the gooseberry. Bands blared and crashed. Then, rank on rank, as
far as eye could see, followed the zealots in their garments of
white. Each one, it was noticed, carried a neat knapsack. Huge
tractors rumbled along, groaning beneath a tonnage of tracts which
were shot into the watching crowd by pneumatic guns. Banners
whipped and fluttered.

The sound of shrill chanting vibrated in the blazing air like a
visible wave of power. These were conquerors of a nation, and they
knew it. A former bartender, standing in the front of the crowd,
caught Chuff's merciless gaze, wavered, and swooned. A retired
distiller, sitting in the window of the Brass Rail Club, fell dead
of apoplexy.

Bleak trembled with nervousness. Had Quimbleton hoaxed him? What
could halt this mighty pageant now? He was about to telephone to
his city editor to go ahead with the one o'clock edition as
originally planned. ...

From the sky came a roar of engines that drowned for a moment the
thundering echoes of the parade. The three gray planes, which had
been circling far above, swooped down almost to a level with the
tops of the buildings. One of these, a huge two-seated bomber,
passed directly over Bleak's head. He craned upward, and caught a
glimpse of what he thought at first was a white pennant trailing
over the bulwark of the cockpit. A snowy shag of whiskers came
tossing down through the air and fell in his lap. It was
Quimbleton's beard, torn from its moorings by the tug of wind-
pressure. Bleak thrust it quickly in his pocket. As the great
plane passed over the head of the parade, flying dangerously low,