He was seeing a nation aroused, preparing to fight. If war came
to England it would be no war decreed by a few men. It would be a
war proclaimed by the people themselves, demanded by them. The
nation was stirring; it was casting off the proverbial lethargy
and indifference of the English. Even here, in this usually quiet
suburb of London, the home of business and professional men who
were comfortably well off, the stirring of the spirit of England
was evident. And suddenly the song of the scouts and those
who had joined them was drowned out by a new noise, sinister,
threatening. It was the angry note that is raised by a mob.

Leslie Franklin took command at once. "Here, we must see what's
wrong!" he cried. "Scouts, attention! Fall in! Double quick --
follow me!"

He ran in the direction of the sound, and they followed. Five
minutes brought them to the scene of the disturbance. They
reached a street of cheaper houses and small shops. About one of
these a crowd was surging, made up largely of young men of the
lower class, for in West Kensington, as in all parts of London,
the homes of the rich and of the poor rub one another's elbows in
easy familiarity. The crowd seemed to be trying to break in the
door of this shop. Already all the glass of the show windows had
been broken, and from within there came guttural cries of alarm
and anger.

"It's Dutchy's place!" cried Dick Mercer. "He's a German, and
they're trying to smash his place up!"

"Halt!" cried Franklin. He gathered the scouts about him. "This