Writer, "was placed there early this morning by
the Lord Mayor himself. He ordered it from Covent Garden, and he had
great difficulty in procuring it even there. The wreath is entirely
composed of water-lilies, Lal's favourite flower, and is put there in
honour of the occasion. Of course this is undoubtedly one of the great
days in the Lord Mayor's life, and he looks upon it as one of the
crowning features in his whole career."

A sudden increased agitation among the crowd, a rumble as of cheering
in the distance, and the first sound of trumpets and drums announced
that the procession was drawing near.

The first sign of the vanguard were some mounted policemen who rode
ahead to clear the way. There appeared to be little need for this
precaution, as the crowds were standing in most orderly rows along the
pavements.

"I'm sure Lal doesn't like those policemen," said Ridgwell decisively.

"No," agreed the Writer, "he sees such a lot of them where he is and,
of course, he detests crowds of any sort, they jostle and bump his
pedestal so much that it makes him feel uncomfortable. Here come the
mounted soldiers; they look very smart, don't they? And here is the
band, blowing their trumpets for all they are worth; some of them
almost look as if they would burst with the effort."

"Is that first carriage the Lord Mayor's?" inquired Christine.

"No, the first carriages are all the other Aldermen."

"Six carriages full," said Christine. "And look at those men in red
and gold standing up behind the last coaches."

"Yes," said Ridgwell, "strap-hangers. I wonder how they keep their
balance and keep all that powder on their heads."

"I fancy," said the Writer, "they have to practise it; and as for the
powder, I expect it is a secret preparation known only to themselves."

A burst of renewed cheering greeted the appearance of six cream horses,
richly caparisoned with red and gold trappings, urged on by outriders.

"Here is the Lord Mayor," exclaimed the Writer excitedly, as he
produced a large red silk handkerchief and waved it wildly out of the
window.

There could be no doubt whatever that a fat old gentleman with red
cheeks and a white moustache, whose portly form was covered with a
scarlet and fur gown, around which hung a lot of glittering golden
chains, and who had one side of the state coach all to himself, saw the
Writer's greeting and returned it. The children saw him look up at the
window and delibera