<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h1>THE DOOM OF LONDON</h1>
<h4>Six Stories by</h4>
<h2>Fred M. White</h2>
<h4>Illustrated by</h4>
<h3>Warwick Goble</h3>
<h5>First published in Pearson's Magazine, London, 1903-4</h5>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/hotel_cecil_in_flames.jpg" width-obs="500" alt="" /> <div class="caption">The Hotel Cecil in flames—a realistic picture of an unlikely contingency, pictured in the "Four White Days."</div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h4>TABLE OF CONTENTS.</h4>
<h5><SPAN href="#THE_FOUR_WHITE_DAYS">THE FOUR WHITE DAYS.</SPAN></h5>
<h5><SPAN href="#THE_FOUR_DAYS_NIGHT">THE FOUR DAYS' NIGHT.</SPAN></h5>
<h5><SPAN href="#THE_DUST_OF_DEATH">THE DUST OF DEATH.</SPAN></h5>
<h5><SPAN href="#A_BUBBLE_BURST">A BUBBLE BURST.</SPAN></h5>
<h5><SPAN href="#THE_INVISIBLE_FORCE">THE INVISIBLE FORCE.</SPAN></h5>
<h5><SPAN href="#THE_RIVER_OF_DEATH">THE RIVER OF DEATH.</SPAN></h5>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/four_white_days.jpg" width-obs="600" alt="" /></div>
<h3><SPAN name="THE_FOUR_WHITE_DAYS" id="THE_FOUR_WHITE_DAYS">THE FOUR WHITE DAYS.</SPAN></h3>
<h4>A Tale of London in the Grip of an Arctic Winter—Showing the Danger Any
Winter might Bring from Famine, Cold, and Fire.</h4>
<h4>I.</h4>
<p>The editor of <i>The Daily Chat</i> wondered a
little vaguely why he had come down to the
office at all. Here was the thermometer
down to 11° with every prospect of touching
zero before daybreak, and you can't fill a
morning paper with weather reports. Besides,
nothing was coming in from the North of the
Trent beyond the curt information that all
telegraphic and telephonic communication
beyond was impossible. There was a huge
blizzard, a heavy fall of snow nipped hard
by the terrific frost and—silence.</p>
<p>To-morrow—January 25th—would see a
pretty poor paper unless America roused
up to a sense of her responsibility and
sent something hot to go on with. The
Land's End cables often obliged in that
way. There was the next chapter of the
Beef and Bread Trust, for instance. Was
Silas X. Brett going to prove successful in
his attempt to corner the world's supply?
That Brett had been a pawnbroker's
assistant a year ago mattered little. That
he might at any time emerge a penniless
adventurer mattered less. From a press
point of view he was good for three
columns.</p>
<p>The chief "sub" came in, blowing his
fingers. The remark that he was frozen to
the marrow caused no particular sympathy.</p>
<p>"Going to be a funeral rag to-morrow,"
the editor said curtly.</p>
<p>"That's so," Gough admitted cheerfully.
"We've drawn a thrilling picture of the
Thames impassable to craft—and well it
might be after a week of this Arctic weather.
For days not a carcase or a sack of flour
has been brought in. Under the circumstances
we were justified in prophesying a bread and
meat famine. And we've had our customary
gibe at Silas X. Brett. But still, it's poor stuff."</p>
<p>The editor thought he would go home.
