the crusade, which in his absence had been progressing fiercely,
was explained. Any one else would have taken no for his answer,
and have sought elsewhere for his drink. Not so Churchill. What
he did is interesting, because it was so extremely characteristic.
Now he would not do it; then he was twenty-one.

He scrambled to the velvet-covered top of the railing which
divides the auditorium from the promenade, and made a speech. It
was a plea in behalf of his "Sisters, the Ladies of the Empire
Promenade."

"Where," he asked of the ladies themselves and of their escorts
crowded below him in the promenade, "does the Englishman in
London always find a welcome? Where does he first go when,
battle-scarred and travel-worn, he reaches home? Who is always
there to greet him with a smile, and join him in a drink? Who is
ever faithful, ever true--the Ladies of the Empire Promenade."

The laughter and cheers that greeted this, and the tears of the
ladies themselves, naturally brought the performance on the stage
to a stop, and the vast audience turned in the seats and boxes.

They saw a little red-haired boy in evening clothes, balancing
himself on the rail of the balcony, and around him a great crowd,
cheering, shouting, and bidding him "Go on!"

Churchill turned with delight to the larger audience, and repeated
his appeal. The house shook with laughter and applause.

The commissionaires and police tried to reach him and a