you into voting for them--and they call it the law! They herd you
into armies and send you to shoot your brothers--and they call it
order! They take a piece of coloured rag and call it the flag and
teach you to let yourself be shot--and they call it patriotism!
First, last, and all the time, you do the work and they get the
benefit--they, the masters and owners, and you--fools--fools
--fools!"

The man's voice had mounted to a scream, and he flung his hands into
the air and broke into jeering laughter. Then came another train,
and Montague could not hear him; but he could see that he was
rushing on in the torrent of his denunciation.

Montague stood rooted to the spot; he was shocked to the depths of
his being--he could scarcely contain himself as he stood there. He
longed to spring forward to beard the man where he stood, to shout
him down, to rebuke him before the crowd.

The Major must have seen his agitation, for he took his arm and led
him back from the throng, saying: "Come! We can't help it."

"But--but--," he protested, "the police ought to arrest him."

"They do sometimes," said the Major, "but it doesn't do any good."

They walked on, and the sounds of the shrill voice died away. "Tell
me," said Montague, in a low voice, "does that go on very often?"

"Around the comer from where I live," said the other, "it goes on
every Saturday night."