 Part I. CHAPTER I. OF THE SWOOP. It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I have painted in two lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England. Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer to think that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to be unduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to a sense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching the probable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling of patriotism and duty. Mr. Alston River's sensitive soul will be jarred to its foundation if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in a time of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After all, at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country. P. G. Woodhouse. The bomb-proof shelter. London. Part I. CHAPTER I. AN ENGLISH BOY'S HOME. AUGUST 1. 19. BLANK. Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted his teeth. England, my England, he moaned. Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly but not godly dressed, in a flat brimed hat, a colourful handkerchief, a flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brown boots, a whistle, and a hockey stick. He was, in fact, one of General Badden Powell's Boy Scouts. Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance, for you are looking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence McAndrew Chugwater, who saved England. Today those features are familiar to all, everyone has seen the Chugwater column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road, formerly Piccadilly, and the picture postcards in the stationers' windows, that bulging forehead distended with useful information, that massive chin, those eyes gleaming behind their spectacles, that tout ensemble, that je ne sais quoi. In a word, Clarence. He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could low like a bull, he could gurgle like a wood pigeon, he could imitate the cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and whistle simultaneously, in accordance with Rule Eight, and only those who have tried this know how difficult it is. He could spore, fell trees, tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squailer. He did all these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging the squailer. Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its footprints. Glancing up for a moment, they caught sight of the other members of the family. England, my England, he moaned. It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his children, was playing Diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup and ball, was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of the house, was reading the cricket-news in an early edition of the evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop and tall with his sister Grace, and Grace's fiance, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other Miss Chugwater, was mending a badminton racket. Not a single member of that family was practicing with the rifle, or drilling, or learning to make bandages. Clarence groaned. If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy, said Mr. Chugwater a little irritably, you must find some other game. You made me jump just as I was going to beat my record. Talking of records, said Reggie, fries on his way to his eighth successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the championship. I thought he was playing for Somerset, said Horace. That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important subject like cricket. Once more, Clarence snorted bitterly. I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence, said Mr. Chugwater anxiously. It's so draughty, and you have evidently got a nasty cold. Must you lie on the floor? I am sporing, said Clarence, with simple dignity. But I'm sure you can spore better sitting on a chair with a nice book. I think the kid's sickening for something, put in Horace critically. And he's doosed rupee. What's up, Clary? I was thinking, said Clarence, of my country, of England. What's the matter with England? She's all right, murmured Ralph Peabody. My fallen country, sighed Clarence, a knot on manly tear, bedoing the glasses of his spectacles. My fallen, stricken country! That kid, said Reggie, laying down his paper, is talking right through his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has never been so strong all round as she is now? Do you ever read the papers? Don't you know that we've got the ashes and the golf championship and the wibbly-wab championship and the spiropole, spilkins, puff feather, and animal-grab championships? Has it come to your notice that our croquet pair beat America last Thursday by eight hoops? Did you happen to hear that we won the hop, skip, and jump at the last Olympic Games? You've been out in the woods, old sport. Clarence's heart was too full for words. He rose in silence and quitted the room. Not the pip or something, said Reggie. Rum kid! I say, Hurst's bowling well. Five for twenty-three so far. Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in a desirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It was a typical Englishman's home. Its name was Nasturcium Villa. As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspaper boy came to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, Curl lapse of Surrey, sensational bowling at the oval. He stopped on seeing Clarence. Paper general? Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, for his eye had fallen on the poster. It ran as follows. Surrey doing badly. German army lands in England. End of part one, chapter one. Part one, chapter two of the swoop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Christian Hughes. The Swoop or How Clarence Saved England by P. G. Woodhouse. Part one, chapter two. The Invaders Clarence flung the boy a haypenny, tore a paper from his grasp, and scanned it eagerly. There was nothing to interest him in the body of the journal, but he found what he was looking for in the stop-press space. Stop-press news, said the paper. Fry not out 104. Surrey 147 for eight. A German army landed in Essex this afternoon. Loamshire Handicap, Spring Chicken, one, Salome, two. Yippee-yaddy, three. Seven ran. Essex. Then at any moment the foe might be at their doors. More inside their doors. With a passionate cry Clarence tore back to the house. He entered the dining room with the speed of a highly trained marathon winner, just in time once more to prevent Mr. Chugwater lowering his record. The Germans, shouted Clarence, we are invaded. This time Mr. Chugwater was really annoyed. If I have told you once about your detestable habit of shouting in the house, Clarence, I have told you a hundred times. If you cannot be a boy scout quietly, you must stop being one altogether. I had got up to six that time. But father, silence, you will go to bed this minute, and I shall consider the question whether you are to have any supper. It will depend largely on your behaviour between now and then. Go. But father! Clarence dropped the paper shaken with emotion. Mr. Chugwater's sternness deepened visibly. Clarence, must I speak again? He stooped and removed his right slipper. Clarence withdrew. Reggie picked up the paper. That kid, he announced judicially, is off his nut. Hello, I told you so, fry not out 104. Good old Charles. I say, exclaimed Horace, who sat nearest the window, there are two rummy-looking chaps coming to the front door, wearing a sort of fancy dress. It must be the Germans, said Reggie. The paper says they landed here this afternoon, I expect. A thunderous knock rang through the house. The family looked at one another. Voices were heard in the hall, and next moment the door opened and the servant announced, Mr. Prinzado and Mr. Eindy Kong. Or rather, said the first of the two newcomers, a tall-bearded soldierly man in perfect English, Prince Otto of Saxe-Fenig, and Captain Graf von Poppenheim, his aide-de-camp. Just so, just so, said Mr. Chugwater affably. Sit down, won't you?" The visitors seated themselves. There was an awkward silence. Warm day, said Mr. Chugwater. Very, said the Prince, a little constrainedly. Perhaps a cup of tea. Have you come far? Well, er, pretty far. That is to say a certain distance, in fact, from Germany. I spent my summer holiday last year at Dresden, capital place. Just so. The fact is, Mr. er, Chugwater. By the way, my wife misses Chugwater. The Prince bowed. So did his aide-de-camp. The fact is, Mr. Chugwater. Resumed the Prince, we are not here on a holiday. Quite so, quite so. Business before pleasure. The Prince pulled at his mustache. So did his aide-de-camp, who seemed to be a man of but little initiative in conversational resources. We are invaders. Not at all. Not at all! protested Mr. Chugwater. I must warn you that you will resist at your peril. You wear no uniform. Wouldn't dream of such a thing, except at the lodge, of course. You will be sorely tempted, no doubt. Do not think that I do not appreciate your feelings. This is an Englishman's home. Mr. Chugwater tapped him confidentially on the knee. And in uncommonly snug little place, too, he said, Now, if you will forgive me for talking business, you, I gather, propose making some stay in this country. The Prince laughed shortly. So did his aide-de-camp. Exactly, continued Mr. Chugwater. Exactly. Then you will want some piet-à-terre, if you follow me. I shall be delighted to let you this house on remarkably easy terms for as long as you please. Just come along into my study for a moment. We can talk it over quietly there. You see, dealing direct with me, you would escape the middleman's charges, and— Gently but firmly he edged the Prince out of the room and down the passage. The aide-de-camp continued to sit staring woodenly at the carpet. Reggie closed quietly in on him. Excuse me, he said, talking shoppin' all that. But I'm an agent for the come one, come all, accident and life assurance office. You have heard of it, probably. We can offer you really exceptional terms. You must not miss a chance of this sort. Now, here's a prospectus. I don't know if you happen to be a cyclist, Captain, er, graph, but if you'd like a practically new motorbike, only been used since last November, I can let you. There is a swish of skirts as Grace and Alice advanced on the visitor. I'm sure, said Grace winningly, that you're fond of the theatre, Captain Poppenheim. We are getting up a performance of Ici en Parle français, in aid of the fund for supplying square meals to old age pensioners. Such a deserving object, you know. Now, how many tickets will you take? You can sell them to your friends, you know, added Mrs. Chugwater. The aide-de-camp gulped convulsively. Ten minutes later two penniless men groped their way days to the garden gate. At last, said Prince Otto brokenly, for it was he. At last I began to realize the horrors of an invasion for the invaders. And together the two men staggered on. End of Part 1, Chapter 2. Part 1, Chapter 3 of The Swoop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Swoop or How Clarence Saved England. By P. G. Woodhouse. Part 1, Chapter 3. England's Parle. When the papers arrived next morning, it was seen that the situation was even worse than had at first been suspected. Not only had the Germans affected a landing in Essex, but in addition, no fewer than eight other hostile armies had, by some remarkable coincidence, hit on that identical moment for launching their long-prepared blow. England was not merely beneath the heel of the invader. It was beneath the heels of nine invaders. There was barely a standing room. Full details were given in the press. It seemed that while Germany was landing in Essex, a strong force of Russians, under the Grand Duke Vodkikov, had occupied Yarmouth. Simultaneously the mad Mula had captured