of hurrying and scurrying hither and thither. Where there had
been almost pitch darkness, was now a glittering, brilliant bath
of light, in which the figures of men and women, moving swiftly to
and fro, appeared like animated silhouettes. But even as he stared
before him at the extraordinary Hogarthian vision, the roadway and
the pavements of the Strand became strangely and suddenly deserted,
while he began to hear the hoot, hoot of the fire-engines galloping
to the scene of the disaster. Before him the line of police and
of special constables remained unbroken, and barred his further
progress.
"I don't want to go past the theater," he whispered urgently. "I
only want to get to Bow Street, as quickly as possible, on a very
important matter." He slipped the half-crown he had meant to give
the waif he had taken Kitty to be, into a policeman's hand, and
though the man shook his head he let him through.
Sherston shot down the Strand, to his left. Almost filling up the
steep, lane-like street which leads down to the Savoy Hotel, were
rows of ambulances, groups of nurses, and Red Cross men, and absorbed
though he was once more in his own sensations, and the thought of
the terrible ordeal that lay in front of him, Sherston yet found
himself admiring the quickness with which they had been rushed
hither.
On he went, and crossed the empty roadway. How strange that so
little attention was being paid to the fire! Instead of a hurrying
mob of men and women, the Strand was now extraordinarily empty,
both of people and of vehicles, and now and again he could hear
the sound of knocking, of urgent knocking, as if some one who has
been locked out, and is determined to be let in.
He strode quickly along, feeling his way somewhat, for apart from
the reflection of the red sky, it was pitch dark in the side streets,
and soon he stood before the Police Station. The big old-fashioned
building was just within the outer circle of light cast by the huge
fire whose fierceness seemed to increase rather than diminish, and
Sherston suddenly espied an Inspector standing half in the open
door. "I've some very urgent business," he said hurriedly. "Could
you come inside for a moment, and take down a statement?"
"What's your business about?" said the man sharply, and in the
wavering light Sherston thought his face looked oddly distraught
and pale.
"There's a woman lying dead at No. 19 Peter the Great Terrace,"
began Sherston curtly--
The man bent forward. "There's many women already lying dead about
here, sir, and likely to be more--babies and children too--before
we're through with this hellish business!" he said grimly. "If
she's dead, poor thing, we can do nothing for her. But if you
think there's any life left in her--well, you'll find plenty of
ambulances, as well as doctors and nurses, down Strand way. But
if I was you, I'd wait a bit before going back. They're still
about--" and even as he uttered the word "about" he started back
into the shelter of the building, pulling Sherston roughly in with
him as he did so, and there came a loud, dull report, curiously
analogous to that which a quarter of an hour ago--it seemed hours
rather than minutes--Sherston had taken for the bursting of a
motor tire. But this time the sound was at once followed by that
of shattered glass, and of falling masonry.
"Good God!" he cried. "What's that?"
"A goodish lot of damage this time, I should think," said the
Inspector thoughtfully. "Though they're doing wonderfully little
considering how they--"
"THEY?"
"Zeppelins, of course, sir! Why didn't you guess that? They say
there're two over us if not three." Then in a voice, so changed,
so charged with relief, that his own mother would not have known
it for the same, the man exclaimed, "Look up, sir--there they are!
And they're off--the hellish things!" And Sherston throwing up
his head, did indeed see what looked to his astonished eyes like
two beautiful golden trout swimming across the sky just above him.
As he stood awestruck, fascinated at the astounding sight, he also
saw what looked like a falling star shoot down from one of the
Zeppelins, and again there fell on his ears that strange explosive
thud.
The man by his side uttered a stifled oath. "There's another--let's
hope it's the last in this district!" he exclaimed. "See! They're
off down the river now!"
Even as he said the words the space in front of the Police Station
was suddenly filled with a surging mass of people, men, women,
even children, making their way Strandward, to see all that there
was to see, now that the immediate danger was past.
"If I were you, sir, I think I'd stay here quietly a bit, till
the crowd has thinned, and been driven back. I take it you can't
do that poor woman of whom you spoke just now any good--I take it
she's dead, sir?" the Inspector spoke very feelingly.
"Yes, she certainly is dead," said Sherston dully.
"Well, I must be going now, but if you like to stay here a while,
I'm sure you're welcome, sir."
