency of the elements. All the great rivers were frozen over, and traffic had to be suspended along them. Unwonted numbers of starving sea-gulls and other sea-birds flocked to London in search of human charity, for the very fishes could not withstand the cold, and the inhospitable ocean afforded food no longer to its winged hosts. All Europe was under snow; the railways were blocked in many places, and ordinary work had to be suspended in the great cities; business was at a stand-still.

Neither the temperaments nor the clothes of these Italians had been equal to the exigencies of their march in the cruel Northern winter. As they tramped, a dismal, silent band across Belgium, the snow was several feet deep under foot, and on all sides it stretched hopelessly to the horizon, falling mercilessly the while. Their light clothing was ill adapted to the rigours of the season; boots gave out, food was scanty or non-existent, and they had to rely entirely on the fickle chances of fortune to keep body and soul together. By night, when chance allowed, they had crept unobserved into barns and stables, and, lying close up against the dormant cattle, they had striven to restore animation to their frozen limbs by means of the beasts' warm breath. Once an old farm-woman had found them, and, taking pity on their woebegone condition, had regaled the whole party on hot milk and bread; and this was now looked back on as a gala day, for not every day had afforded such fare. At times in the course of their weary tramp the Anarchists had made an effort to keep up their flagging spirits by means of song, revolutionary and erotic, but such attempts had usually fallen flat, and the little band of exiles had relapsed into gloomy silence as they tramped on noiselessly through the snow. One of their number had quite broken down on the road and they had been compelled to leave him behind. "Lucky fellow, that Morelli," exclaimed Meneghino, "enjoying good broth in a hospital while we were still trudging on through that infernal snow!"

"And Antonietta?" inquired Giannoli, when the relation of these adventures had terminated. "You have not yet told us her end, nor how she incurred your displeasure."

"Oh, Antonietta!" exclaimed Beppe. "I was forgetting. You who believed her to be such a sincere comrade will scarcely credit her baseness. She ran away with a horrible bourgeois; she was lured away from the Cause by a bicycle! Yes, Antonietta weighed a bicycle in the scales against the Social Revolution, and found the Social Revolution wanting! So much for the idealism of women! Never speak to me of them again. The last we saw of her she was cycling away in a pair of breeches with a disgusting banker. She laughed and waved her hand to us mockingly, and before we had time to utter a word she was gone. I never shall believe in a woman again!"

His indignation choked him at this point, and only the expression of his mouth and eye told of the depth of scorn and disgust which he felt for the young lady who had thus unblushingly cycled away from the Social Revolution.



CHAPTER VII

THE OFFICE OF THE TOCSIN

To the ordinary citizen whose walk in life lies along the beaten track there is a suggestion of Bohemianism about the office of any literary or propagandist organ; but I doubt whether the most imaginative among them in their wildest moments have ever conceived any region so far removed from the conventions of civilised society, so arbitrary in its hours and customs, so cosmopolitan and so utterly irrational as the office of the Tocsin.

In other chapters I attempt to describe the most noticeable among the genuine Anarchists who belonged to it, but I wish here to convey some faint idea of the strange medley of outside cranks and declasses whose resort it in time became. There appeared to be a magnetic attraction about the place to tramps, desoeuvres cranks, argumentative people with time on their hands, and even downright lunatics. Foreigners of all tongues assembled in the office—Russians, Italians, French, Spaniards, Dutch, Swedes, and before very long they practically swamped the English element. The Anarchist and revolutionary party has always been more serious on the Continent than in England, and what genuine Anarchists there are here are mostly foreigners.

Trades and industries of the most heterogeneous kinds were carried on at the Tocsin by unemployed persons who could find no other refuge for their tools nor outlet for their energies. In one corner old M'Dermott settled down with his lasts and leather, and there industriously hammered away at his boots, alternating his work with occasional outbursts of Shakespearian recitation. In winter the old fellow was positively snowed up in the office, where he crouched shivering over the fire until the advent of spring revived him. On the first warm sunny day he suddenly flung down his tools, and rushing out into the courtyard amazed and terrified Mrs. Wattles and her colleagues by shouting at the top of his voice, "Let me shout, let me shout, Richard's himself again!" "'E gave me such a turn, Miss, with 'is carryin's on that I got the spasims again, an' I don't know what ever I shall do if I can't find the price of a 'alf-quartern o' gin." And I took the hint, for Mrs. Wattles's alliance was no despicable possession among the savages of Lysander Grove.

