“I’ll do that little thing, Steve.  See you again.”  He passed on, making a way through the jostling throng of soldiers and civilians.  “Just my luck,” he muttered.  “I hope the kid isn’t in.”  Never before had he thought of his brother as “the kid.”

He passed presently through swinging glass doors, and in a hallway was told by a profusely buttoned youth in spectacles that Mr. Whipple was out.  It was not known when he would be in.  His movements were uncertain.

“He might be in or he might be out,” said the boy.

He was back in the street, edging through the crowd, his head up, searching for the eager face of Steve Kennedy, late his sergeant.  Halfway up the next block he found him pausing to roll a cigarette.  Steve was a scant five feet, and he was telling a private who was a scant six feet that there would be dirty work at the crossroads—­when the fur-faces started.

“We’re too far away,” suggested Wilbur.  “If they start from the Square they’ll be mussed up before they get here.  You can’t expect people farther down to save ’em just for you.  Where’s your tactics, Steve?”

They worked slowly back down the Avenue.  It was nine o’clock now, and the street was fairly free of vehicles.  The night was clear and the street lights brought alert, lean profiles into sharp relief, faces of men in uniform sauntering carelessly or chatting in little groups at the curb.  A few unseeing policemen, also sauntering carelessly, were to be observed.

“Heard a fur-face speak last night,” said Steve.  “It’s a long story, mates, but it seems this is one rotten Government and everybody knows it but a few cops.  If someone would only call off the cops and let the fur-faces run it we might have a regular country.”

From the Square singing was now heard.

“Oh, boy!” murmured the tall private, dreamily; “am I glad I’m here?” Stretching a long neck to peer toward the Square, he called in warm, urgent tones:  “Oh, come on, you reds—­come on, red!”

They came on.  Out from the Square issued a valiant double line of marchers, men and women, their voices raised in the Internationale.  At their head, bearing aloft a scarlet banner of protest, strode a commanding figure in corduroys, head up, his feet stepping a martial pace.

“I choose that general,” said the tall private, and licked his lips.

“Not if I get him first,” shouted Steve, and sprang from the walk into the roadway.

But ex-Private Cowan was ahead of them both.  He had not waited for speech.  A crowd from each side of the Avenue had surged into the roadway to greet the procession.  The banner bearer was seen to hesitate, to lose step, but was urged from the rear by other banner bearers.  He came on again.  Once more he stepped martially.  The Internationale swelled in volume.  The crowd, instead of opening a way, condensed more solidly about the advance.  There were jeers and shoving.  The head of the line again wavered.  Wilbur Cowan had jostled a way toward this leader.  He lost no time in going into action.  But the pushing crowd impaired his aim, and it was only a glancing blow that met the jaw of the corduroyed standard bearer.