Portsmouth, while the Swiss Navy had bombarded Lyme Regis, and landed troops immediately to westward of the bathing machines. At precisely the same moment, China, at last awakened, had swooped down upon that picturesque little Welsh watering place, Lugst Plur. And despite desperate resistance on the part of an excursion of Evanses and Joneses from Cardiff, had obtained a secure foothold. While these things were happening in Wales, the army of Monaco had descended on Achchamuhti, on the Firth of Clyde. Within two minutes of this disaster, by Greenwich time, a boisterous band of young Turks had seized Scarborough, and at Brighton and Margate, respectively, small but determined armies, one of Moroccan brigands under Rasuli, the other of dark-skinned warriors from the distant Isle of Bolligala, had made good their footing. This was a very serious state of things. Correspondence of the Daily Mail, at the various points of attack, had wired such particulars as they were able. The preliminary parley at Lugst Plur, between Prince Pingpong Pang, the Chinese general, and Llewellyn Evans, the leader of the Cardiff excursionists, seems to have been impressive to a degree. The former had spoken throughout in pure Chinese, the latter replying in rich Welsh, and the general effect, wired the correspondent, was almost painfully exhilarating. So sudden had been the attacks, that in very few instances was there any real resistance. The nearest approach to it appears to have been seen at Margate. At the time of the arrival of the Black Warriors, which, like the other onslaughts, took place between one and two o'clock on the afternoon of August Bank holiday, the sands were covered with happy revelers. When the war canoes approached the beach, the excursionists seemed to have mistaken their occupants at first for a troop of nigger minstrels on an unusually magnificent scale, and it was freely noised abroad in the crowd that they were being presented by Charles Frohman, who was endeavouring to revive the ancient glories of the Christy minstrels. Too soon, however, it was perceived that these were no harmless moor and burgesses. Suspicion was aroused by the absence of banjos and tambourines, and when the foremost of the negroes dexterously scalped a small boy, suspicion became certainty. In this crisis the trippers of Margate behaved well. The mounted infantry on donkeys, headed by Uncle Bones, did much execution. The ladies' tormentor brigade harassed the enemy's flank, and a hastily formed band of sharpshooters, armed with three shyse-a-penny balls and milk-cocos, undoubtedly troubled the advanced guard considerably. But superior force told, after half an hour's fighting, the excursionists fled, leaving the beach to the foe. At Achtermuhti and Portsmouth no obstacle apparently was offered to the invaders. At Brighton the enemy were permitted to land unharmed. Scarborough taken utterly aback by the boyish vigor of the young Turks was an easy prey. And at Yarmouth, though the grand duke received a nasty slap in the face from a dexterously thrown bloater, the resistance appears to have been equally futile. By tea-time on August the 1st, nine strongly equipped forces were firmly established on British soil. End of Part 1, Chapter 3. Part 1, Chapter 4 of the Swoop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Swoop, or How Clarent Saved England, by P. G. Woodhouse. Part 1, Chapter 4. What England Thought of It. Such a state of affairs, disturbing enough in itself, was rendered still more disquieting by the fact that except for the Boy Scouts, England's military strength at this time was practically nil. The abolition of the regular army had been the first step. Several causes had contributed to this. In the first place, the Socialists had condemned the army system as unsocial. Privates, they pointed out, were forbidden to hobnob with kernels, though the difference in their positions was due to a mere accident of birth. They demanded that every man in the army should be a general. Comrade Quelch, in an eloquent speech at Newington Butts, had pointed a midst enthusiasm to the Republics of South Africa where the system worked admirably. Scotland, too, disapproved of the army, because it was professional. Mr. Smith wrote several trenchant letters to Mr. C. J. B. Marriott on the subject. So the army was abolished, and the land defence of the country entrusted entirely to the Territorials, the legion of frontiersmen, and the Boy Scouts. But first the Territorials dropped out. The strain of being referred to on the music hall stage as Teddy Boys was too much for them. Then the frontiersmen were disbanded. They had promised well at the start, but they had never been themselves since La Milo had been attacked by the Manchester Watch Committee, it had taken all the heart out of them. So that in the end England's defenders were narrowed down to the Boy Scouts, of whom Clarence Chugwater was the pride, and a large civilian population, prepared at any moment to turn out for their country's sake and wave flags. A certain section of these too could sing patriotic songs. It was inevitable, in the height of the silly season, that such a topic as the simultaneous invasion of Great Britain by nine foreign powers should be seized upon by the press. Countless letters poured into the offices of the London Daily Papers every morning. Space forbids more than the gist of a few of these. Ms. Charlesworth wrote, In this crisis I see no alternative, I shall disappear. Mr. Horatio Bottomley, in John Bull, said that there was some very dirty and underhand work going on, and that the secret history of the invasion would be published shortly. He himself, however, preferred any invader, even the King of Bolligala, to some K.C.'s he could name. Though he was fond of dear old Muir, he wanted to know why Inspector Drew had retired. The Daily Express, in a thoughtful leader, said that free trade evidently meant invaders for all. Mr. Herbert Gladstone, writing to the Times, pointed out that he had let so many undesirable aliens into the country that he did not see that a few more made much difference. Mr. George R. Sims made eighteen puns on the names of the invading generals in the course of one number of mustard and cress. Mr. H.G. Policier urged the public to look on the bright side. There is a sun still shining in the sky. Besides, who knew that some foreign marksman might not pot the censor? Mr. Robert Fitzsimmons offered to take on any of the invading generals, or all of them, and if he didn't beat them, it would only be because the referee had a wife and seven small children, and had asked him as a personal favour to let himself be knocked out. He had lost several fights that way. The directors of the Crystal Palace wrote a circular letter to the shareholders, pointing out that there was a good time coming. With this addition to the public, the Palace stood a sporting chance of once more finding itself full. Judge Willis asked, What is an invasion? Senior Scotty, cabled anxiously from America, prepaid. Stands Scotland where it did? Mr. Lewis Waller wrote heroically, How many of them are there? I am usually good for about half a dozen. Are there assassins? I can tackle any number of assassins. Mr. Seymour Hicks said he hoped they would not hurt George Edwards. Mr. George Edwards said that if they injured Seymour Hicks in any way, he would never smile again. A writer in Answers pointed out that, if all the invaders in the country were piled in a heap, they would reach some of the way to the moon. Far-seeing men took a gloomy view of the situation. They laid stress on the fact that this counter-attraction was bound to hit first-class cricket hard. For some years Gates had shown a tendency to fall off, owing to the growing popularity of gulf, tennis, and other games. The desire to see the invaders as they march through the country must draw away thousands who otherwise would have paid their sixpence at the turnstiles. It was suggested that representations should be made to the invading generals, with a view to inducing them to make a small charge to sightseers. In sporting circles, the chief interests centred on the race to London. The papers showed the positions of the various armies each morning in their runners and betting columns. Six to four on the Germans was freely offered, but found no takers. Considerable interest was displayed in the probable behaviour of the nine armies when they met. The situation was a curious outcome of the modern custom of striking a deadly blow before actually declaring war. Until the moment when the enemy were at her doors, England had imagined that she was on terms of the most satisfactory friendship with her neighbours. The foe had taken full advantage of this, and also of the fact that, owing to a fit of absent-mindedness on the part of the government, England had no ships afloat which were not entirely obsolete. Interviewed on the subject by representatives of the daily papers, the government handsomely admitted that it was perhaps in some ways a silly thing to have done. But, they urged, you could not think of everything. Besides, they were on the point of laying down a dread-knot, which would be ready in a very few years. Meanwhile, the best thing the public could do was to sleep quietly in their beds. It was Fisher's tip, and Fisher was a smart man. And all the while the invaders' marathon continued. Who would be the first to reach London? The Germans had got off smartly from the mark and were fully justifying the long odds laid upon them. That master strategist Prince Otto of Saxe-Fenig, realizing that if he wished to reach the metropolis quickly, he must not go by train, had resolved almost at once to walk. Though hampered considerably by crowds of rustics who gathered gaping at every point in the line of march, he had made good progress. The German troops had strict orders to reply to no questions, with the result that little time was lost in idle chatter, and in a couple of days it was seen that the army of the Fatherland was bound, barring accidents, to win comfortably. The progress of the other forces was slower. The Chinese especially had undergone great privations, having lost their way near Klanvar-Purkwin-Gogogoch, and having been unable to understand the voluble directions given to them by the various shepherds they encountered. It was not for nearly a week that they contrived to reach Chester, where, catching a cheap excursion, they arrived in the metropolis, Hungary and Futsor, four days after the last of their rivals had taken up their station. The German advance halted on the wooded heights of Tottenham. Here a camp was pitched and trenches dug. The march had shown how terrible invasion must of necessity be. With no wish to be ruthless, the troops of Prince Otto had done grievous damage. Cricket-pitches had been trampled down, and in many cases, even gulf-greens dented by the iron heel of the invader, who rarely, if ever, replaced the divot. Everywhere they had left ruin and misery in their train. With the other armies it was the same story. Through carefully preserved woods they had marched, frightening the birds and driving keepers into fits of nervous prostration. Fishing, owing to their tramping carelessly through the streams, was at a standstill. Croquet had been given up in despair. Near Epping the Russians shot a fox. The situation which faced Prince Otto was a delicate one. All his early training and education had implanted in him the fixed idea that, if he ever invaded England, he would do it either alone or with the sympathetic cooperation of allies. He had never faced the problem of what he should do if there were rivals in the field. Competition is wholesome, but only within bounds. He could not very well ask the other nations to withdraw, nor did he feel inclined to withdraw himself. It all comes of this dashed swoop of the