"Some of them are acting a Scout's play, sir; some are doing Cone Exercises; one or two are practising deep breathing; and the rest are dancing an Old English Morris Dance."     

       Clarence nodded.     

       "They could not be better employed. Inform them that I have arrived and would address them."     

       The sentry saluted.     

       Standing in an attitude of deep thought, with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind him, and his chin sunk upon his breast, Clarence made a singularly impressive picture. He had left his Essex home three weeks before, on the expiration of his ten days' holiday, to return to his post of junior sub-reporter on the staff of a leading London evening paper. It was really only at night now that he got any time to himself. During the day his time was his paper's, and he was compelled to spend the weary hours reading off results of races and other sporting items on the tape-machine. It was only at 6 p.m. that he could begin to devote himself to the service of his country.     

       The Scouts had assembled now, and were standing, keen and alert, ready to do Clarence's bidding.     

       Clarence returned their salute moodily.     

       "Scout-master Wagstaff," he said.     

       The Scout-master, the leader of the troop formed by the various patrols, stepped forward.     

       "Let the war-dance commence."     

       Clarence watched the evolutions absently. His heart was ill-attuned to dances. But the thing had to be done, so it was as well to get it over. When the last movement had been completed, he raised his hand.     

       "Men," he said, in his clear, penetrating alto, "although you have not the same facilities as myself for hearing the latest news, you are all, by this time, doubtless aware that this England of ours lies 'neath the proud foot of a conqueror. It is for us to save her. (Cheers, and a voice       "Invooboo!") I would call on you here and now to seize your hockey-sticks and rush upon the 

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