wide strip of red cotton. There was a brutal force in the phrase. It
was Socialism in a tabloid. Many a looker-on, whose lot was nigh as
desperate as that of the demonstrators, felt that it struck him between
the eyes.

It had some such effect on Royson. Rather abruptly he turned away, and
reached the less crowded Buckingham Palace Road. His face was darkened
by a frown, though his blue eyes had a glint of humor in them. The
legend on the banner had annoyed him. Its blatant message had
penetrated the armor of youth, high spirits, and abounding good health.
It expressed his own case, with a crude vigor. The "unemployed" genius
who railed at society in that virile line must have felt as he, Dick
Royson, had begun to feel during the past fortnight, and the knowledge
that this was so was exceedingly distasteful. It was monstrous that he
should rate himself on a par with those slouching wastrels. The mere
notion brought its own confutation. Twenty-four years of age, well
educated, a gentleman by birth and breeding, an athlete who stood six
feet two inches high in his stockings, the gulf was wide, indeed,
between him and the charity-cursers who had taken his money. Yet--the
words stuck....

Evidently, he was fated to be a sight-seer that morning. When he
entered Buckingham Palace Road, the strains of martial music banished
the gaunt specter called into being by the red cotton banner. A
policeman, more cheerful and spry than his comrades who marshaled the
procession shuffling towards Westminster, strode to the center of the
busy crossing, and cast an alert eye on the converging lines of
traffic. Another section of the ever-ready London crowd lined up on the
curb. Nursemaids, bound for the parks, wheeled their perambulators into
strategic positions, thus commanding a clear view and blocking the edge