vulture business. He grumbled as he paced before his tent, ever in a naan pausing to sweep the city below him with his glasses. I should like to find the fellow who started the idea, making me look a fool. Still, it's just as bad for the others, thank goodness. Well, Poppenheim. Captain von Poppenheim approached and saluted. Please, sir, the men say, may they bombard London. Bombard London? Yes, sir. It's always done. Prinzato pulled thoughtfully at his mustache. Bombard London? It seems, and yet. Ah, well, they have few pleasures. He stood a while in meditation, and so did Captain von Poppenheim. He kicked a pebble, so did Captain von Poppenheim, only a smaller pebble. Discipline is very strict in the German army. Poppenheim. Sir. Any sign of our—er—competitors? Yes, sir. The Russians are coming up on the left flank, sir. They'll be here in a few hours. Razuli has been arrested at Perley for stealing chickens. The army of Baligala is about ten miles out. No news of the field yet, sir. The prince brooded. Then he spoke, unbuzzaming himself more freely than was his want in conversation with his staff. Between you and me, Pop—he cried impulsively—I'm dashed sorry we ever started this dashed-silly invading business. We thought ourselves dashed smart, working in the dark, and giving no sign till the great pounce—and all that sort of dashed nonsense. Seems to me we've simply dashed well landed ourselves in the dashed soup. Captain von Poppenheim saluted in sympathetic silence. He and the prince had been old chums at college. A lifelong friendship existed between them. He would have liked to have expressed adhesion verbally to his superior officer's remarks. The words, I don't think, trembled on his tongue, but the iron discipline of the German army gagged him. He saluted again and clicked his heels. The prince recovered himself with a strong effort. You say the Russians will be here shortly, he said. In a few hours, sir—and the men really wished to bombard London—it would be a treat to them, sir. Well, well, I suppose if we don't do it somebody else will, and we got here first. Yes, sir. Then—an orderly hurried up and saluted. Telegram, sir. Absently the prince opened it. Then his eyes lit up. Got a dammerung, he said. I never thought of that. Smash up London and provide work for unemployed mending it, Grayson. He read, Poppenheim. Sir? Let the bombardment commence. Yes, sir. And let it continue till the Russians arrive. Then it must stop or there will be complications. Captain von Poppenheim saluted and withdrew. CHAPTER VI. The bombardment of London. Thus was London bombarded. Fortunately it was August, and there was nobody in town. Otherwise there might have been loss of life. CHAPTER VII. A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS. The Russians, led by General Vodkukov, arrived at Hampstead half an hour after the bombardment had ceased, and the rest of the invaders, including Razuli, who had got off on an alibi, dropped in at intervals during the week. By the evening of Saturday the 6th of August, even the Chinese had limped to the metropolis, and the question now was what was going to happen. England displayed a polite indifference to the problem. We are essentially a nation of sightseers. To us the excitement of staring at the invaders was enough. Into the complex international problems to which the situation gave rise, it did not occur to us to examine. When you consider that a crowd of five hundred Londoners will assemble in the space of two minutes, abandoning entirely all its other business, to watch a cab horse that has fallen in the street, it is not surprising that the spectacle of nine separate and distinct armies in the metropolis left no room in the British mind for other reflections. The attraction was beginning to draw people back to London now. They found that the German shells had had one excellent result. They had demolished nearly all the London statues. And what might have conceivably seemed to draw back, the fact that they had blown great holes in the woodpaving, passed unnoticed amidst the more extensive operations of the London City Council. Taking it for all in all, the German gunners had simply been beautifying London. The Albert Hall struck by a merciful shell, had come down with a run, and was now a heap of picturesque ruins. Whitefield's tabernacle was a charred mass, and the burning of the Royal Academy proved a great comfort to all. At a mass meeting in Trafalgar Square a hardy vote of thanks was passed, with acclamation, to Prince Otto. But if Londoners rejoiced, the invaders were very far from doing so. The complicated state of foreign politics made it imperative that there should be no friction between the powers. Yet here a great number of them were in perhaps as embarrassing a position as ever diplomatists were called upon to unravel. When nine dogs are assembled round one bone, it is rarely on the bone alone that teeth marks are found at the close of the proceedings. Prince Otto of Saxfenig set himself resolutely to grapple with the problem. His chance of grappling successfully with it was not improved by the stream of telegrams which arrived daily from his imperial master, demanding to know whether he had yet subjugated the country, and if not, why not. He had replied guardedly, stating the difficulties which lay in his way, and had received the following. At once mailed fist display, on-get or out-get, Wilhelm. It was then that the distracted Prince saw that steps must be taken at once. Carefully worded letters were dispatched by district messenger boys to the other generals. Towards nightfall the replies began to come in, and having read them, the Prince saw that this business could never be settled without a personal interview. Many of the replies were absolutely incoherent. Rizuli, apologizing for delay on the ground that he had been away in the isle of dogs, cracking a rib, wrote suggesting that the Germans and Moroccans should combine with a view to playing the confidence trick on the Swiss general, who seemed a simple sort of chap. "'Reminds me of dear old Maclean,' wrote Rizuli. "'There is money in this. Will you come in? Why are in the morning?' The general of the Monaco forces thought the best way would be to settle things by means of a game of chance of the odd man outclass. He knew a splendid game called Slippery Sam. He could teach them the rules in half a minute. The reply of Prince Pingpong Pang of China was probably brilliant and scholarly, but it was expressed in Chinese characters of the Ming period, which Prince Otto did not understand. And even if he had, it would have done him no good, for he tried to read it from the top downwards instead of from the bottom up. The young Turks, as might have been expected, wrote in their customary flippant cheeky style. They were full of mischief as usual. The body of the letter scrawled in a round schoolboy hand, dealt principally with the details of the booby trap which the general had successfully laid for his head of staff. He was frightfully shirty, concluded the note jubilantly. From the Bollygala camp the messenger boy returned without a scalp, and with a verbal message to the effect that the king could neither breed nor write. Grand Duke Vodkukov from the Russian lines replied in his smooth cynical Russian way, You appear anxious, my dear prince, to scratch the other entrance. May I beg you to remember what happens when you scratch a Russian? As for the Mad Moola's reply, it was simply pure delirium. The journey from Somaliland and his meeting with his friend Mr. Dylan appeared to have had the worse effects on his sanity. He opened with the statement that he was a teapot, and that was the only really coherent remark he made. Prince Otto placed a hand wearily on his throbbing brow. We must have a conference, he said. It is the only way. Next day eight invitations to dinner went out from the German camp. It would be idle to say that the dinner, as a dinner, was a complete success. Halfway through the Swiss general missed his diamond solitaire and cold glances were cast at Rizuli, who sat on his immediate left. Then the king of Bollygala's table manners were frankly inelegant. When he wanted a thing he grabbed for it, and he seemed to want nearly everything. Nor was the behaviour of the leader of the young Turks all that could be desired. There had been some talk of only allowing him to come down to dessert, but he had squashed in as he briefly put it, and it would be palturing with the truth to say that he had not had far more champagne than was good for him. Also the general of Monaco had brought a pack of cards with him, and was spoiling the harmony by trying to induce Prince Ping-Pong Pang to find the lady, and the brainless laugh of the mad mula was very trying. Altogether Prince Otto was glad when the cloth was removed and the waiters left the company to smoke and talk business. Anyone who has had anything to do with the higher diplomacy is aware that diplomatic language stands in a class by itself. It is a language specially designed to deceive the chance listener. Thus, when Prince Otto, turning to Grand Duke Vodkikov, said quietly, I hear the crops are coming on nicely down Kentway, the habitual frequenter of diplomatic circles would have understood, as did the Grand Duke, what he really meant was, now about this business, what do you propose to do? The company, with the exception of the representative of the young Turks who was drinking creme de mint out of a tumbler, the mula and the king of Baligala bent forward, deeply interested, to catch the Russian's reply. Much would depend on this. Vodkikov carelessly flicked the ash off his cigarette. So I hear, he said slowly. But in Shropshire, they tell me, they are having trouble with the mangle-wurzels. The Prince frowned at this typical piece of shifty Russian diplomacy. How is your Highness getting on with your Highness's roller skating? He inquired guardedly. The Russian smiled a subtle smile. Poorly, he said. Poorly. The last time I tried the outside edge, I thought somebody had thrown the building at me. Prince Otto flushed. He was a plain, blunt man, and he hated this beating about the bush. Why does a chicken cross the road? He demanded almost angrily. The Russian raised his eyebrows and smiled, but made no reply. The Prince resolved to give him no chance of wriggling away from the point, pressed him hotly. Think of a number, he cried. Double it, add ten, take away the number you first thought of, divide it by three, and what is the result? There was an odd silence. Surely the Russian expert at evasion as he was could not parry so direct a challenge as this. He threw away his cigarette and lit a cigar. I understand, he said, with a tinkle of defiance in his voice, that the suffragettes, as a last resource, proposed to capture Mr. Asquith and sing the suffragette anthem to him. A startled gasp ran round the table. Because the higher he flies the fewer, asked Prince Otto with sinister calm. Because the higher he flies the fewer, said the Russian smoothly, but with the smoothness of a treacherous sea. There was another gasp. The situation was becoming alarmingly tense. You are plain spoke in your highness, said Prince Otto slowly. At this moment the tension was relieved by the young Turk falling off his chair with a crash onto the floor. Everyone jumped up startled, Razuli took advantage of the confusion to pocket a silver ashtray. The interruption had a good effect. Frowns relaxed, the wranglers began to see that they had allowed their feelings to run away with them. It was with a conciliatory smile that Prince Otto, filling the Grand Duke's glass, observed, Trumper is perhaps the prettier bat, but I confess I admire Fry's robust driving. The Russian was won over. He extended his hand. Two down and three to play, and the red near the top corner pocket. He said with that