Still he dallied, on the off chance of something
turning up. It was a little after
midnight when he began to catch the suggestion
of excitement that seemed to be simmering
in the sub-editor's room. There was a
clatter of footsteps outside. By magic the place
began to hum like a hive.</p>
<p>"What have you struck, Gough?" the
editor cried.</p>
<p>Gough came tumbling in, a sheaf of
flimsies in his hand.</p>
<p>"Brett's burst," he gasped. "It's a real
godsend, Mr. Fisher. I've got enough here
to make three columns. Brett's committed
suicide."</p>
<p>Fisher slipped out of his overcoat. Everything
comes to the man who waits. He ran
his trained eyes over the flimsies; he could
see his way to a pretty elaboration.</p>
<p>"The danger of the corner is over," he
said, later, "but the fact remains that we are
still short of supplies; there are few provision
ships on the seas, and if they were
close at hand they couldn't get into port with
all this ice about. Don't <i>say</i> that London
is on the verge of a famine, but you can
hint it."</p>
<p>Gough winked slightly and withdrew. An
hour later and the presses were kicking and
coughing away in earnest. There was a
flaming contents bill, so that Fisher went off
drowsily through the driving snow Bedford
Square way with a feeling that there was not
much the matter with the world after all.</p>
<p>It was piercingly cold, the wind had come
up from the east, the steely blue sky of the
last few days had gone.</p>
<p>Fisher doubled before the wind that seemed
to grip his very soul. On reaching home he
shuddered as he hung over the stove in the hall.</p>
<p>"My word," he muttered as he glanced at
the barometer. "Down half-an-inch since
dinner time. And a depression on top
that you could lie in. Don't ever recollect
London under the lash of a real blizzard, but
it's come now."</p>
<p>A blast of wind, as he spoke, shook the
house like some unreasoning fury.</p>
<h4>II.</h4>
<p>It was in the evening of the 24th of January
that the first force of the snowstorm swept
London. There had been no sign of any abatement
in the gripping frost, but the wind
had suddenly shifted to the east, and almost
immediately snow had commenced to fall. But
as yet there was no hint of the coming
calamity.</p>
<p>A little after midnight the full force of the
gale was blowing. The snow fell in powder
so fine that it was almost imperceptible, but
gradually the mass deepened until at daybreak
it lay some eighteen inches in the
streets. Some of the thoroughfares facing
the wind were swept bare as a newly reaped
field, in others the drifts were four or five feet
in height.</p>
<p>A tearing, roaring, blighting wind was still
blowing as the grey day struggled in. The
fine snow still tinkled against glass and brick.
By nine o'clock hundreds of telephone wires
were broken. The snow and the force of
the wind had torn them away bodily. As far
as could be ascertained at present the same
thing had happened to the telegraphic lines.
At eleven o'clock nothing beyond local letters
had been delivered, and the postal authorities
notified that no telegrams could be guaranteed
in any direction outside the radius.
There was nothing from the Continent at
all.</p>
<p>Still, there appeared to be no great cause
for alarm. The snow must cease presently.
There was absolutely no business doing in
the City, seeing that three-fourths of the
suburban residents had not managed to
reach London by two o'clock. An hour later it
became generally known that no main line
train had been scheduled at a single London
terminus since midday.</p>
<p>Deep cuttings and tunnels were alike rendered
impassable by drifted snow.</p>
<p>But the snow would cease presently; it
could not go on like this. Yet when dusk fell
it was still coming down in the same grey
whirling powder.</p>
<p>That night London was as a city of the
dead. Except where the force of the gale had
swept bare patches, the drifts were high—so
high in some cases that they reached to the
first floor windows. A half-hearted attempt
had been made to clear the roadways earlier
in the day, but only two or three main
roads running north and south, and east and
west were at all passable.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the gripping frost never abated
a jot. The thermometer stood steadily at
15° below freezing even in the forenoon;
the ordinary tweed clothing of the average
Briton was sorry stuff to keep out a wind
like that. But for the piercing draught the
condition of things might have been tolerable.
London had experienced colder weather so
far as degrees went, but never anything that
battered and gripped like this. And still the
fine white powder fell.</p>
<p>After dark, the passage from one main
road to another was a real peril. Belated
stragglers fought their way along their own
streets without the slightest idea of locality,
the dazzle of the snow was absolutely blinding.
In sheltered corners the authorities had
set up blazing fires for the safety of the police
and public. Hardly a vehicle had been seen
in the streets for hours.</p>
<p>At the end of the first four and twenty hours
the mean fall of snow had been four feet.
Narrow streets were piled up with the white
powder. Most of the thoroughfares on the
south side of the Strand were mere grey
ramparts. Here and there people could be
seen looking anxiously out of upper windows
and beckoning for assistance. Such was the
spectacle that London presented at daybreak
on the second day.</p>
<p>It was not till nearly midday of the 26th of
January that the downfall ceased. For thirty-six
hours the gale had hurled its force mercilessly
over London. There had been nothing
like it in the memory of man, nothing like it on
record. The thin wrack of cloud cleared and
the sun shone down on the brilliant scene.</p>
<p>A strange, still, weird London. A white
deserted city with a hardy pedestrian here and
there, who looked curiously out of place in a
town where one expects to see the usual
toiling millions. And yet the few people who
were about did not seem to fit into the picture.
