dared to raise their voices in alarm, were now admitting that the country should have listened and heeded.
London, it was plain, had already abandoned hope. The British successes had been so slight. The command of the sea was still in German hands, although in the House the Admiralty had reassured the country that in a few days we should regain the supremacy.
A few days! In a few days London might be invested by the enemy, and then would begin a reign of terror unequalled by any in the history of the civilised world.
By day the streets of the city presented a scene of turmoil and activity, for it seemed as though City workers clung to their old habit of going there each morning, even though their workshops, offices, and warehouses were closed. By night the West End, Pall Mall, Piccadilly, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Portland Place, Leicester Square, Whitehall, Victoria Street, and around Victoria Station were filled with idle, excited crowds of men, women, and children, hungry, despairing, wondering.
At every corner men and boys shouted the latest editions of the newspapers. "'Nother great Battle! 'Nother British Defeat! Fall of Sheffield!" rose above the excited chatter of the multitude. The cries fell upon the ears of defenceless Londoners, darkening the outlook as hour after hour wore on.
The heat was stifling, the dust suffocating, now that the roads were no longer cleaned. The theatres were closed. Only the churches and chapels remained open—and the public-houses, crowded to overflowing. In Westminster Abbey, in St. Paul's Cathedral, in St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, and in Westminster Cathedral special prayers were that night being offered for the success of the British arms. The services were crowded by all sorts and conditions of persons, from the poor, pinched woman in a shawl from a Westminster slum, to the lady of title who ventured out in her electric brougham. Men from the clubs stood next half-starved working men, and more than one of the more fortunate