half oriental charm, which he knew so well how to exhibit on occasion. The two shook hands warmly. And so it was settled, the Russian having, as we have seen, waived his claim to bombard London in his turn. There was no obstacle to a peaceful settlement. It was obvious that the superior forces of the Germans and Russians gave them, if they did but contribute, the key to the situation. The decision they arrived at was as set forth above, as follows. After the fashion of the moment, the Russian and German generals decided to draw the colour line. That meant that the troops of China, Somaliland, Baligala, as well as Rizuli and the young Turks were ruled out. They would be given a week in which to leave the country. Resistance would be useless. The combined forces of the Germans, Russians, Swiss and Monacoans were overwhelming, especially as the Chinese had not recovered from their wanderings in Wales, and were far too foot sore still to think of serious fighting. When they had left the remaining four powers would continue the invasion jointly. Prince Otto of Saxfenig went to bed that night, comfortably conscious of a good work well done. He saw his way now clear before him. But he had made one miscalculation. He had not reckoned with Clarence Chugwater. End of Part 1, Chapter 7 Part 2, Chapter 1 of The Swoop This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Kristen Hughes The Swoop or How Clarence Saved England by P. G. Woodhouse Part 2, Chapter 1 In the Boy Scouts Camp Night Night in Aldwych In the centre of that vast tract of unreclaimed prairie, known to Londoners as the Aldwych site, they're shown feebly, seeming almost to emphasise the darkness and desolation of the scene, a single light. It was the campfire of the Boy Scouts. The night was raw and windy. A fine rain had been falling for some hours. The date of September 1st. For just a month England had been in the grip of the invaders. The coloured section of the hostile force had either reached its home by now, or was well on its way. The public had seen it go with a certain regret. Not since the visit of the Shah had such an attractive topic of conversation been afforded them. Several comic journalists had built up a reputation and a large price per thousand words on the King of Bollygala alone. Theaters had benefited by the index of a large new unsophisticated public. A piece at the Waldorf Theatre had run for a whole fortnight, and the merry widow had taken on a new lease of life. Selfridges, abandoning its policy of caution, had advertised to the extent of a quarter of a column in two weekly papers. Now the young Turks were back at school in Constantinople, shuffling their feet and throwing ink pellets at one another. Rasuli, home again in the old mountains, was working up the kidnapping business, which had fallen off sadly in his absence under the charge of an incompetent locum tenants. And the Chinese, the Bollygallans, and the troops of the Madmula were enduring the miseries of seasickness out in mid-ocean. The Swiss army had also gone home, in order to be in time for the winter hotel season. There only remained the Germans, the Russians, and the troops of Monaco. In the camp of the Boy Scouts a vast activity prevailed. Few of London's millions realize how tremendous and far-reaching in association the Boy Scouts are. It will be news to the man in the street to learn that, with the possible exception of the Black Hand, the Scouts are perhaps the most carefully organized secret society in the world. Their ramifications extend through the length and breadth of England. The boys you see parading the streets with hockey sticks are but a small section, the aristocrats of the society. Every boy in England and many a man is in the pay of the association. Their funds are practically unlimited. By the oath of initiation, which he takes on joining, every boy is compelled to pay into the common coffers a percentage of his pocket money or his salary. When you drop his weekly three and six pence into the hand of your office boy on Saturday, possibly you fancy he takes it home to mother. He doesn't. He spend two and six on woodbinds. The other shilling goes to the treasury of the Boy Scouts. When you visit your nephew at Eaton and tip him five pounds or whatever it is, does he spend it at the sock shop? Apparently, yes. In reality, a quarter reaches the common fund. Take another case to show the Boy Scouts' power. You are a city merchant and arriving at the office one morning in a bad temper. You proceed to cure yourself by taking it out of the office boy. He says nothing, apparently does nothing. But that evening, as you are going home in the tube, a burly working man treads heavily on your gouty foot. In Ladbrook Grove, a passing handsome splashes you with mud. Reaching home you find that the cat has been at the cold chicken and the butler has given notice. You do not connect these things, but they are all alike the result of your unjust behavior to your office boy in the morning. Or, meeting a ragged little match-seller, you pat his head and give him six pence. Next day an anonymous present of champagne arrives at your address. Terrible in their wrath, the Boy Scouts never forget kindness. The whistle of a striped iguanodon sounded softly in the darkness. The sentry who was pacing to and fro before the campfire, halted and peered into the night. As he peered, he uttered the plaintive note of a zebra calling to its mate. A voice from the darkness said, In gonyama, gonyama. In vooboo, replied the sentry argumentatively, Yabo, Yabo. In vooboo. An indistinct figure moved forward. Who goes there? A friend. Advance friend and give the counter sign. Remember Maeff King and death to Injuns. Pass friend, all's well. The figure walked on into the firelight. The sentry started, then saluted and stood to attention. On his face was a worshipping look of admiration and awe, such as some young soldier of the Grand Armée might have worn on seeing Napoleon. For the newcomer was Clarence Chugwater. Your name, said Clarence, eyeing the sturdy young warrior. Private William Buggan, sir. You watch well, private Buggan's. England has need of such as you. He pinched the young scout's ear tolerantly. The sentry flushed with pleasure. My orders have been carried out, said Clarence. Yes, sir, the patrols are all here. Enumerate them. The Chinchilla kittens, the bongos, the zebras, the iguanodons, the Welsh rabbits, the snapping turtles, and a half patrol of the 33rd London Gazikas, sir. Clarence nodded. Tis well, he said. What are they doing? Some of them are acting a scout's play, sir. Some are doing cone exercises, one or two are practicing deep breathing, and the rest are dancing an old English moor stance. 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 papers, 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 six 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. Scoutmaster Wagsteff, he said. The scoutmaster, 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 the 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 in vooboo. I would call on you here and now to seize your hockey sticks and rush upon the invader, were it not a last that such an action would merely result in your destruction. At present, the invader is too strong. We must wait. And something tells me that we shall not have to wait long. Applause. Jealousy is beginning to spring up between the Russians and the Germans. It will be our task to aggravate this feeling. With our perfect organization, this should be easy. Sooner or later this smoldering jealousy is going to burst into flame. Any day now, he proceeded, warming as he spoke. There may be the dickens of a dust-up between these Johnny's. And then we got him where the hair's short. See what I mean, you chaps? It's like this. Any moment they may start scrapping and chaw each other up. And then we'll simply sail in and knock what's left end-ways. A shout of applause went up from the assembled scouts. What I am anxious to impress upon you men, concluded Clarence, in more measured tones, is that our hour approaches. England looks to us, and it is for us to see that she does not look in vain. Sedulously feeding the growing flame of animosity between the component parts of the invading horde, we may contrive to bring about that actual disruption. Till that day, see to it that you prepare yourselves for war. Men, I have finished. What the chief scout means, said Scoutmaster Wagstaff, is no rotting about in all that sort of rot. Jolly will keep yourself fit, and then, when the time comes, we'll give these Russian and German blighters about the biggest hiding they've ever heard of. Follow the idea? Very well, then. Mind you don't come mucking up the show. In Ganiama, Ganiama shouted the new thoroughly roused troops. In Vubu, Yabo, Yabo, in Vubu. The voice of young England. Of young England alert and at its post. End of Part Two, Chapter One. Part Two, Chapter Two of The Swoop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Kristen Hughes. The Swoop, or How Clarence Saved England, by P. G. Woodhouse. Part Two, Chapter Two. An Important Engagement. Historians, when they come to deal with the opening years of the twentieth century, will probably call this the musical age. At the time of the Great Invasion, the music halls dominated England. Every town and every suburb had its hall. Most of them, more than one. The public appetite for sightseeing had to be satisfied somehow, and the music hall provided the easiest way of doing it. The halls formed a common place, on which the celebrity and the ordinary man could meet. If an impulsive gentleman slew his grandmother with a coal hammer, only a small portion of the public could gaze upon his pleasing features at the Old Bailey. To enable the rest to enjoy the intellectual treat, it was necessary to engage him at enormous expense to appear at a music hall. There, if he happened to be acquitted, he would come on the stage preceded by an asthmatic introducer and beam affably at the public for ten minutes, speaking at intervals in a totally inaudible voice, and then retire. To be followed by some enterprising lady who had endeavored unsuccessfully to solve the problem of living at the rate of ten thousand a year on an income of nothing, or who had performed some other similarly brainy feat. It was not till the middle of September that anyone conceived what one would have thought the obvious idea of offering musical engagements to the invading generals. The first man to think of it was Solly Quain, the rising young agent. Solly was the son of Abraham Cohen, an eminent agent of the Victorian era. His brothers, Abe Kern, Benjamin Colhoun, Jack Coyne, and Barney Cohen, had gravitated to the city, but Solly had carried on the old business and was making a big name for himself. It was Solly who had met Blinky Bill Mullins, the prominent sandbagger, as he emerged from his twenty years retirement at Dartmoor, and booked him solid for a thirty-six month's lecturing tour on the McGinnis Circuit. It was to him, too, that Joe Brown, who could eat eight pounds of raw meat in seven and a quarter minutes, owed his first chance of displaying his gifts to the wider public of the vaudeville stage. The idea of securing the services of the invading generals came to him in a flash. "'Selt me!' he cried. I believe they'd go big. Put them on where you like." Solly was a man of action. Within a minute he was talking to the managing director of the mammoth syndicate halls on the telephone. In five minutes the managing director had agreed to pay Prince Otto of Saxfenig five hundred pounds a week, if he could be prevailed upon to appear. In ten minutes the Grand Duke Vodkukov had been engaged, subject to his approval, at a weekly four hundred and fifty by the Stone Rafferty Circuit. And in a quarter of an hour Solly Coyne, having pushed his way through