The crunch of their feet on the crisp
snow was an offence, the muffled hoarseness
of their voices jarred.</p>
<p>London woke uneasily with a sense of
coming disaster. By midday the continuous
frost rendered the snow quite firm enough for
traffic. The curious sight of people climbing
out of their bedroom windows and sliding
down snow mountains into the streets excited
no wonder. As to the work-a-day side of
things that was absolutely forgotten. For the
nonce Londoners were transformed into Laplanders,
whose first and foremost idea was
food and warmth.</p>
<p>So far as could be ascertained the belt of
the blizzard had come from the East in a
straight line some thirty miles wide. Beyond
St. Albans there was very little snow, the
same remark applying to the South from
Redhill. But London itself lay in the centre
of a grip of Arctic, ice-bound country, and
was almost as inaccessible to the outside
world as the North Pole itself.</p>
<p>There was practically no motive power
beyond that of the underground railways,
and most of the lighting standards had been
damaged by the gale; last calamity of all,
the frost affected the gas so that evening saw
London practically in darkness.</p>
<p>But the great want of many thousands was
fuel. Coal was there at the wharfs, but
getting it to its destination was quite another
thing. It was very well for a light sleigh and
horse to slip over the frozen snow, but a
heavily laden cart would have found progression
an absolute impossibility. Something
might have been done with the electric trams,
but all overhead wires were down.</p>
<p>In addition to this, the great grain wharfs
along the Thames were very low. Local
contractors and merchants had not been in
the least frightened by the vagaries of Mr.
Silas X. Brett; they had bought "short,"
feeling pretty sure that sooner or later their
foresight would be rewarded.</p>
<p>Therefore they had been trading from hand
to mouth. The same policy had been
pursued by the small "rings" of wholesale
meat merchants who supply pretty well the
whole of London with flesh food. The
great majority of the struggling classes pay
the American prices and get American
produce, an enormous supply of which is in
daily demand.</p>
<p>Here Silas X. Brett had come in again.
Again the wholesale men had declined
to make contracts except from day to
day.</p>
<p>Last and worst of all, the Thames—the
chief highway for supplies—was, for the only
time in the memory of living man, choked
with ice below Greenwich.</p>
<p>London was in a state of siege as
close and gripping as if a foreign army
had been at her gates. Supplies were cut
off, and were likely to be for some days to
come.</p>
<p>The price of bread quickly advanced to
ninepence the loaf, and it was impossible to
purchase the cheapest meat under two shillings
per pound. Bacon and flour, and such like
provisions, rose in a corresponding ratio;
coal was offered at £2 per ton, with the
proviso that the purchaser must fetch it himself.</p>
<p>Meanwhile,
there was no
cheering news
from the outside—London
seemed to be cut
off from the universe.
It was as
bad as bad could
be, but the more
thoughtful could
see that there was
worse to follow.</p>
<h4>III.</h4>
<p>The sight of a
figure staggering
up a snow drift
to a bedroom
window in
Keppel Street
aroused no astonishment
in the breast of
a stolid policeman. It
was the only way of entry
into some of the houses in
that locality. Yet a little further
on the pavements were clear and
hard.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/staggering_up_a_snowdrift.jpg" width-obs="475" alt="" /> <div class="caption">The sight of a figure staggering up a snowdrift to a bedroom window in Keppel Street aroused
no astonishment in the breast
of a stolid policeman.</div>
</div>
<p>Besides, the figure was pounding
on the window, and burglars don't
generally do that. Presently the sleeper
within awoke. From the glow of his oil-stove
he could see that it was past twelve.</p>
<p>"Something gone wrong at the office?"
Fisher muttered. "Hang the paper! Why
bother about publishing <i>Chat</i> this weather?"</p>
<p>He rolled out of bed, and opened the window,
draught of icy air caught his heart in a grip
like death for the moment. Gough scrambled into the
room, and made haste to shut out the
murderous air.</p>
<p>"Nearly five below zero," he said. "You
must come down to the office, Mr. Fisher."</p>
<p>Fisher lit the gas. Just for the moment
he was lost in admiration of Gough's figure.
His head was muffled in a rag torn from an old sealskin jacket. He was wrapped
from head to foot in a sheepskin recently stripped from the carcase of an animal.</p>
<p>"Got the dodge from an old Arctic traveller," Gough explained. "It's pretty greasy
inside, but it keeps that perishing cold out."</p>
<p>"I said I shouldn't come down to the office to-night," Fisher muttered. "This is
the only place where I can keep decently warm. A good paper is no good to us—we
shan't sell five thousand copies to-morrow."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, we shall," Gough put in eagerly;
"Hampden, the member for East Battersea,
is waiting for you. One of the smart city
gangs has cornered the coal supply. There
is about half a million tons in London, but
there is no prospect of more for days to come.
The whole lot was bought up yesterday by a
small syndicate, and the price to-morrow is
fixed at three pounds per ton—to begin with.
Hampden is furious."</p>
<p>Fisher shovelled his clothes on hastily.