"No," said Sherston. "I think I'll go out and see whether I can
do anything to help."
The two passed out into the roadway, and took their place among the
slowly moving people there, the Inspector make a way for himself
and his companion through the excited, talkative, good-humored
Cockney crowd. "There it is! Can't you see it? Up there just
like a little yellow worm." "There's naught at all! You've got
the cobble-wobbles!" and then a ripple of laughter.
Sherston was borne along with the human stream, and with that stream
he suddenly found himself stopped at the westward end of Wellington
Street. Over the heads of the people before him--they were, oddly
enough, mostly women--he could see the column of flame still burning
steadily upwards, and scarcely affected at all by the huge jets of
water now playing on it.
It seemed to start from the ground, a massive pillar of fire, and
all round it was an empty space--a zone no human being could approach
for fear of being at once roasted and shriveled up to death. "The
bomb got down to the big gas main," observed a voice close to him.
"It'll be days before they get THAT fire under!"
He, Sherston, felt marvelously calm. This strange, awful visitation
had made for him a breathing space in which to reconsider what he
had better do, and suddenly he decided that he would go and consult
Mr. Pomeroy. But before doing that he must force himself to go
back and fetch certain documents which fortunately he had kept....
He made his way, with a great deal of difficulty--for it was as
if all London had by now flocked to this one afflicted area--by
a circuitous way to the Strand. Tramping through a six-inch-deep
flood of broken glass he made his way by the Embankment and the
Waterloo Bridge steps to the upper level, that leading to, and
past, Peter the Great Terrace.
A vast host was now westward from over the river, and he felt the
electric currents of joyous excitement, retrospective fear, and,
above all, of eager, almost ferocious, curiosity, linking up rapidly
about him. The rough and ready cordon of special constables seemed
powerless to dam the human tide, and caught in that tide's eddies,
Sherston struggled helplessly.
"Let me through," he shouted at last. "I MUST get through!"
"You can't get through just here--there's a house been struck in
Peter the Great Terrace! 'Twas the last bomb did it!"
Sherston uttered a groan--Ah! If only that were true! But he had
just now glanced up and seen the row of big substantial eighteenth
century houses, of which his was the end one, solidly outlined
against the star-powdered sky, though every pane of glass had been
blown out.
Then some one turned round. "It's the corner house been struck.
Bomb fell right through the skylight. They've sent for the firemen
to see what damage was done. You can't see anything from this
side."
THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT?
Sherston was a powerful man. He forced his way, he did not know
how, blindly, to the very front of the crowd.
Yes, there were two firemen standing by the low, sunk-in door, that
door through which he had come and gone hundreds, nay thousands, of
times, in his life. So much was true, but everything else was as
usual. "I live here," he said hoarsely. "Will you let me through?"
The fireman shook his head. "No, sir. I can't let any one through.
And if I did 'twould be no good. The staircase is clean gone--a
great big stone staircase, too! It's all in bits, just like a lot
of rubble. The front of the house ain't touched, but the center
and behind--well, sir, you never did see such a sight!"
"Any one hurt?" asked Sherston in a strangled tone. He felt a
most extraordinary physical sensation of lightness--of--of--was it
dissolution?--sweep over his mind and body. He heard as in a far
away dream the answer to his question.
"There was no one in the house at all, from what we can make out.
The caretaker had a lucky escape, or he'd be buried alive by now,
but he and his missus had already gone out to see the sights."
A moment later the fireman was holding Sherston in his big brawny
arms, and shouting, "An ambulance this way--send a long a nurse
please--gentleman's fainted!" The crowd parted eagerly, respectfully.
"Poor feller!" exclaimed one woman in half piteous, half furious
tones. "Those damned Germans--they've gone and destroyed the poor
chap's little all. I heard him explaining just now as what he
lived here!"
[signed]Maid Belloc Lowndes
A Canadian Soldier's Dominion Day at Shorncliffe
"Is there a holiday next Thursday?" inquired a Canadian officer of
an English confrere.
"A holiday? Not that I know of. Why should there be?"
"Why? Because it's Dominion Day."
"Dominion Day?" blankly echoed the English Officer.
"Yes! Did you never hear of it, you benighted Islander?"
"I really am afraid not," replied the English Officer, convicted
by the Canadian's tone of nothing less than crime. "Just what is
it?"
