So this was the grand outcome of Boris Grogoff's
eloquence, and the Rat's plots for plunder!--a fitting climax to such
vain dreams. I saw the Cossack, that ebony figure of Sunday night. Ten
such men, and this rabble was dispersed for ever! I felt inclined to
lean over and whisper to them, "Quick! quick! Go home!... They'll be
here in a moment and catch you!"
And yet, after all, there seemed to be some show of discipline. I
noticed that, as the crowd moved forward, men dropped out and remained
picketing the doorways of the street. Women seemed to be playing a large
part in the affair, peasants with shawls over their heads, many of them
leading by the hand small children.
Burrows treated it all as a huge joke. "By Jove," he cried, speaking
across to me, "Durward, it's like that play Martin Harvey used to
do--what was it?--about the French Revolution, you know."
"'The Only Way,'" said Peroxide, in a prim strangled voice.
"That's it--'The Only Way'--with their red flags and all. Don't they
look ruffians, some of them?"
There was a great discussion going on under our windows. All the lorries
had drawn up together, and the screaming, chattering, and shouting was
like the noise of a parrots' aviary.
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