The journalistic instinct was aroused.</p>
<p>At his door Fisher staggered back as the
cold struck him. With two overcoats, and a
scarf round his head, the cold seemed to drag
the life out of him. A brilliant moon was
shining in a sky like steel, the air was filled
with the fine frosty needles, a heavy hoar
coated Gough's fleecy breast. The gardens in
Russell Square were one huge mound,
Southampton Row was one white pipe. It
seemed to Gough and Fisher that they had
London to themselves.</p>
<p>They did not speak, speech was next to
impossible. Fisher staggered into his office and
at length gasped for brandy. He declared that
he had no feeling whatever. His moustache
hung painfully, as if two heavy diamonds
were dragging at the ends of it. The fine
athletic figure of John Hampden, M.P., raged
up and down the office. Physical weakness
or suffering seemed to be strangers to him.</p>
<p>"I want you to rub it in thick," he shouted.
"Make a picture of it in to-morrow's <i>Chat</i>.
It's exclusive information I am giving you.
Properly handled, there's enough coal in
London to get over this crisis. If it isn't
properly handled, then some hundreds of
families are going to perish of cold and starvation.
The State ought to have power to
commandeer these things in a crisis like this,
and sell them at a fair price—give them away
if necessary. And now we have a handful of
rich men who mean to profit by a great public
calamity. I mean Hayes and Rhys-Smith and
that lot. You've fallen foul of them before. I
want you to call upon the poorer classes not to
stand this abominable outrage. I want to go
down to the House of Commons to-morrow
afternoon with some thousands of honest
working-men behind me to demand that this
crime shall be stopped. No rioting, no
violence, mind. The workman who buys his
coals by the hundredweight will be the worst
off. If I have my way, he won't suffer at all—he
will just take what he wants."</p>
<p>Fisher's eyes gleamed with the light of
battle. He was warm now and the liberal
dose of brandy had done its work. Here
was a good special and a popular one to his
hand. The calamity of the blizzard and the
snow and the frost was bad enough, but the
calamity of a failing coal supply would be
hideous. Legally, there was no way of
preventing those City bandits from making
the most of their booty. But if a few
thousand working-men in London made up
their minds to have coal, nothing could prevent
them.</p>
<p>"I'll do my best," Fisher exclaimed. "I'll
take my coat off to the job—figuratively, of
course. There ought to be an exciting
afternoon sitting of the House to-morrow.
On the whole I'm glad that Gough dragged
me out."</p>
<p>The <i>Chat</i> was a little late to press, but
seeing that anything like a country edition
was impossible, that made little difference.
Fisher and Gough had made the most of
their opportunity. The ears of Messrs.
Hayes & Co. were likely to tingle over the
<i>Chat</i> in the morning.</p>
<p>Fisher finished at length with a sigh of
satisfaction. Huddled up in his overcoat and
scarf he descended to the street. The cold
struck more piercingly than ever. A belated
policeman so starved as to be almost bereft
of his senses asked for brandy—anything to
keep frozen body and soul together. Gough,
secure in his grotesque sheepskin, had
already disappeared down the street.</p>
<p>"Come in," Fisher gasped. "It's dreadful.
I was going home, but upon my word I dare
not face it. I shall sleep by the side of my
office fire to-night."</p>
<p>The man in blue slowly thawed out. His
teeth chattered, his face was ghastly blue.</p>
<p>"An' I'll beg a shelter too, sir," he said.
"I shall get kicked out of the force. I shall
lose my pension. But what's the good of a
pension to an officer what's picked up frozen
in the Strand?"</p>
<p>"That's logic," Fisher said sleepily. "And
as to burglars——"</p>
<p>"Burglars! A night like this!
I wish that the streets of London
were always as safe. If I might
be allowed to make up the fire,
sir——"</p>
<p>But Fisher was already asleep
ranged up close alongside the
fender.</p>
<h4>IV.</h4>
<p>The uneasy impression made by
the <i>Chat</i> special was soon confirmed
next morning. No coal
was available at the wharves under
three shillings per hundredweight.
Some of the poorer classes bought
at the price, but the majority turned
away, muttering of vengeance, and
deeply disappointed.</p>
<p>Whatever way they went the
same story assailed them. The
stereotyped reply was given at
King's Cross, Euston, St. Pancras
and in the Caledonian
Road. The situation had
suddenly grown dangerous
and critical. The sullen,
grotesque stream flowed
back westward with a headway
towards Trafalgar
Square. A good many sheepskins
were worn, for
Gough's idea had
become popular.</p>
<p>In some mysterious
way it got
abroad that John
Hampden was going
to address a mass
meeting. By half-past
two Trafalgar
Square and the
approaches thereto
were packed.
