force had either reached its home by now, or was well on its way. The
public had seen it go with a certain regret. Not since the visit of the
Shah had such an attractive topic of conversation been afforded them.
Several comic journalists had built up a reputation and a large price
per thousand words on the King of Bollygolla alone. Theatres had
benefited by the index of a large, new, unsophisticated public. A piece
at the Waldorf Theatre had run for a whole fortnight, and "The Merry
Widow" had taken on a new lease of life. Selfridge's, abandoning its
policy of caution, had advertised to the extent of a quarter of a
column in two weekly papers.

Now the Young Turks were back at school in Constantinople, shuffling
their feet and throwing ink pellets at one another; Raisuli, home again
in the old mountains, was working up the kidnapping business, which had
fallen off sadly in his absence under the charge of an incompetent
_locum tenens_; and the Chinese, the Bollygollans, and the troops
of the Mad Mullah were enduring the miseries of sea-sickness out in
mid-ocean.

The Swiss army had also gone home, in order to be in time for the
winter hotel season. There only remained the Germans, the Russians, and
the troops of Monaco.

* * * * *

In the camp of the Boy Scouts a vast activity prevailed.

Few of London's millions realise how tremendous and far-reaching an
association the Boy Scouts are. It will be news to the Man in the
Street to learn that, with the possible exception of the Black Hand,