Miss Pankhurst made an unexpected jump from her place. She wedged her way
to the line of soldiers. As she talked to two young Tommies they blushed
and fiddled with their bayonets like girls with their first bouquets of
flowers. Twice a British major admonished them.

Miss Pankhurst, returning: "Welsh boys. Just babies. I asked them why they
came out armed to kill fellow workers. They said they had enlisted for the
war. If they had known they were to be sent to Ireland they would have
refused to go. I told them it was not too late to act. They could take off
their uniforms. But they? They're weak--weak."

As dusk fell, party capes and tulle mists of head dresses began to appear
between the drab or tattered suits of the bystanders. Among the coming
reception guests was Susan Mitchell, co-editor with George Russell on
_The Irish Homestead_.

Susan Mitchell, of constable: "Can't I go through? No? But there's to be a
party, and the tea will get all cold."

In the courage of the crowd, the people began to sing The Soldiers' Song.
It took courage. It was shortly after John O'Sheehan had been sentenced for
two years for caroling another seditious lyric. A surge of sound brought
out the words: "The west's awake!" Dying yokes. And a sudden
right-about-face movement of the throng.

Crowd shouting: "Up the Americans!"

With Sinn Fein and American flags flying, the delegates' car rolled up to
the outskirts of the crowd. A sharp order. The crowd-fearing bayonets
lunged forward. Frank Walsh, looking through his tortoise-rim glasses at