"Perhaps you have never heard of Canada?"
"Well, RATHER, we hear something of Canada these days."
Then, as the light began to break in on his darkened soul, "Ah, I
see, that is your Canadian National Day, is it not?"
"It is. And the question is, 'Are we going to have a holiday?'"
"Well, you see the King specially requested that there be no holiday
on his birthday."
"The King's birthday! Oh, that's right--but this is different,
you see."
The Englishman looked mildly surprised.
"Oh, the King's all right," continued the Canadian, answering
the other's look, "we think a lot of him these days. But--you
know--Dominion Day--"
"I hope you may get it, old chap, but I fancy we are in for the
usual grind."
The Canadian officer had little objection to the grind nor had
his men. The Canadians eat up work. But somehow it did not seem
right that the 1st of July slide past without celebration of any
kind. He had memories of that day, of its early morning hours when
a kid he used to steal down stairs to let off a few firecrackers
from his precious bunch just to see how they would go. Latterly he
had not cared for the fireworks part of it except for the Kiddies.
But somehow he was conscious of a new interest in Canada's birthday.
Perhaps because Canada was so far away and the Kiddies would be
wanting some one to set off their crackers. It was good to be in
England, the beautiful old motherland, but it was not Canada and
it did not seem right that Canada's birthday should be allowed to
pass unmarked. So too through the Commandant of the Shorncliffe
Camp, a right good Canadian he.
"I have arranged a Tattoo for the evening," he announced in
conversation with the Canadian Officer the day before the First.
"What about a holiday, Colonel?" The Commandant shook his head.
"Well, then, a half-holiday?"
"No. At least," remembering the officer's ancestry and that he
was a Canadian Highlander, "not officially, whateffer."
"Shall I get a rope for the Tug of War, do you think?"
"I think," replied the Commandant slowly with a wink in his left
eye, "you might get the rope."
This was sufficient encouragement for the 43rd to go on with and
so the rope was got and vaulting pole and standards with other
appurtenances of a day of sports. And the preparations went bravely
on. So also went on the Syllabus which for Dominion Day showed,
Company Drill, Instruction Classes, Lectures, Physical for the
forenoon, Bayonet fighting and Route marching for the afternoon.
"All right, let her go," and so the fields and plains, the lanes and
roads are filled with Canadian soldiers celebrating their Dominion
Day, drilling, bayonet fighting, route marching, while overhead
soars thrumming the watchful airship, Britain's eye. For Britain
has a business on hand. Just yonder stretches the misty sea where
unsleeping lie Britain's men of war. Beyond the sea bleeding
Belgium has bloodsoaked ground crying to Heaven long waiting but
soon at length to hear. And France fiercely, proudly proving her
right to live an independent nation. And Germany. Germany! the
last word in intellectual power, in industrial achievement, in
scientific research, aye and in infamous brutality! Germany, the
might modern Hun, the highly scienced barbarian of this twentieth
Century, more bloody than Attila, more ruthless than his savage
hordes. Germany doomed to destruction because freedom is man's
inalienable birthright, man's undying passion. Germany! fated to
execration by future generations for that she ahs crucified the
Son of God afresh and put Him to an open shame. Germany! for the
balking of whose insolent and futile ambition, and for the crushing of
whose archaic military madness we Canadians are tramping on this
Dominion Day these English fields and these sweet English lanes 5,000
miles from our Western Canada which dear land we can not ever see
again if this monstrous threatening cloud be not removed forever
from our sky. For this it is that 100,000 Canadian citizens have
left their homes with 500,000 eager more to follow if needed, other
sons of the Empire knit in one firm resolve that once more Freedom
shall be saved for the race as by their sires in other days.
But the Tattoo is on--the ground chosen is the little plateau within
the lines of the 43rd just below the Officer's tents, flanked on
one side by a sloping grassy hill on the other by a row of ancient
trees shading a little hidden brook that gurgles softly to itself
all day long. On the sloping hill the soldiers of the various
battalions lie stretched at ease in khaki colored kilts and trews,
caps and bonnets, except the men of the 43rd who wear the dark
blue Glengarry. In the center of the plateau a platform invites
attention and on each side facing it rows of chairs for officers
and their friends, among the latter some officers' wives, happy
creatures and happy officers to have them so near and not 5,000
miles away.