a mixed crowd of tricky serios and versatile comedians and paddlers who had been waiting to see him for the last hour and a half, was bowling off in a taximeter cab to the Russian lines at Hampstead. General Vodkukov received his visitor civilly, but at first without enthusiasm. There were, it seemed, objections to his becoming an artiste. Would he have to wear a properly bald head and sing songs about wanting people to see his girl? He didn't think he could. He had only sung once in his life, and that was twenty years ago at a bump supper at Moscow University. And even then he confided to Mr. Coyne. It had taken a decanter-and-a-half of neat Vodkuk to bring him up to the scratch. The agent ridiculed the idea. Why, your grand grace, he cried, there won't be anything of that sort. You ain't going to be starred as a comic. You're a refined lecturer and society monologue artist. How I invaded England with lights down and the cinematograph going, we can easily fake the pictures. The grand duke made other objection. I understand, he said. It is etiquette for musical artists in their spare time to eat a fried fish with their fingers. Must I do that? I doubt if I could manage it. Mr. Coyne once more became the human semaphore. Help me, of course you needn't. All the leading prose eat it with a spoon. Bless you, you can be the refined gentleman on the hall same as anywhere else. Come now, your grand grace, is it a deal? Four hundred and fifty chink in a goblins a week for one hall a night, and press agent hit at eight hundred and seventy-five. Help me, lauder doesn't get it, not in England. The grand duke reflected. The invasion has proved more expensive than he had foreseen. The English are proverbially a nation of shopkeepers, and they had put up their prices in all the shops for his special benefit. And he was expected to do such a lot of tipping. Four hundred and fifty a week would come in uncommonly useful. Where do I sign? He asked, extending his hand for the agreement. Five minutes later Mr. Coyne was urging his taxi driver to exceed the speed limit in the direction of Tottenham. End of part two, chapter two. Part two, chapter three of the swoop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Swoop. Or How Clarence Saved England. By P. G. Woodhouse. Part two, chapter three. A bird's eye view of the situation. Clarence read the news of the two engagements on the tape at the office of his paper. But the first intimation the general public had of it was through the medium of headlines. Music hall sensation invading general's gigantic salaries rumored resentment of VAF. What will water rats do? Interview with Mr. Harry Lauder. Clarence chuckled grimly as the tape clicked out the news. The end had begun. To sow jealousy between the rival generals would have been easy. To sow it between two rival musical artists would be among the world's softest jobs. Among the general public, of course, the announcement created a profound sensation. Nothing else was talked about in train and omnibus. The papers had leaders on the subject. At first the popular impression was that the generals were going to do a comedy duo act of the who was it I seen you coming down the street with type. And there was disappointment when it was found that the engagements were for different halls. Rumors sprang up. It was said that the Grand Duke had for years been an enthusiastic amateur sword swallower and had, indeed, come to England mainly for the purpose of getting bookings. That the Prince had secured reputation in Potsdam as a singer of songs in the George Roby style. That both were expert trick-cyclists. Then the truth came out. Neither had any specialties. They would simply appear and deliver lectures. The feeling in the musical world was strong. The Variety Artists' Federation debated the advisability of another strike. The Water Rats, meeting in mystic secrecy in a maiden lane public house, passed fifteen resolutions in an hour and a quarter. Sir Harry Lauder, interviewed by the era, gave it as his opinion that both the Grand Duke and the Prince were gawks, who would do well to hod their blether. He himself proposed to go straight to America, where the genuine artists were cheered in the streets and entertained at haggis' dinners, and not forced to compete with amateur sumfs and gonufs from other countries. Clarence, brooding over the situation like a providence, was glad to see that already the new move had weakened the invaders' power. The day after the announcement in the press of the approaching debut of the other generals, the leader of the Army of Monaco had hurried to the agents to secure an engagement for himself. He held out the special inducement of card tricks, at which he was highly skilled. The agents had received him coldly. Brown and Day had asked him to call again. Foster had sent out a message regretting that he was too busy to see him. At the frieces he had been kept waning in the anti-room for two hours, in the midst of a bevy of sparkling comedians, of pronounced paroxidity, and blue-chinned men in dusty bowler-hats, who told each other how they had gone with a bang at Oakham and Johnna Grotes, and had then gone away in despair. On the following day, deeply offended, he had withdrawn his troops from the country. The strength of the invaders was melting away little by little. How long, murmured Clarence Chugwater, as he worked at the tape machine. How long? It was Clarence's custom to leave the office of his newspaper at one o'clock each day, and lunch at a neighbouring aerated bread shop. He did this on the day following the first appearance of the two generals at the respective halls. He had brought an early edition of the paper with him, and in the intervals of dealing with his glass of milk and scone and butter, he read the report of the performances. Both, it seemed, had met with flattering receptions, though they had appeared nervous. The Russian general especially, whose style, said the critic, was somewhat reminiscent of Mr. T. E. Dunville, had made himself a great favourite with the gallery. The report concluded by calling attention once more to the fact that the salaries paid to the two eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week each established a record in musical history on this side of the Atlantic. Clarence had just finished this when there came to his ear the faint note of a tarantula singing to its young. He looked up. Opposite him at the next table was seated a youth of fifteen, of slightly grubby aspect. He was eyeing Clarence closely. Clarence took off his spectacles, polished them, and replaced them on his nose. As he did so the thin gruffle of the tarantula sounded once more. Without changing his expression, Clarence cautiously uttered the deep snarl of a sand-deal surprised while bathing. It was sufficient. The other rose to his feet, holding his right hand on a line with his shoulder, palm to the front, thumb resting on the nail of the little finger, and the other three fingers upright. Clarence seized his hat by the brim at the back and moved it swiftly twice up and down. The other, hesitating no longer, came over to his table. Pip, pip! he said in an undertone. Toodaloo! and God save the king! whispered Clarence. The mystic ceremony which always takes place when two boy scouts meet in public was complete. Private Biggs of the eighteenth tarantula, sir, said the boy respectfully, for he had recognized Clarence. Clarence inclined his head. You may sit, Private Biggs. He said graciously, you have news to impart? News, sir, that may be of vital importance. Say on. Private Biggs, who had brought his sparkling lomado, and a bath-bun with him from the other table, took a sip of the former and embarked upon his narrative. I am employed, sir, he said, as a sort of junior clerk and office boy by Mr. Sully Quain, the musical agent. Clarence tapped his brow thoughtfully, then his face cleared. I remember. It was he who secured the engagements of the generals. The same, sir. Proceed. The other resumed his story. It is my duty to sit in a sort of rabbit-hutch in the outer office, take the caller's names, and especially to see that they don't get through to Mr. Quain till he wishes to receive them. That is the most exacting part of my day's work. You wouldn't believe how full of the purest swank some of these pros are. Tell you they've got an appointment as soon as look at you, artful beggars. Clarence nodded sympathetically. This morning, an acrobat and society contortionist made such a fuss that in the end I had to take his card into the private office. Mr. Quain was there talking to a gentleman whom I recognized as his brother, Mr. Colhoun. They were engrossed in their conversation, and did not notice me for a moment. With no wish to play the eavesdropper, I could not help but overhear. They were talking about the generals. Yes, I know their press-agent at 875, dear boy, I heard Mr. Quain say. But between you and me and the doorknob, that isn't what they're getting. The German fellers drawing five hundred of the best, but I could only get four fifty for the Russian. Can't say why. I should have thought of anything he'd be the bigger draw, bit of a comic in his way. And then he saw me. There was some slight unpleasantness. In fact, I've got the sack. After it was over, I came away to try and find you. It seemed to me that the information might be of importance. Clarence's eyes gleamed. You have done splendidly private, no, corporal bigs. Do not regret your lost position. The society shall find you work. This news you have brought is of the utmost, the most vital importance. Dash it! He cried, unbending in his enthusiasm. We've got him on the hop. If they aren't biting pieces out of each other in the next day or two, I'm jolly well mistaken. He rose, then sat down again. Corporal, no dash it, sergeant bigs. You must have something with me. This is an occasion. The news you have brought me may mean the salvation of England. What would you like? The other saluted joyfully. I think I'll have another sparkling lomado, thanks awfully. He said. The beverage arrived. They raised their glasses. To England, said Clarence simply. To England, echoed his subordinate. Clarence left the shop with swift strides and hurried deep in thought to the offices of the Encore in Wellington Street. Yes, said the office boy interrogatively. Clarence gave the scouts a quand, the password. The boy's demeanor changed instantly. He saluted with the utmost respect. I wish to see the editor, said Clarence. A short speech, but one that meant salvation for the motherland. End of Part 2, Chapter 4 Part 2, Chapter 5 of the swoop. The days following Clarence's visit to the offices of the Encore were marked by a growing feeling of unrest, a like among invaded and invaders. The first novelty and excitement of the foreign occupation of the country was beginning to wear off, and in its place the sturdy independence so typical of the English character was reasserting itself. Deep down in his heart, the genuine Englishman has a rugged distaste for seeing his country invaded by a foreign army. People were asking themselves by what right these aliens had overrun British soil. An ever-growing feeling of annoyance had begun to lay hold of the nation. It is probable that the departure of Sir Harry Lauder first brought home to England what this invasion might mean. The great comedian in his manifesto in the Times had not minced his words. Plainly and crisply he had stated that he was leaving the country because the music-hall stage was given over to alien gulks. He was sorry for England. He liked England, but now all he could say was, God bless you. England shuddered, remembering that last time he had said, God bless you till I come back. Ominous mutterings began to make themselves heard. Other causes contributed to swell the discontent. A regiment of Russians