The Pan-Antis were still muttering furiously over this daring act
of defiance when a shrill bugle-call pealed down the avenue.
Bishop Chuff rode out into the middle of the street on his famous
coal-black charger, John Barleycorn. There was a long hush. Then,
with a wave of his hand, he gave the signal. One hundred bands
burst into the somber and clanging strains of "The Face on the
Bar-Room Floor." The great parade had begun.

From a house-top farther up the street Dunraven Bleak watched them
come. He had taken Quimbleton's word seriously, and with his usual
enterprise had rented a roof overlooking the Boulevard, on which
several members of the Balloon staff were prepared to deal with
any startling events that might occur. A battery of telephones had
been installed on the house-top; Bleak himself sat with apparatus
clamped to his head like an operator at central. Two reporters
were busy with paper and pencil; the cartoonist sat on the
cornice, with legs swinging above two hundred feet of space,
sketching the prodigious scene. The young lady editor of the
Woman's Page was there, with opera glasses, noting down the "among
those present."

It was an awe-inspiring spectacle. Between sidewalks jammed with
silent and morose citizens, the Pan-Antis passed like a conquering
army. The terrible Bishop, the man who had put military discipline
into the ranks of his mighty organization, rode his horse as the
Kaiser would have liked to ride entering Paris. His small, bitter,
fanatical face wore a deeply carved sneer. His great black beard
flapped in the breeze, and he sang as he rode. Behind him came
huge floats depicting in startling tableaux the hideous menace of