The Commandant has been called away on a sad business, a soldier's
funeral, hence the Junior Major of the 43rd as chairman of that
important and delicately organized Committee of the Bandmasters and
Pipe Majors of the various battalions is in charge of the program.
Major Grassie is equal to the occasion, quiet, ready resourceful.
With him associated is Major Watts, Adjutant of the 9th, as
Musical Director; in peaceful times organist and choir master of
a Presbyterian congregation in Edmonton far away.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The drums in the distance begin to throb and from the eastern side
of the plain march in the band of the 9th playing their regimental
march, "Garry Owen," none the less. From the west the band of the
11th, then that of the 12th, finally (for the 43rd Band is away
on leave, worse luck) the splendid Band of the 49th, each playing
its own Regimental march which is taken up by the bands already
in position. Next comes the massed buglers of all the regiments,
their thrilling soaring notes rising above the hills, and take their
stand beside the bands already in place. Then a pause, when from
round the hill shoulder rise wild and weird sounds. The music of
the evening, to Scottish hearts and ears, has begun. It is the
fine pipe band of the 42nd Royal Highlanders from Montreal, khaki
clad, kilts and bonnets, and blowing proudly and defiantly their
"Wha saw the Forty-twa." Again a pause and from the other side
of the hill gay with tartan and blue bonnets, their great blooming
drones gorgeous with flowing streamers and silver mountings, in
march the 43rd Camerons. "Man, would Alex Macdonald be proud of
his pipes to-day," says a Winnipeg Highlander for these same pipes
are Alex's gift to the 43rd, and harkening to these great booming
drones I agree.
Ah these pipes! These Highland pipes! Truly as one of them said,
"Pipers are no just like other people!" Blowing their "Pilrock
of Donald Dhu" they swing into line, mighty and magnificent. Last
comes the brave little pipe band of the 49th. This battalion has
one Scotch company from Edmonton, which insisted on bringing its
pipe band along. Why not? "The Blue Bonnets" is their tune and
finely they ring it out. Now they are all in place, Bands, Bugle
and Pipes. The massed Bands strike up our National Song, and all
the soldiers spring to their feet and sing "Oh, Canada." A little
high but our hearts were in it. And so the program goes on. Single
bands and massed bands with solos from French Horns, Trombones and
Cornets, varied delightfully with the Highland Fling by Pipe Major
Johnson of the 42nd, and the Sword Dance by Piper Reid of the 43rd
followed by an encore, the "Shean Rheubs" which I defy any mere
Sassenach to pronounce or to dance, at least as Piper Heid of the
twinkling feet danced it that night. For he did it "in the style
of Willie Maclennan," as a piper said, "the best of his day and
they have not matched him yet." The massed pipe bands play "The
79th's Farewell at Gibraltar." Forty-one pipers and every man
blowing his best. "Aye man, it is grand hearing you," said a man
from the north. Colonel Moore of the 9th, on a minute's warning,
makes a fine speech instinct with patriotic sentiment and calls for
three cheers for Canada. He got three and a tiger and "a tiger's
pup." Major Grassie in another speech neat and to the point thanks
those who had helped to celebrate our Dominion Day and once more
calls for cheers and gets them. Then the "First Post" warns us that
we are soldiers and under orders. The massed bands play "Nearer
My God to Thee." Full and tender the long drawn notes of the
great hymn rise and fall on the evening air, the soldiers joining
reverently. The Chaplain of the 43rd congratulates the Commandment
upon the happy suggestion of a Tattoo, the Chairman upon his very
successful program and all the Company upon a very happy celebration of
our national holiday--then a word about our Day and all it stands
for, a word about our Empire, our Country, our Kiddies at home,
another word of thanks to the Committee for the closing hymn so
eminently appropriate to their present circumstances and then God
bless our King, God bless our Empire, God bless our Great Cause
and God bless our dear Canada. Good night.
The "Last Post" sounds. Its piercing call falls sharp and startling
upon the silent night. Long after we say "Good night" that last
long-drawn note high and clear with its poignant pathos lingers in
our hearts. The Dominion Day celebration is over.
[signed]Ralph Connor
Simple as Day
It was among the retorts and test-tubes of his physical laboratory
that we were privileged to interview the Great Scientist. His
back was towards us when we entered. With characteristic modesty
he kept it so for some time after our entry. Even when he turned
round and saw us his face did not react off us as we should have
expected.