A shed was erected in the corner of the composing-room, which served by night as a dormitory for numbers of otherwise roofless waifs, and here during the daytime a young Belgian and his wife set up a small factory of monkeys up sticks, which when completed they proceeded to sell in the streets. In another corner two Italians settled down to manufacture a remarkable new kind of artificial flower with which they traded when opportunity permitted. Small plaster-casts of Queen Victoria and Marat were also manufactured here. When the influx of starving Italians necessitated it, a kind of soup-kitchen was inaugurated over which Beppe presided, and very busy he was kept too, manufacturing minestras and polenta, a welcome innovation to me, I may mention, after a long regime of small and nauseous tarts, bread and jam, and cheese. In short, the headquarters of the Tocsin, besides being a printing and publishing office, rapidly became a factory, a debating club, a school, a hospital, a mad-house, a soup-kitchen and a sort of Rowton House, all in one.

When I look back on the scene now, and recall all the noise and hubbub, the singing, the discussions and disputes, the readings, the hammerings on this side, the hangings on that, the feeding, and M'Dermott's Shakespearian recitations, I find it very difficult to realise the amount of hard work which I and the other few serious and earnest comrades got through.

The chief impediment to the progress of the work, however, was Short, the compositor. On close acquaintance with this creature, I found that he did not belie my first impression of him as the laziest and most slovenly of men; and I soon realised the two dominant characteristics which had made of him a Socialist—envy and sloth. So deeply was he imbued with envy that he was quite unable to rest so long as anyone else was better off than himself; and although he did not care one jot for "humanity" of which he prated so freely, and was incapable of regenerating a flea, he found in a certain section of the Socialist and Anarchist party that degree of dissatisfaction and covetousness which appealed to his degraded soul. Besides which the movement afforded him grand opportunities for living in sloth and sponging on other people.

Short was not without his humorous side, however, when only you were in the right mood to appreciate it. His envy of the superiority which he noted in others was only equalled by his intense contempt for himself.

I can still picture the poor brute lying with his dog in a corner of the office amid a heap of rubbish, unwashed, unkempt (he never divested himself of his clothes), and verminous in the extreme. There he would blow discordant notes on a mouth-organ, or smoke his rank old pipe, eat jam tarts, and scowl his wrath and envy on the world. If he could get hold of some unoccupied person to whom he could retail all the latest bits of Anarchist scandal, or from whom he could ferret out some little private secrets, he was contented enough, or, leaning out of the office window he would deliver a short autobiographical sketch to the interested denizens of the surrounding courts. A small bill, posted outside the office door, announced that Short was prepared to undertake extraneous jobs of printing on his own account; and this was responsible for many of the queer customers who found their way to the office of the Tocsin.

One of the queerest of all the queer oddities who haunted it was a small man of hunted aspect, known to every one as the "Bleeding Lamb." He had acquired this peculiar name from the title of a booklet which he had written under the direct inspiration of the Holy Ghost, a sort of interpretation of the Apocalypse, wherein was foretold a rapid termination of the universe. The printing of the "Bleeding Lamb" was undertaken by Short, whose dilatoriness in executing his work doubtless prolonged by a few years the existence of the terrestrial globe.

There was all the fervour of a prophet in the eye of the "Bleeding Lamb," but inspiration ceased here, and even what there was of inspired and prophetic in his eye was overcast by a certain diffident and deprecating look. He was the victim, poor man, of a twofold persecution in which heaven and earth joined hands to torment him—the archangel Michael and the Metropolitan police being the arch offenders.

One of the first things that struck you about the Bleeding Lamb was the helpless look of his feet. They were for ever shuffling and stumbling, getting in the way, and tripping up himself and others. His hands too had a flabby and inefficient expression, and his knees were set at a wrong angle. His stature was insignificant, his colouring vague; longish hair and beard of a colourless grey matched the grey of his prophetic and persecuted eye.

