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“Played through by the Guard,” he repeated slowly. “The undertaker ‘oo could guarantee that, mark you, for all his customers–well, ‘e’d monopolise the trade, is all I can say. See the horses passagin’ sideways!”

“She done it a purpose,” said the woman with a sniff.

“An’ I only hope you’ll follow her example. Just as long as you think I’ll keep, too.”

We reclosed when the funeral had left us twenty paces behind. A small boy stuck his head out of a carriage and watched us jealously.

“Amazing! Amazing!” I murmured. “Is it regulation?”

“No. Town-custom. It varies a little in different cities, but the people value being played through more than most things, I imagine. Duddell, the big Ipswich manufacturer–he’s a Quaker–tried to bring in a bill to suppress it as unchristian.” Pigeon laughed.

“And?”

“It cost him his seat next election. You see, we’re all in the game.”

We reached the Park without further adventure, and found the four company- guns with their spike teams and single drivers waiting for us. Many people were gathered here, and we were halted, so far as I could see, that they might talk with the men in the ranks. The officers broke into groups.

“Why on earth didn’t you come along with me?” said Boy Bayley at my side. “I was expecting you.”

“Well, I had a delicacy about brigading myself with a colonel at the head of his regiment, so I stayed with the rear company and the horses. It’s all too wonderful for any words. What’s going to happen next?”

“I’ve handed over to Verschoyle, who will amuse and edify the school children while I take you round our kindergarten. Don’t kill any one, Vee. Are you goin’ to charge ’em?”

Old Verschoyle hitched his big shoulder and nodded precisely as he used to do at school. He was a boy of few words grown into a kindly taciturn man.

“Now!” Bayley slid his arm through mine and led me across a riding road towards a stretch of rough common (singularly out of place in a park) perhaps three-quarters of a mile long and half as wide. On the encircling rails leaned an almost unbroken line of men and women–the women outnumbering the men. I saw the Guard battalion move up the road flanking the common and disappear behind the trees.

As far as the eye could range through the mellow English haze the ground inside the railings was dotted with boys in and out of uniform, armed and unarmed. I saw squads here, half-companies there; then three companies in an open space, wheeling with stately steps; a knot of drums and fifes near the railings unconcernedly slashing their way across popular airs; and a batch of gamins labouring through some extended attack destined to be swept aside by a corps crossing the ground at the double. They broke out of furze bushes, ducked over hollows and bunkers, held or fell away from hillocks and rough sandbanks till the eye wearied of their busy legs.

Bayley took me through the railings, and gravely returned the salute of a freckled twelve-year-old near by.

“What’s your corps?” said the Colonel of that Imperial Guard battalion to that child.

“Eighth District Board School, fourth standard, Sir. We aren’t out to-day.” Then, with a twinkle, “I go to First Camp next year.”

“What are those boys yonder–that squad at the double?”

“Jewboys, Sir. Jewish Voluntary Schools, Sir.”

“And that full company extending behind the three elms to the south-west?”

“Private day-schools, Sir, I think. Judging distance, Sir.”

“Can you come with us?”

“Certainly, Sir.”

“Here’s the raw material at the beginning of the process,” said Bayley to me.

We strolled on towards the strains of “A Bicycle Built for Two,” breathed jerkily into a mouth-organ by a slim maid of fourteen. Some dozen infants with clenched fists and earnest legs were swinging through the extension movements which that tune calls for. A stunted hawthorn overhung the little group, and from a branch a dirty white handkerchief flapped in the breeze. The girl blushed, scowled, and wiped the mouth-organ on her sleeve as we came up.