that identical moment for launching their long-prepared blow.

England was not merely beneath the heel of the invader. It was beneath
the heels of nine invaders.

There was barely standing-room.

Full details were given in the Press. It seemed that while Germany was
landing in Essex, a strong force of Russians, under the Grand Duke
Vodkakoff, had occupied Yarmouth. Simultaneously the Mad Mullah had
captured Portsmouth; while the Swiss navy had bombarded Lyme Regis, and
landed troops immediately to westward of the bathing-machines. At
precisely the same moment China, at last awakened, had swooped down
upon that picturesque little Welsh watering-place, Lllgxtplll, and,
despite desperate resistance on the part of an excursion of Evanses and
Joneses from Cardiff, had obtained a secure foothold. While these
things were happening in Wales, the army of Monaco had descended on
Auchtermuchty, on the Firth of Clyde. Within two minutes of this
disaster, by Greenwich time, a boisterous band of Young Turks had
seized Scarborough. And, at Brighton and Margate respectively, small
but determined armies, the one of Moroccan brigands, under Raisuli, the
other of dark-skinned warriors from the distant isle of Bollygolla, had
made good their footing.

This was a very serious state of things.

Correspondents of the _Daily Mail_ at the various points of attack
had wired such particulars as they were able. The preliminary parley at
Lllgxtplll between Prince Ping Pong Pang, the Chinese general, and
Llewellyn Evans, the leader of the Cardiff excursionists, seems to have