ut bitter racial antagonisms, seething
animosities, fanged and venomed hatreds, only waiting the prearranged
signal to strike and slay.

Emigration Jane tugged at the hero's sleeve, as he felt for an almost
invisible moustache, scanning the piled-up, serried faces with pert, pale,
hardy eyes.

"'E ain't coddin'. See 'ow black they're lookin'."

"I see 'em, plyne enough. Waxworks only fit for the Chamber of 'Orrors,
ain't 'em?"

"It's a young woman wot arsks you to go, not a bloke! Please! For my syke,
if you won't for your own!"

Billy Keyse, with a flourish, offered the thin, boyish arm in the tweed
sleeve.

"Righto! Will you allow me, Miss?"

She faltered:

"I--I can't, deer. I--I'm wiv my young man."

"Looks after you a proper lot, I don't think. Which is 'im? Where's 'e 'id
'isself? There's only one other English-lookin' feller 'ere, an' 'e's
drunk, lyin' over the table there in the corner. That ain't 'im, is it?"

"Nah, that isn't 'im. That big Dutchy, lookin' this way, showin' 'is teeth
as 'e smiles. That's my young man."

She indicated the Slabberts, heavily observant of the couple with the
muddy eyes under the tow-coloured thatch.

"'Strewth!" W. Keyse whistled depreciatively between his teeth, and
elevated his scanty eyebrows. "That tow-'eaded, bung-nosed, 'ulking, big
Dopper. An' you a daughter of the Empire!"

Oh! the thrice-retorted scorn in the sharp-edged Cockney voice! The
scorching contempt in the pale, ugly little eyes of W. Keyse! She wilted
to her tallest feather, and the tears came crowding, stinging the back of
her throat, compelling a miserable sniff. Yet Emigration Jane was not
destitute of spirit.

"I ... I took 'im to please meself ... not you, nor the Hempire neither."

"Reckon you was precious 'ard up for a chap. Good-afternoon, Miss."

He touched the cheap Panama, and swung theatrically round on his heel.
Between him and the saloon-door there was a solid barricade of heavy
Dutch bodies, in moleskin, tan-cord, and greasy homespun, topped by
lowering Dutch faces. Brawny right hands that could have choked the reedy
crow out of the little bantam gamecock, clenched in the baggy pockets of
old shooting-jackets. Others gripped leaded sjamboks, and others crept to
hip-pockets, where German army revolvers were. The bar-keeper and the
Slabberts exchanged a meaning wink.

"Gents, I'll trouble you. By your leave?..."

Nobody moved. And suddenly W. Keyse became conscious that these