It was a little later
that Hampden
appeared. There
was very little cheering
or enthusiasm, for
it was too cold. The
crowd had no
disposition to riot, all they wanted was for the popular tribune to show them some way of
getting coal—their one great necessity—at a reasonable price.</p>
<p>Hampden, too, was singularly quiet and
restrained. There was none of the wildness
that usually accompanied his oratory. He
counselled quietness and prudence. He
pledged the vast gathering that before night he
would show a way of getting the coal. All he
required was a vast orderly crowd outside St.
Stephen's where he was going almost at once
to interrogate Ministers upon the present
crisis. There was a question on the paper
of which he had given the President of
the Board of Trade private notice. If
nothing came of that he would know how to
act.</p>
<p>There was little more, but that little to the
point. An hour later a dense mass of men
had gathered about St. Stephen's. But they
were grim and silent and orderly.</p>
<p>For an ordinary afternoon sitting the
House was exceeding full. As the light fell
on the square hard face of John Hampden a
prosy bore prating on some ubiquitous subject
was howled down. A minute later and
Hampden rose.</p>
<p>He put his question clearly and to the
point. Then he turned and faced the
modestly retiring forms of Mr. John Hayes
and his colleague Rhys-Smith, and for ten
minutes they writhed under the lash of his
bitter invective. As far as he could gather
from the very vague reply of the Board of
Trade representative, the Government were
powerless to act in the matter. A gang of
financiers had deliberately chosen to put
money in their pockets out of the great
misfortune that had befallen London. Unless
the new syndicate saw their way to bow
to public opinion——</p>
<p>"It is a business transaction," Hayes
stammered. "We shall not give way. If
the Government likes to make a grant to the
poorer classes——"</p>
<p>A yell of anger drowned the sentence.
All parts of the House took part in the heated
demonstration. The only two cool heads
there were the Speaker and John Hampden.
The First Lord rose to throw oil on the
troubled waters.</p>
<p>"There is a way out of it," he said
presently. "We can pass a short bill giving
Parliament powers to acquire all fuel and
provisions for the public welfare in the face of
crises like these. It was done on similar
lines in the Dynamite Bill. In two days the
bill would be in the Statute Book——"</p>
<p>"And in the meantime the poorer classes
will be frozen," Hampden cried. "The Leader
of the House has done his best, he will see
that the bill becomes law. After to-night the
working-people in London will be prepared
to wait till the law gives them the power to
draw their supplies without fear of punishment.
But you can't punish a crowd like
the one outside. I am going to show the world
what a few thousands of resolute men can
accomplish. If the two honourable members
opposite are curious to see how it is done let
them accompany me, and I will offer them a
personal guarantee of safety."</p>
<p>He flung his hand wide to the House; he
quitted his place and strode out. Hayes
rose to speak, but nobody listened. The
dramatic episode was at an end, and Hampden
had promised another. Within a few
minutes the House was empty. Outside was
the dense mass of silent, patient, shivering
humanity.</p>
<p>"Wonderful man, Hampden," the First
Lord whispered to the President of the Board
of Trade; "wonder what he's up to now.
If those people yonder only knew their power!
I should have more leisure then."</p>
<h4>V.</h4>
<p>Outside the House a great crowd of
men, silent, grim, and determined, waited for
Hampden. A deep murmur floated over the
mass as those in front read from Hampden's
face that he had failed so far as his diplomacy
was concerned.</p>
<p>His obstinate jaw was firmer, if possible;
there was a gleam in his deep-set eyes. So
the greedy capitalists were going to have
their pound of flesh, they were not ashamed
to grow fat on public misfortune.</p>
<p>Hampden stood there by the railings of
Palace Yard and explained everything in a
short, curt speech.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/hampden_explained.jpg" width-obs="450" alt="" /> <div class="caption">Hampden stood there by the railings of Palace Yard and explained everything in a short, curt speech.</div>
</div>
<p>Only those who were in need of coal were
present. But there would be others to-morrow
and the next day and so on. Then let them
go and take it. The thing must be done in
a perfectly orderly fashion. There were huge
supplies at King's Cross, Euston, St. Pancras,
in Caledonian Road, amply sufficient to
give a couple or so of hundredweight per
head and leave plenty over for the needs of
others. Let them go and take it. Let each
man insist upon leaving behind him a voucher
admitting that he had taken away so much, or,
if he had the money, put it down there and
then at the usual winter's rate per hundredweight.