He would enter the office furtively, and cast a rapid glance round as though he almost expected to find the archangel Michael or an inspector of the Metropolitan police lurking in a corner, and it would take him some few seconds before he could muster up sufficient courage to inquire, as was his invariable custom, whether anyone had been round to ask after him. On being assured that no one had called for that purpose he appeared relieved, and gradually, as he became more and more reassured, he would warm to his subject of the coming cataclysm, and launch out into prophecy. "Ah," he exclaimed to me one day after a long discourse on the universal destruction at hand, "won't Queen Victoria just shiver in her shoes when she receives the revised edition of the 'Bleeding Lamb.' Little does she dream at this moment of what is in store for her." I recollect also that Nelson was in some way connected with his prophecies and his perplexities, but in what particular connection is not quite clear to my mind. The sympathy which he apparently felt for the Anarchists was, I suppose, due to the fact that they too were engaged—on a somewhat smaller scale it is true—on a policy of destruction, and also to their avowed antagonism to the law and the police, whether metropolitan or otherwise.

The Bleeding Lamb had a formidable rival in the field of prophecy in the person of another strange frequenter of our office—a demure-looking gentleman named Atkinson who professed to be the reincarnation of Christ, and who preached the millennium. He was a less depressed-looking person than the Bleeding Lamb—whom he treated with undisguised contempt—and affected a tall hat and Wellington boots. The Lamb, on his side, denounced the Messiah as a fraud, and went so far as to suggest that he had only taken to prophecy when the alteration in the fashion of ladies' pockets compelled him to abandon his original profession. "That Lamb is not quite right in the upper storey," whispered Atkinson to me one day; "he may even become dangerous, poor creature!" Shortly afterwards I was taken aside by the gentleman in question who warned me to keep my purse in safety as "that Messiah is no better than a common thief."

The approach of either of these prophets was invariably the signal for a stampede on Short's part, who, never having completed his work, dreaded encountering the mournful scrutiny and reproachful bleating of the Lamb no less than the sad, stern rebukes and potential Wellington boots of the Messiah. Into no single item of the day's programme did he put so much zest as into the grand dive he would make into any available hiding-place, and he would lie for hours flat on his stomach under M'Dermott's bed sooner than "face the music."

One day the perspiring Lamb entered the office red in the face and considerably out of breath, rapidly followed by a lugubrious individual, talking volubly in an argumentative monotone. This person seemed to be very indignant about something.

"Marcus Aurelius was a just ruler and a philosopher," he was saying, "and he saw the necessity for suppressing the Christian factions. He was among the severest persecutors of the early Christians.—What does that argue, you fool?"

"Nothing against my contention with regard to the seven-headed beast in the Apocalypse," replied the Bleeding Lamb with a defiant snort.

"The seven-headed beast has nothing to do with the case," retorted his interlocutor, putting all the warmth into his monotonous drawl of which he appeared capable. "The seven-headed beast can't alter history, and my case is conclusively proved in the course of this little work, to the production of which I have devoted the best years of my life. The seven-headed beast indeed! Pshaw for your seven-headed beast, you dunder-headed dreamer!"

Whilst I gazed on dumbfounded at this little scene, making futile efforts to grasp the vexed point under discussion, the strange new-comer, whom the Lamb addressed as Gresham, deposited on the floor a huge and shapeless brown-paper parcel, under whose weight he was staggering, and sitting down by its side he carefully untied the string, and dragged triumphantly forth tome after tome of carefully-written MSS., which he proceeded to read out without further preamble.

"'Atheism v. Christianity,'" he drawled, commencing at the title, "'being a short treatise on the Persecutions of the Early Christians, the object of which is to prove that they were persecuted by the just emperors and protected by the unjust; that, consequently, they were wrong; that Christianity is wrong, and the Deity a palpable fraud; by Tobias Jonathan Gresham,'—and let the seven-headed beast in the Apocalypse put that in his pipe and smoke it!" casting a defiant glance at the Bleeding Lamb.