out-route marching had walked across the bowling-screen at Kennington Oval during the Surrey-Velankisher match, causing Hayward to be bowled for a duck's egg. A band of German sappers had dug a trench right across the turf at Queen's Club. The mutterings increased. Nor were the invaders satisfied and happy. The late English summer had set in with all its usual severity, and the Cossacks, reared in the kindlier climate of Siberia, were feeling it terribly. Colds were the rule rather than the exception in the Russian lines. The coughing of the Germans at Tottenham could be heard in Oxford Street. The attitude of the British public, too, was getting on their nerves. They had been prepared for fierce resistance. They had pictured the invasion as a series of brisk battles, painful perhaps, but exciting. They had anticipated that when they had conquered the country, they might meet with the glare of hatred as they patrolled the streets. The supercilious stare unnerved them. There is nothing so terrible to the highly strung foreigner as the cold, contemptuous, patronizing gaze of the Englishmen. It gave the invaders a perpetual feeling of doing the wrong thing. They felt like men who had been found travelling in a first-class carriage with a third-class ticket. They became conscious of the size of their hands and feet. As they marched through the metropolis, they felt their ears growing hot and red. Beneath the chilly stare of the populace, they experienced all the sensations of a man who has come to a strange dinner party in a tweed suit when everybody else has dressed. They felt warm and prickly. It was dull for them, too. London is never at its best in early September. Even for the habitue. There was nothing to do. Most of the theatres were shut. The streets were damp and dirty. It was all very well for the generals, appearing every night in the glare and glitter of the footlights. But for the rank and file the occupation of London spelt pure boredom. London was, in fact, a human powder magazine. And it was Clarence Chugwater, who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it in a blaze. Clarence had called at the offices of the Encore on a Friday. The paper's publishing day is Thursday. The Encore is the times of the music-hall world. It casts its curses here, bestows its benedictions, sparely there. The Encore, criticising the latest action of the Variety Artists Federation, is the nearest modern approach to Jove hurling the thunderbolt. Its motto is, Cry Havoc and Let Loose the Performing Dogs of War. It so happened that on the Thursday following his momentous visit to Wellington Street, there was need of someone on the staff of Clarence's evening paper to go and obtain an interview from the Russian general. Mr. Hubert Wales had just published a novel soapfruiting theme and treatment that had been publicly denounced from the pulpit by no less a person than the Reverend Cannon Edgar Shepherd D.D., sub-dean of His Majesty's Chapel's Royal, deputy clerk of the Closet, and sub-almoner to the King. A morning paper had started the question, should there be a censor of fiction? And in accordance with custom, editors were collecting the views of celebrities, preferably of those whose opinion on the subject was absolutely valueless. All the other reporters being away on their duties, the editor was at a loss. Isn't there anybody else? he demanded. The chief sub-editor pondered. There's young blooming chug water, he said. It was thus that England's deliverer was habitually spoken of in the office. Then send him, said the editor. Grand Duke Vodkukov's turn at the Magnum Palace of Varieties started every evening at 10 sharp. He topped the bill. Clarence, having been detained by a review of the scouts, did not reach the hall till five minutes to the hour. He got to the dressing room as the general was going on to the stage. The Grand Duke dressed in the large room with the other male turns. There were no private dressing rooms at the Magnum. Clarence sat down on a basket-trunk, belonging to the premier troupe of the bounding zoos of the desert, and waited. The four athletic young gentlemen who composed the troupe were dressing after their turn. They took no notice of Clarence. Presently one zoo of spoke. Bit off to-night, Bill. Cold house. Not Arf, replied his colleague, gave me the shivers. Wonder how his nibs will go. Evidently he referred to the Grand Duke. Oh, he's all right. They eat his sort of swank. Seems to me the professions go into the dogs. What with these blooming amateurs and all? Got the airbrush, Harry? Harry, a tall, silent zoo of, handed over the hairbrush. Bill continued. I'd like to see him go on of a Monday night at the old mogul. They'd soon show him. It gives me the fair ump it does, these toffs coming in and taking the bread out of our mouths. Why can't he give us chaps a chance? Fair makes me rasp. Him and his blooming eight hundred and seventy-five of goblins a week. Not so much of your eight hundred and seventy-five young fellow milad, said the zoo of, who had spoken first. Ain't you seen the rag this week? No, what's in it? How does our advert look? Oh, that's all right. Never mind that. You look at what the encore would like to know. That's what'll touch his nibs up. He produced a copy of the paper from the pocket of his great coat which hung from the door and passed it to his bounding brother. Read it out, old sort, he said. The other took it to the light and began to read slowly and cautiously, as one who is no expert at the art. What the encore would like to know, whether Prince Otto of Sacks Fennec didn't go particularly big at the Lobalia last week, and whether his success hasn't compelled Agent Quain to purchase a larger-sized hat, and whether it isn't a fact that though they are press-agented at the same figure, Prince Otto is getting fifty a week more than Grand Duke Vodkukov. And if it is not so, why a little bird has assured us that the Prince is being paid five hundred a week and the Grand Duke only four hundred and fifty, and in any case, whether the Prince isn't worth fifty a week more than his Russian friend. Lummy! An odd silence fell upon the group. To Clarence, who had dictated the matter, though the style was the editor's, the paragraph did not come as a surprise. His only feeling was one of relief that the editor had served up his material so well. He felt that he had been justified in leaving the more delicate literary work to that master hand. That'll be one in the eye, said the Zoo of Harry. Here I'll stick it up opposite of him when he comes back to dress. Got a pin in a pencil, some of you? He marked the quarter column heavily and pinned it up beside the looking glass. Then he turned to his companions. How about not waitin' chaps? He suggested. I should now if wonder from the look of him if he wasn't the odd kind of fellow who'd cleave you to the bazooka for tuppence with his blooming falchion. I'm going to hurry through with my dressin' and wait till tomorrow night to see how he looks. No risk for Willie. The suggestions seemed thoughtful and good. The bounding Zoosves with one accord bounded into their clothes and disappeared through the door, just as a long-drawn chord from the invisible orchestra announced the conclusion of the Grand Duke's turn. General Vodkukov strutted into the room, listening complacently to the applause, which was still going on. He had gone well. He felt pleased with himself. It was not for a moment that he noticed Clarence. Ah! he said. The interview, eh? You wish too. Clarence began to explain his mission. While he was doing so the Grand Duke strolled to the basin and began to remove his makeup. He favoured, when on the stage, a touch of the raven gypsy number three grease paint. It added a picturesque swarthiness to his appearance and made him look more like what he felt to be the popular ideal of Russian general. The looking glass hung just over the basin. Clarence, watching him in the glass, saw him start as he read the first paragraph. A dark flush, almost rivaling the raven gypsy number three, spread over his face. He trembled with rage. Who put that paper there? He roared, turning. With reference, then, to Mr. Hubert Whale's novel, said Clarence. The Grand Duke cursed Mr. Hubert Whale's, his novel, and Clarence in one sentence. You may possibly, continued Clarence, sticking to his point like a good interviewer, have read the trenchant but some say justifiable remarks of the raven canon Edgar Shepard, DD sub-dean of his Majesty's Chapel's Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet, and sub-alminer to the King. The Grand Duke swiftly added that eminent cleric to the list. Did you put that paper on this looking glass? He shouted. I did not put that paper on that looking glass. Replied Clarence precisely. Ah! said the Grand Duke. If you had, I'd have come and wrung your neck like a chicken and scattered you to the four corners of this dressing-room. I'm glad I didn't, said Clarence. Have you read this paper on the looking glass? I have not read that paper on the looking glass. Replied Clarence, whose chief fault is a conversationalist, was that he was perhaps a Shade II Allendorphean. But I know its contents. It's a lie! roared the Grand Duke, an infamous lie. I have a good mind to have him up for libel. I know very well he got them to put those paragraphs in, if he didn't write them himself. Professional jealousy, said Clarence with a sigh, is a very sad thing. I'll professional jealousy him. I hear, said Clarence casually, that he has been going very well at the Lebelia. A friend of mine who was there last night told me he took eleven calls. For a moment the Russian general's face swelled apoplectically. Then he recovered himself with a tremendous effort. Wait! he said, with awful calm. Wait till to-morrow night. I'll show him. Went very well, did he? Took eleven calls, did he? Oh, haha! And he'll take them to-morrow night, too. Only. And here his voice took on a note of fiendish purpose so terrible that hardened scout as he was, Clarence felt his flesh creep. Only this time there'll be cat-calls. And with a shout of almost maniac laughter, the jealous artist flung himself into a chair and began to pull off his boots. Clarence silently withdrew. The hour was very near. CHAPTER VII. THE BIRD. The Grand Duke Vodkikov was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. He was no lobster, no flat fish. He did it, now, swift, secret, deadly. A typical Muscovite. By midnight his staff had their orders. Those orders were for the stalls at the Lebelia. Price of entrance to the gallery in Pitt was served out at daybreak to the eighth and fifteenth Cossacks of the Don. Those fierce, semi-civilized fighting machines who know no fear. Grand Duke Vodkikov's preparations were ready. Few more fortunate events have occurred in the history of English literature than the quite accidental visit of Mr. Bart Kennedy to the Lebelia on that historic night. He happened to turn in there casually after dinner, and was thus unable to see the whole thing from start to finish. At a quarter to eleven a wild-eyed man charged in at the main entrance of Carmelite House, and, too impatient to use the lift, dashed up the stairs shouting for pens, ink, and paper. Next morning the daily mail was one riot of headlines. The whole of page five was given up to the topic. The headlines were not elusive. They flung the facts at the reader. Seen at the Lebelia, Prince Otto of Saxe Fennec, given the bird by Russian soldiers, what will be the outcome? There were about seventeen more, and then came Mr. Bart Kennedy's special report. He wrote as follows, A night to remember, a marvellous night, a night such as few will see again, a night of fear and wonder, the night of September the eleventh, last night. Nine thirty. I had dined, I had eaten my dinner, my dinner, so inextricably are