The method would be of the rough
rule of thumb kind, but it would be a
guarantee of honesty and respectability.
There were but few military in London, and
against a force like that the police would
be perfectly powerless. It was to be a
bloodless revolution and a vindication of the
rights of men.</p>
<p>A constable stepped forward and touched
Hampden on the shoulder. Most of those
near at hand knew what had happened.
Hampden had been arrested for inciting the
mob to an illegal act. <i>He</i> smiled grimly.
After all, the law had to be respected. With
not the slightest sign of hostility the great
mass of people began to pass away. With
one accord they turned their faces to the
North. The North-Western district was
to be invaded.</p>
<p>"Case for bail, I suppose?" Hampden
asked curtly.</p>
<p>"Under certain conditions, sir," the inspector
said. "I shall have formally to
charge you, and you will have to promise to
take no further part in this matter."</p>
<p>Hampden promised that readily enough.
He had done his part of the work so that the
rest did not signify. He was looking tired
and haggard now, as well he might, seeing
that he had been sitting up all night with
some scores of labour representatives planning
this thing out. He made a remark
about it to Fisher who was standing by, mentally
photographing the great event.</p>
<p>Then he fastened upon Hampden eagerly.</p>
<p>"I want all the details," he said. "I wasn't
so foolish as to regard this thing as quite
spontaneous. You must have worked like a
horse."</p>
<p>"So we have," Hampden admitted. "Fact
is, perils that might beset Londoners have
long been a favourite speculative study of
mine. And when a thing like this—be it
famine, flood, or an Arctic winter—comes
we are certain to be the mark of the
greedy capitalist. And I knew that the
Government would be powerless. Fuel, or
the want of it, was one of the very early
ideas that occurred to me. I found out where
the big supplies were kept, and pretty well
what the normal stock is. I pigeon-holed
those figures. You can imagine how useful
they were last night. There are some two
hundred officials of Trades Unions with
yonder orderly mob, and every one of them
knows exactly where to go. There will be
very little crowding or rioting or confusion.
And before dark everybody will have his
coal."</p>
<p>Fisher followed with the deepest interest.</p>
<p>"Then you are going to leave the rest to
your lieutenants?" he asked.</p>
<p>"I'm bound to. In a few minutes I shall
be on my way to Bow Street. Inciting to
robbery, you know. No, there is no occasion to
trouble—a hundred men here will be willing to
go bail for me. If I were <i>you</i> I should have
been somewhere in the neighbourhood of
King's Cross by this time."</p>
<p>Fisher nodded and winked as he drew his
sheepskin about him. He wore a pair of
grotesque old cavalry boots, the tops of which
were stuffed with cotton wool. A large
woollen hood, such as old Highland women
wear, covered his head and ears. There were
many legislators similarly attired, but nobody
laughed and nobody seemed to be in the least
alive to the humours of the situation.</p>
<p>"Come along," Fisher said to Gough, who
was trying to warm the end of his nose with
a large cigar. "Seems a pity to waste all
this album of copy upon a paper without
any circulation."</p>
<p>"What would have a circulation in this
frost?" Gough growled. "How deserted the
place is! Seems shuddering to think that a
man might fall down in Trafalgar Square in
the broad daylight and die of exposure, but
there it is. Hang me if the solitude isn't
getting on my nerves."</p>
<p>Gough shivered as he pulled his sheepskin
closer around him.</p>
<p>"This is getting a nightmare," he said.
"We shall find ourselves dodging Polar
bears presently. It isn't gregarious enough
for me. Let's get along in the direction
where Hampden's friends are."</p>
<h4>VI.</h4>
<p>Meanwhile the vast mob of London's
workers was steadily pressing north. There
were hundreds of carts without wheels, which
necessarily hampered the rate of progression,
but would save time in the long run, for there
were any number up to a dozen with each
conveyance, seeing that various neighbours
were working upon the co-operation system.</p>
<p>Gradually the force began to break and
turn in certain directions. It became like an
army marching upon given points by a score
or more of avenues. It was pretty well
known that there were a couple of hundred
men amongst the multitude who knew exactly
where to go and who had instructions as to
certain grimy goals.</p>
<p>They were breaking away in all directions
now, quiet, steady, and determined, covering
a wide area from Caledonian Road to
Euston, and from Finsbury Park to King's
Cross. They were so quiet and orderly
that only the crunch of the snow and the
sound of heavy breathing could be heard.</p>
<p>Near Euston Station the first sign of resistance
was encountered. A force of eighty
police barred the way. The mob closed in.