He seemed to look at us, if such a thing were possible, without
seeing us, or, at least, without wishing to see us.
We handed him our card.
He took it, read it, dropped it into a bowlful of sulphuric acid,
and then, with a quiet gesture of satisfaction, turned again to
his work.
We sat for some time behind him. "This then," we thought to
ourselves (we always think to ourselves when we are left alone)
"is the man, or rather is the back of the man, who has done more"
(here we consulted the notes given us by our editor) "to revolutionize
our conception of atomic dynamics than the back of any other man."
Presently the Great Scientist turned towards us with a sigh that
seemed to our ears to have a note of weariness in it. Something,
we felt, must be making him tired.
"What can I do for you?" he said.
"Professor," we answered, "we have called upon you in response to
an overwhelming demand on the part of the public--"
The Great Scientist nodded.
"--to learn something of your new researches and discoveries in--"
(here we consulted a minute card which we carried in our pocket)
"--in radio-active-emanations which are already becoming--" (we
consulted our card again) "--a household word--"
The professor raised his hand as if to check us--
"I would rather say," he murmured, "helio-radio-active--"
"So would we," we admitted, "much rather--"
"After all," said the Great Scientist, "helium shares in the most
intimate degree the properties of radium. So, too, for the matter
of that," he added in afterthought, "do thorium, and borium!"
"Even borium!" we exclaimed, delighted, and writing rapidly in our
note book. Already we saw ourselves writing up as our headline,
"Borium Shares Properties of Thorium."
"Just what is it," said the Great Scientist, "that you want to
know?"
"Professor," we answered, "what our journal wants is a plain and
simple explanation, so clear that even our readers can understand
it, of the new scientific discoveries in radium. We understand
that you possess more than any other man the gift of clear and
lucid thought--"
The Professor nodded.
"--and that you are able to express yourself with greater simplicity
than any two men now lecturing."
The Professor nodded again.
"Now, then," we said, spreading our notes on our knee, "go at it.
Tell us, and through us, tell a quarter of a million anxious readers
just what all these new discoveries are about."
"The whole thing," said the Professor, warming up to his work as
he perceived from the motions of our face and ears our intelligent
interest, "is simplicity itself. I can give it to you in a word--"
"That's it," we said. "Give it to us that way."
"It amounts, if one may boil it down to a phrase--"
"Boil it, boil it," we interrupted.
"--amounts, if one takes the mere gist of it--"
"Take it," we said, "take it."
"--amounts to the resolution of the ultimate atom."
"Ha!" we exclaimed.
"I must ask you first to clear your mind," the Professor continued,
"of all conception of ponder able magnitude."
We nodded. We had already cleared our minds of this.
"In fact," added the Professor, with what we thought a quiet note
of warning in his voice, "I need hardly tell you that what we are
dealing with must be regarded as altogether ultra-microscopic."
We hastened to assure the professor that, in accordance with the
high standards of honor represented by our journal, we should of
course regard anything that he might say as ultra-microscopic and
treat it accordingly.
"You say, then," we continued, "that the essence of the problem is
the resolution of the atom. Do you think you can give us any idea
of what the atom is?"
The professor looked at us searchingly.
We looked back at him, openly and frankly. The moment was critical
for our interview. Could he do it? Were we the kind of person
that he could give it to? Could we get it if he did?
"I think I can," he said. "Let us begin with the assumption that
the atom is an infinitesimal magnitude. Very good. Let us grant,
then, that though it is imponderable and indivisible it must have
a spatial content? You grant me this?"
"We do," we said, "we do more than this, we GIVE it to you."
"Very well. If spatial, it must have dimension: if dimension--form:
let us assume 'ex hypothesi' the form to be that of a spheroid and
see where it leads us."
The professor was now intensely interested. He walked to and from
in his laboratory. His features worked with excitement. We worked
ours, too, as sympathetically as we could.
"There is no other possible method in inductive science," he added,
"than to embrace some hypothesis, the most attractive that one can
find, and remain with it--"
We nodded. Even in our own humble life after our day's work we
had found this true.
"Now," said the Professor, planting himself squarely in front of
us, "assuming a spherical form, and a spatial content, assuming the
dynamic forces that are familiar to us and assuming--the thing is
bold, I admit--"