the prose and romance of life blended. My dinner. I had eaten my dinner on this night, this wonderful night, this night of September the eleventh, last night. I had dined at the club, a chop, a boiled potato, mushrooms on toast, a touch of stilton, half a bottle of bone. I lay back in my chair, I debated within myself, a hall, a theatre, a book in the library. That night, the night of September the eleventh, as near as a toucher I spent in the library of my club with a book. That night, the night of September the eleventh, last night. Fate took me to the Lobelia, fate, we are its toys, its footballs, we are the footballs of fate. Fate might have sent me to the gaiety, fate took me to the Lobelia, this fate which rules us. I sent in my card to the manager, he let me through, ever courteous. He let me through on my face, this manager, this genial and courteous manager. I was in the Lobelia, a deadhead, I was in the Lobelia as a deadhead. Here in the original draft of the article there are reflections at some length on the interior decorations of the hall, and an excursus on musical performances in general. It is not till he comes to examine the audience that Mr. Kennedy returns to the main issue. And what manner of audience was it that had gathered together to view the entertainment provided by the genial and courteous manager of the Lobelia? The audience, beyond whom there is no appeal, the caesars of the music hall, the audience. At this point the author has a few extremely interesting and thoughtful remarks on the subject of audiences. These may be omitted. In the stalls I noted a solid body of Russian officers. These soldiers from the steppes, these bearded men, these Russians. They sat silent and watchful. They applauded little. The programme left them cold. The trick-cyclist, the dashing subret and idol of Belgravia, the argumentative college chums, the swell comedian, the man with the performing canaries. None of these could rouse them. They were waiting, waiting, waiting tensely, every muscle taut, husbanding their strength. Waiting. For what? A man at my side told a friend that a fellow had told him that he had been told by a commissionaire that the pit and gallery were full of Russians. Russians. Russians everywhere. Why? Were they genuine patrons of the halls? Or were they there from some ulterior motive? There was an air of suspense. We were all waiting, waiting. For what? The atmosphere is summed up in a word. One word. Sinister. The atmosphere was sinister. Ah! A stir in the crowded house. The ruffling of the face of the sea before a storm. The sister's six bee, coon delineators, and unrivaled burlesque artists have finished their dance, smiled, blown kisses, skipped off, skipped on again, smiled, blown more kisses, and disappeared. A long cord from the orchestra. A cord that is almost a wail. A wail of regret for that which has passed. Two liveryed menials appear. They carry sheets of cardboard. These menials carry sheets of cardboard, but not blank sheets. On each sheet is a number. The number fifteen. Who is number fifteen? Prince Otto of Saxfenig. Prince Otto general of the German army. Prince Otto is number fifteen. A burst of applause from the house. But not from the Russians. They are silent. They are waiting. For what? The orchestra plays a lively air. The massive curtain's part. A tall, handsome military figure strides onto the stage. He bows. This tall, handsome military man bows. He is Prince Otto of Saxfenig, general of the army of Germany, one of our conquerors. He begins to speak. Ladies and gentlemen. This man, this general, says ladies and gentlemen. But no more, no more, no more, nothing more, no more. He says, ladies and gentlemen, but no more. And why does he say no more? Has he finished his turn? Is that all he does? Are his eight hundred and seventy five pounds a week paid him for saying, ladies and gentlemen? No. He would say more. He has more to say. This is only the beginning. This tall, handsome man has all his music still within him. Why then does he say no more? Why does he say ladies and gentlemen, but no more, no more? Only that, no more. Nothing more, no more. Because from the stalls a solid, vast, crushing boo is hurled at him. From the Russians and the stalls comes this vast, crushing boo. It is for this that they have been waiting. It is for this that they have been waiting so tensely. For this they have been waiting for this colossal boo. The general retreats a step. He is amazed, startled, perhaps frightened. He waves his hands. From gallery and pit comes a hideous whistling and howling, the noise of wild beasts, the noise of exploding boilers, the noise of a musical audience giving a performer the bird. Everyone is standing on his feet. Some on mine. Everyone is shouting. This vast audience is shouting. Words begin to emerge from the babble. Get off, Ski! Rotten Ternovich! These bearded Russians, these stern critics shout Rotten Ternovich. Fire shoots from the eyes of the German, this strong man's eyes. Get off, Ski! Swanky Tov, Rotten Ternovich! The fury of this audience is terrible. This audience, this last court of appeal, this audience in its fury is terrible. What will happen? The German stands his ground. This man of blood and iron stands his ground. He means to go on. This strong man. He means to go on if it snows. The audience is pulling up the benches. A tomato shatters itself on the prince's right eye. An overripe tomato. Get off, Ski! Three eggs and a cat sail through the air. Falling short, they drop onto the orchestra. These eggs, this cat, they fall on the conductor and the second trombone. They fall like the gentle dew from heaven upon the place beneath. That cat, those eggs! Ah! At last the stage manager, keen, alert, resourceful, saves the situation. This man, this stage manager, this man with the big brain. Slowly, inevitably, the fireproof curtain falls. It is halfway down. It is down. Before it, the audience. The audience. Behind it, the prince. The prince. That general. That man of iron. That performer who has just got the bird. The Russian national anthem rings through the hall. Thunderous, triumphant, the Russian national anthem. A peon of joy. The menials reappear. Those calm, passionate menials. They remove the number fifteen. They insert the number sixteen. They are like destiny. Pitiless, unmoved, purposeful, silent. Those menials. A crash from the orchestra. Turn number sixteen has begun. End of part two, chapter seven. Part two, chapter eight of the swoop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Christian Hughes. The Swoop. Or How Clarent Saved England. By P. G. Woodhouse. Part two, chapter eight. The Meeting at the Scotch Stores. Prince Otto of Saxe Phoenix stood in the wings, shaking in every limb. German oaths of indescribable vigor poured from his lips. In a group some feet away stood six muscular, short-sleeved stage-hands. It was they who had flung themselves on the general at the fall of the Iron Curtain, and prevented him dashing round to attack the stalls with his sabre. At a sign from the stage-manager they were ready to do it again. The stage-manager was endeavouring to administer Balm. Bless you, your Highness. He was saying, It's nothing. It's what happens to everyone some time. Ask any of the top-notch pros. Ask them whether they never got the bird when they were starting. Why, even now, some of the biggest stars can't go to some towns because they always cop it there. Bless you, it— A stage-hand came up with a piece of paper in his hand. Young feller and spectacles in a rum sort of suit. Give me this for your inus. The prince snatched it from his hand. The note was written in a round boyish hand. It was signed, a friend. It ran. The men who booed you tonight were sent for that purpose by General Vodkukov, who is jealous of you because of the paragraphs in the encore this week. Prince Otto became suddenly calm. Excuse me, your Highness. Said the stage-manager anxiously as he moved. You can't go round to the front. Stand by, Bill. Right, sir. Said the stage-hands. Prince Otto smiled pleasantly. There is no danger. I do not intend to go to the front. I am going to look in at the scotch-stores for a moment. Oh, in that case, your Highness. Good night, your Highness. Better luck tomorrow, your Highness. It had been the custom of the two generals since they had joined the musical profession to go after their turn to the scotch-stores, where they stood talking and blocking the gangway, as etiquette demands that a successful artiste shall. The prince had little doubt but that he would find Vodkukov there to-night. He was right. The Russian general was there chatting affably across the counter about the weather. He nodded at the prince with a well-assumed carelessness. Go well to-night? He inquired casually. Prince Otto clenched his fists. But he had had a rigorously diplomatic upbringing and knew how to keep a hold on himself. When he spoke it was in the familiar language of diplomacy. The rain has stopped, he said. But the pavements are still wet under foot. Has your grace taken the precaution to come out in a good stout pair of boots? The shaft plainly went home, but the Grand Duke's manner as he replied was unruffled. Rain, he said, sipping his vermouth, is always wet. But sometimes it is cold as well. But it never falls upward. Said the prince, pointedly. Rarely, I understand. Your powers of observation are keen, my dear prince. There is a silence. Then the prince, momentarily baffled, returned to the attack. The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway, he said, is to go by underground. Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway, replied the Grand Duke Swavly. The prince gridded his teeth. He was no match for his slippery adversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it. The sun rises in the east, he cried half choking. But it sets, it sets. So does a hen, was the cynical reply. The last remnants of the prince's self-control were slipping away. This elusive diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain, if one is not in the mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ballroom at some frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that the thing was his doing, it is little short of maddening. HEN! he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. Have you studied the habits of hens? The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master diplomat before him was used to extracting himself from awkward corners. Pullits were the southern exposure. He drawled, have yellow legs and ripened quickest. The prince was nonplussed. He had no answer. The girl behind the bar spoke. You do talk silly, you two, she said. It was enough, trivial as the remark was. It was the last straw. The prince brought his fists down with a crash on the counter. Yes, he shouted, you are right. We do talk silly, but we shall do so no longer. I am tired of this verbal fencing. A plain answer to a plain question. Did you or did you not send your troops to give me the bird tonight? My dear prince! The grand duke raised his eyebrows. Did you or did you not? The wise man, said the Russians, still determined on evasion, never take sides, unless they are sides of bacon. The prince smashed a glass. You did, he roared. I know you did. Listen to me. I'll give you one chance. I'll give you and your precious soldiers twenty-four hours from midnight to night to leave this country, if you are still here then. He paused dramatically. The grand duke slowly drained his vermouth. Have you seen my professional advertisement in the air, my dear prince? He asked. I have, what of it? You noticed nothing about it? I did not. Ah, if you had looked more closely you would have seen the words, permanent address, hamsted. You mean? I mean that I see no occasion to alter that advertisement in any way. There was