Once again we are "for it." It is that heavy hour between five and six when
the vitality is all too low for the ordeal that awaits us. On either side
the far-flung battle line of clustering figures stretches away into the
gloom. It is an inspiring sight, this tense silent crowd of men of every
class and vocation, united by a common purpose, grimly awaiting the moment
when as one man they will hurl themselves into the fray.
Is it the mere lust for fighting that has brought them here? Or is it the
thought of the home that each hopes to return to that steels their courage
and lends that _elan_ to their resolution without which one enters the
struggle in vain?
In the dim half-light I furtively scan the set faces around me and find
myself wondering what thoughts those impassive masks conceal. Are they
counting the cost? Most of them have been through the ordeal before. Pale
faces there are--small wonder when one thinks of what lies before them.
Here and there a man is puffing at his beloved "gasper" with the
nonchalance that marks your bull-dog breed when stern work is afoot.
Yet one cannot keep one's thoughts from the tremendous possibilities of the
next few minutes. Where shall we be a few minutes hence? Some, one knows,
will have gone West--and the others? Would they effect a lodgement, or be
hurled back baffled and raging and impotent, as, alas! had too often been
the case before?
And what of those who were even now maybe preparing against our onslaught?
Their intelligence could hardly have failed to warn them of our intentions.
The position would be occupied, never fear, and in force, with seasoned men
from the East.
At last a stunning roar that seems to shake the very ground, rising to a
shriek. Now it is each man for himself. The long line surges forward,
looking eagerly for a breach. Now we can see our opponents--hate in their
eyes--as they brace themselves for the shock. Now we are into them,
fighting silently, with a sort of cold fury save where a muttered curse or
the sharp cry of the injured bears testimony to the fierceness of the
struggle.
But see, they turn and waver. One more rush and we are through, driving
them before us. The position is won.
Breathing hard we look around at the havoc we have wrought, and suddenly
the glamour of victory seems to fade and one loathes the whole senseless,
savage business. We do not really hate these men. After all, they are our
fellow-creatures.
But what would you? One cannot spend the night on Charing Cross District
platform.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHAKSPEARE AND THE NEW ART.
"WHAT'S HERE? THE PORTRAIT OF A BLINKING IDIOT?"
_Merchant of Venice, Act II. Sc. 9._]
* * * * *
From a drapery firm's advertisement:
"WE NEVER ALLOW