There was no hot blood, no more than grim
determination with a dash of sardonic
humour in it. A head or two was broken by
the thrashing staves, but the odds were too
great. In five minutes the whole posse of
constables was disarmed, made secure by
their own handcuffs and taken along as
honoured prisoners of war. Perhaps their
sympathies were with the mob, for they made
nothing like so fine a fight of it as is usually
the case.</p>
<p>Up by King's Cross Station a still larger
force of police had massed, and here there
was some considerable amount of bloodshed.
But there were thousands of men within easy
distance of the fray, and the white silence of
the place became black with swaying figures
and the noise of turmoil carried far. Finally
the police were beaten back, squeezed in
between two vastly superior forces and surrendered
at discretion.</p>
<p>The victory was easier than it seemed, for
obviously the constables had no heart for the
work before them. Not a few of them were
thinking of their own firesides, and that they
would be better off in the ranks of their
antagonists.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, many of the local municipalities
were being urged to call out the military.
With one accord they declined to do anything
of the kind. It was the psychological moment
when one touch of nature makes the whole
world akin. In the House of Commons, to
the agonised appeal of Hayes and his partner,
the Secretary for War coldly preferred to be
unable to interfere unless the Mayor of this or
that borough applied for assistance after
reading the Riot Act. The matter was in the
hands of the police, who would know how to
act upon an emergency.</p>
<p>Hustled and bustled and pushed good-naturedly,
Fisher and his colleague found
themselves at length beyond a pair of huge
gates that opened into a yard just beyond
Euston Station. There was a large square area
and beyond three small mountains of coal,
all carefully stacked in the usual way. Before
the welcome sight the stolid demeanour of
the two thousand men who had raided the
yard fairly broke down. They threw up their
hands and laughed and cheered. They
stormed the office of the big coal company,
who were ostensible owners of all that black
wealth, and dragged the clerks into the yard.
From behind came the crash and rattle of
the wheel-less carts as they were dragged
forward.</p>
<p>"No cause to be frightened," the man
in command explained. "We're here to
buy that coal, one or two or three hundredweight
each, as the case may be, and you can
have your money in cash or vouchers, as you
please. But we're going to have the stuff and
don't you forget it. You just stand by the
gates and check us out. You'll have to
guess a bit, but that won't be any loss to you.
And the price is eighteen pence a hundredweight."</p>
<p>The three clerks grinned uneasily. At the
same moment the same strange scene was
being enacted in over a hundred other coal-yards.
Three or four hundred men were
already swarming over the big mound, there
was a crash and a rattle as the huge blocks
fell, the air was filled with a grimy, gritty
black powder, every face was soon black
with it.</p>
<p>Very soon there was a steady stream
away from the radius of the coal stacks. A
big stream of coal carts went crunching over
the hard, frozen snow pulled by one or two
or three men according to the load, or how
many had co-operated, and as they went
along they sang and shouted in their victory.
It was disorderly, it was wrong, it was a
direct violation of the law, but man makes
laws for man.</p>
<p>Gough and Fisher, passing down parallel
with Euston Road, presently found themselves
suddenly in the thick of an excited
mob. The doors of a wharf had been
smashed in, but in the centre of the yard
stood a resolute knot of men who had affixed
a hose pipe to one of the water mains and
defied the marauders with vigorous invective.
Just for a moment there was a pause. The
idea of being drenched from head to foot
with a thermometer verging upon zero was
appalling. These men would have faced fire,
but the other death, for death it would mean,
was terrible.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/defiant_men_with_hose.jpg" width-obs="600" alt="" /> <div class="caption">In the centre of the yard stood a resolute knot of men who had affixed a hose pipe to one of the water mains and defied the marauders with vigorous invective.</div>
</div>
<p>"Does that chap want to get murdered?"
Fisher exclaimed. "If he does that, they
will tear him to pieces. I say, sir, are you
mad?"</p>
<p>He pressed forward impulsively. Mistaking
his intention, the man with the hosepipe
turned on the cock vigorously. A howl of
rage followed. But the dramatic touch was
absent, not one spot of water came. A sudden
yell of laughter arose in time to save the life
of the amateur fireman.</p>
<p>"The water is frozen in the mains," a voice
cried.</p>
<p>It was even as the voice said. In a flash
everything became commonplace again.
Fisher was very grave as he walked away.</p>
<p>"This is a calamity in itself," he said.
