awakened by the loud, strident voices of the newsboys shouting—
"Weekly Dispatch, spe-shall! Invasion of England this morning! Germans in Suffolk! Terrible panic! Spe-shall! Weekly Dispatch, Spe-shall!"
As soon as the paper had gone to press Fergusson urged the motorist—whose name was Horton, and who lived at Richmond—to go with him to the War Office and report. Therefore, both men entered the car, and in a few moments drew up before the new War Office in Whitehall.
"I want to see somebody in authority at once!" cried Fergusson excitedly to the sentry as he sprang out.
"You'll find the caretaker, if you ring at the side entrance—on the right, there," responded the man, who then marched on.
"The caretaker!" echoed the excited sub-editor bitterly. "And England invaded by the Germans!"
He, however, dashed towards the door indicated and rang the bell. At first there was no response. But presently there were sounds of a slow unbolting of the door, which opened at last, revealing a tall, elderly man in slippers, a retired soldier.
"I must see somebody at once!" exclaimed the journalist. "Not a moment must be lost. What permanent officials are here?"
"There's nobody 'ere, sir," responded the man in some surprise at the request. "It's Sunday morning, you know."
"Sunday! I know that, but I must see someone. Whom can I see?"
"Nobody, until to-morrow morning. Come then." And the old soldier was about to close the door when the journalist prevented him, asking—
"Where's the clerk-in-residence?"
"How should I know? Gone up the river, perhaps. It's a nice mornin'."
"Well, where does he live?"
"Sometimes 'ere—sometimes in 'is chambers in