another tense silence. The two men looked hard at each other. That is your final decision, said the German. The Russian bowed. So be it, said the prince, turning to the door. I have the honour to wish you a very good night. The same to you, said the grand duke. Mind the step. an open rupture had occurred between the generals of the two invading armies was not slow in circulating. The early editions of the evening papers were full of it. A symposium of the opinions of Dr. Emil Reich, Dr. Sailby, Sandow, Mr. Kyoza Money, and Lady Grove was hastily collected. Young men with nobly and bulging foreheads were turned on by their editors to write character sketches of the two generals. All was stir in activity. Meanwhile, those who look after London's public amusements were busy with telephone and telegraph. The quarrel had taken place on Friday night. It was probable that, unless steps were taken, the battle would begin early on Saturday. Which it did not require a man of unusual intelligence to see, would mean a heavy financial loss to those who supplied London with its Saturday afternoon amusements. The matinees would suffer. The battle might not affect the stalls and dress circle, perhaps, but there could be no possible doubt that the pit in gallery receipts would fall off terribly. To the public, which supports the pit in gallery of a theatre, there is an irresistible attraction about a fight on anything like a large scale. When one considers that a quite ordinary street fight will attract hundreds of spectators, it will be plainly seen that no theatrical entertainment could hope to compete against so strong a counter-attraction as a battle between the German and Russian armies. The various football grounds would be heavily hit, too, and there was to be a monster-roller skating carnival at Olympia. That would also be spoiled. A deputation of amusement caterers hurried to the two camps within an hour of the appearance of the first evening paper. They put their case plainly in well. The generals were obviously impressed. Messages passed and repassed between the two armies, and in the end it was decided to put off the outbreak of hostilities till Monday morning. Satisfactory as this undoubted was for the theatre managers and directors of football clubs, it was in some ways a pity. From the standpoint of the historian it spoiled the whole affair. But for the postponement, readers of this history might, nay would, have been able to absorb a vivid and masterly account of the great struggle with a careful description of the tactics by which victory was achieved. They would have been told the disposition of the various regiments, the stratagems, the dashing advances, the skillful retreats, and the lessons of the war. As it is, owing to the mistake and good nature of the rival generals, the date of the fixture was changed, and practically all that a historian can do is to record the result. A slight mist had risen as early as four o'clock on Saturday. By nightfall the atmosphere was a little dense, but the lampposts were still clearly visible at a distance of some feet, and nobody accustomed living in London would have noticed anything much out of the common. It was not till Sunday morning that the fog proper really began. London awoke on Sunday to find the world blanketed in the densest, yellowest London particular that had been experienced for years. It was the sort of day when the city clerk has the exhilarating certainty that at last he has an excuse for lateness which cannot possibly be received with harsh disbelief. People spent the day indoors and hoped it would clear up by tomorrow. They can't possibly fight if it's like this, they told each other. But on the Monday morning the fog was, if possible, denser. It wrapped London about as with a garment. People shook their heads. They'll have to put it off, they were saying, when of a sudden boom and again boom. It was the sound of heavy guns. The battle had begun. One does not wish to grumble or make a fuss, but still it does seem a little hard that a battle of such importance, a battle so outstanding in the history of the world, should have been fought under such conditions. London at that moment was richer than ever before in descriptive reporters. It was the age of descriptive reporters, of vivid pen pictures. In every newspaper office there were men who could have hauled up their slacks about that battle in a way that would have made a YMCA lecturer want to get at somebody with a bayonet, men who could have handed out the adjectives and exclamation marks till you almost heard the roar of the guns. And there they were, idle, supine, like careened battleships. They were helpless. Bart Kennedy did an article which began, fog, black fog, and the roar of guns, two nations fighting in the fog. But it never came to anything. It was promising for a while, but it died of an enition in the middle of the second stick. It was hard. The lot of the actual war correspondence was still worse. It was useless for them to explain that the fog was too thick to give them a chance. If it's light enough for them to fight, said their editors remorselessly, it's light enough for you to watch them. And out they had to go. They had a perfectly miserable time. Edgar Wallace seems to have lost his way almost at once. He was found two days later in an almost starving condition at Steeple Bomstead. How he got there nobody knows. He said he had set out to walk to where the noise of the guns seemed to be, and had gone on walking. Bennett Burley, that crafty old campaigner, had the sagacity to go by tube. This brought him to Hampstead, the scene it turned out later, of the fiercest operations, and with any luck he might have had a story to tell. But the lift stuck half way up owing to a German shell bursting in its neighborhood, and it was not till the following evening that a search party heard and rescued him. The rest, A. G. Hales, Frederick Villiers, Charles Hans and the others, met on a smaller scale, the same fate as Edgar Wallace. Hales, starting for Tottenham, arrived in Croydon, very tired, with a nail in his boot. Villiers, equally unlucky, fetched up at Richmond. The most curious fate of all was reserved for Charles Hans. As far as can be gathered he got on all right till he reached Leicester Square. There he lost his bearings and seems to have walked round and round Shakespeare's statue under the impression that he was going straight to Tottenham. After a day and a half of this he sat down to rest, and was there found when the fog had cleared by a passing policeman. And all the while the unseen guns boomed and thundered, and strange thin shoutings came faintly through the darkness. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Swoop. Or How Clarence Saved England. By P. G. Woodhouse. Part 2, Chapter 10. The Triumph of England. It was the afternoon of Wednesday September the 16th. The battle had been over for 24 hours. The fog had thinned to a light lemon colour. It was raining. By now the country was in possession of the main facts. Full details were not to be expected, though it is to the credit of the newspapers that with keen enterprise they had at once set to work to invent them, and on the whole had not done badly. Broadly the facts were that the Russian army, outmaneuvered, had been practically annihilated. Of the vast force which had entered England with the other invaders there remained but a handful. These, the Grand Duke Vodkukov among them, were prisoners in the German lines at Tottenham. The victory had not been gained bloodlessly. Not a fifth of the German army remained. It is estimated that quite two-thirds of each army must have perished in that last charge of the Germans up the Hampstead Heights, which ended in the storming of Jack Straw's castle and the capture of the Russian general. Prince Otto of Saxfenig lay sleeping in his tent at Tottenham. He was worn out. In addition to the strain of the battle there had been the heavy work of seeing the interviewers, signing autograph books, sitting to photographers, writing testimonials for patent medicines, and the thousand and one other tasks, burdensome but unavoidable, of the man who was in the public eye. Also he had caught a bad cold during the battle. A bottle of ammoniated quinine lay on the table beside him now as he slept. As he lay there the flap of the tent was pulled softly aside. Two figures entered. Each was dressed in a flat brimmed hat, a coloured handkerchief, a flannel shirt, football shorts, stockings, brown boots, and a whistle. Each carried a hockey stick. One, however, wore spectacles and a look of quiet command which showed that he was the leader. They stood looking at the prostrate general for some moments. Then the spectacled leader spoke. Scoutmaster Wagstaff, the other saluted, wake him. Scoutmaster Wagstaff walked to the side of the bed and shook the sleeper's shoulder. The prince grunted and rolled over onto his other side. The scoutmaster shook him again. He sat up, blinking. As his eyes fell on the quiet stern spectacled figure, he leapt from the bed. What, what, what? he stammered. What's the beating of this? He sneezed as he spoke, and turning to the table, poured out and drained a bumper of ammoniated quinine. I told the sedry particularly not to let anybody id. Who are you? The intruder smiled quietly. My name is Clarence Chugwater, he said simply. Chugwater, don't dough you from adip. What do you want? If you're full of paper, I can't see you now. Come to borrow boarding. I am from no paper. That you're one of these photographers. I tell you I can see you. I am no photographer. That what are you? The other drew himself up. I am England, he said, with a sublime gesture. Igled. How do you beat your igled, talk, says. Clarence silenced him with a frown. I say I am England. I am the chief scout, and the scouts are England. Prince Otto, you thought this England of ours lay prone and helpless. You were wrong. The boy scouts were watching and waiting, and now their time has come. Scoutmaster Wagstaff, do your duty. The Scoutmaster moved forward. The Prince, bounding to the bed, thrust his hand under the pillow. Clarence's voice rang out like a trumpet. Cover that man. The Prince looked up. Two feet away, Scoutmaster Wagstaff was standing, catapult in hand, ready to shoot. He is never known to miss, said Clarence, warningly. The Prince wavered. He has broken more windows than any other boy of his age in south London. The Prince, sullenly withdrew his hand, empty. Well, what do you wud? he snarled. Resistance is useless, said Clarence. The moment I have plotted and planned for has come. Your troops, worn out with fighting, mere shadows of themselves, have fallen in easy prey. An hour ago your camp was silently surrounded by patrols of boy scouts, armed with catapults and hockey sticks. One rush and the battle was over. Your entire army, like yourself, are prisoners. The Diggards they are, said the Prince blankly. England, my England, cried Clarence, his face shining with a holy patriotism. England, thou art free. Thou hast risen from the ashes of the dead self. Let the nations learn from this, that it is when apparently crushed that the Britain is to more than ever be feared. That's bad grabber, said the Prince critically. It isn't, said Clarence with warmth. It is, I tell you, it's a splitted fidative. Clarence's eyes flashed fire. I don't want any of your beastly cheek, he said. Scoutmaster Wagstaff, remove your prisoner. All the Sabe, said the Prince. It is a splitted fidative. Clarence pointed silently to the door. And you know it is, persisted the Prince, and it spoiled your big speech. It— Come on, can't you? interrupted Scoutmaster Wagstaff. I have cubby guard tie. I was odysseig. I'll give you such a whack over the shin with this hockey stick in a minute, said the Scoutmaster warningly. Come on. The Prince went.