"The water frozen in the mains! By this
time to-morrow there won't be a single drop
available."</p>
<h4>VII.</h4>
<p>Inside the House a hot debate was in
progress on the following day. Martial law
for London had been suggested. It was a
chance for the handful of cranks and faddists
not to be neglected. It was an interference
with the liberty of the subject and all the
rest of it. The debate was still on at ten
o'clock when Fisher came back languidly
to the Press gallery. At eleven one
of the champion bores was still speaking.
Suddenly an electric thrill ran through the
House.</p>
<p>The dreary orator paused—perhaps he was
getting a little tired of himself. Something
dramatic had happened. There was the
curious tense atmosphere that causes a
tightening of the chest and a gripping of the
throat before actual knowledge comes.
Heedless of all decorum, a member stood
behind the Speaker's chair, and called aloud:</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/hotel_cecil_in_flames.jpg" width-obs="435" alt="" /> <div class="caption">The Hotel Cecil in flames.</div>
</div>
<p>"The Hotel Cecil is on fire!" he
yelled. "The place is well ablaze!"</p>
<p>Fisher darted from the gallery into the
yard. Even the prosy Demosthenes collapsed
in the midst of his oration, and hurried out
of the House. There was no occasion to
tell anybody what the magnitude of the
disaster meant. Everybody knew that in the
face of such a disaster the fire brigade would
be useless.</p>
<p>In the Strand and along the approaches
thereto, along the Embankment and upon the
bridges, a dense mass of humanity had
gathered. They were muffled in all sorts of
strange and grotesque garments, but they did
not seem to heed the piercing cold.</p>
<p>In the Strand it was as light as day. A huge
column of red and white flame shot far into
the sky, the steady roar of the blaze was like
surf on a stony beach. There was a constant
crackle like musketry fire.</p>
<p>The magnificent hotel, one of the boldest
and most prominent features of the Strand
and the Thames Embankment, was absolutely
doomed. Now and then the great showers
of falling sparks would flutter and catch some
adjacent woodwork but all the roofs around
were covered with firemen who beat out the
flames at once. Tons of snow were conveyed
up the fire escapes and by means of hastily
rigged up pullies, so that gradually the
adjacent buildings became moist and cool.
But for this merciful presence of the snow,
the south side of the Strand from Wellington
Street to Charing Cross might have passed
into history.</p>
<p>As it was now, unless something utterly
unforeseen occurred, the great calamity had
been averted. There was still much for the
firemen to do.</p>
<p>"Let's get back to the office," Fisher said,
with chattering teeth. "I would sell my
kingdom for a little hot brandy. I hope the
next blizzard we get we shall be more prepared
for. I suppose that out in the States
they would make nothing of this. And we
haven't got a single snow plough worthy of
the name this side of Edinburgh."</p>
<p>"We are ready for nothing," Gough
grumbled. "If there had been a wind
to-night, nothing could have saved the Strand.
The disaster may occur again; indeed, there
is certain to be a fire, half-a-dozen fires,
before daybreak. Given a good stiff breeze
and where would London be? It makes one
giddy to think of it."</p>
<p>Gough said nothing. It was too cold even
to think. Gradually the two of them thawed
out before the office fire. A languid sub
came in with a pile of flimsies. Quite as
languidly Gough turned them over. His eyes
gleamed.</p>
<p>"My word," he gasped. "I hope this is
true. They've had two days' deluge in New
York. We are to keep our eyes open for
strong Westerly gales with a deep depression——"</p>
<p>For the next two hours Fisher bent over
his desk. The room seemed warmer. Perhaps
it was the brandy. He took off his
sheepskin and then his overcoat below.
Presently a little bead of moisture grew on
his forehead. He drew a little further from
the fire. He felt stifling and faint, a desire
for air came over him.</p>
<p>A little doubtful of his own condition he
almost shamefacedly opened the window.
The air was cold and fresh and revived him,
but it was not the steely, polished, murderous
air of the last few days. Somebody passing
over the snow below slipped along with a
peculiar soaking soddened sound.</p>
<p>Fisher craned his head out of the window.
Something moist fell on the nape of his neck.
He yelled for Gough almost hysterically.
Gough also was devoid of his overcoat.</p>
<p>"I thought it was fancy," he said
unsteadily.</p>
<p>Fisher answered nothing. The strain was
released, he breathed freely. And outside the
whole, white, silent world was dripping,
dripping, dripping——</p>
<blockquote><p>(<i>Next month Mr. White will tell the story
of the "Four Days' Night." He will depict
London under the pall of a frightful fog.
It is another of the dangers that at any time
might come upon London.</i>)</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/four_days_night.jpg" width-obs="600" alt="" /></div>
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