'ear us and keep time," was
the response.

The drummer subsided on to a sack of potatoes. Mr. Hearty approached
him.

"What are you doing here? You're not my band," he said, eyeing the man
apprehensively.

The drummer looked up with the insolence of a man who sees before him
indecision.

"Who the blinkin' buttercups said we was?" he demanded.

"But what are you doing here?" persisted Mr. Hearty.

"Oh!" responded the man with elaborate civility, "we come to play
forfeits, wot jer think?"

At that moment from the room above the shop the band broke into full
blast with "Shall We Gather at the River." The drummer made a grab at
his sticks, but was late, and for the rest of the piece, was a beat
behind in all his bangs.

Mr. Hearty looked helplessly about him. Another cheer from without
caused him to walk to the door. Outside, the "Pull for the Shore,
Sailor," faction was performing valiantly. Their blood was up, and
they were determined that no one should gather at the river if they
could prevent it.

In the distance several more bands were heard, and the pounding became
terrific. All traffic had been stopped, and an inspector of police was
pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of Mr. Hearty.
Bindle joined the inspector, saluting him elaborately.

The inspector eyed Mr. Hearty with official disapproval.

"You must send these men away, sir," he said with decision.

"But--but," said Mr. Hearty, "I can't."

"But you must," said the inspector. "There will be a summons, of
course," he added warningly.

"But--why?" protested Mr. Hearty.

The inspector looked at Mr. Hearty, and then gazed up and down Putney
High Street. He was annoyed.

"You have blocked the whole place, sir. We've had to stop the trams
coming round the Putney Bridge Road. Hi!" he shouted to the drummer
who was conscientiously earning his salary.

"Stop that confounded row there!"

The man did not hear.

"Stop it, I say!" shouted the inspector.

The drummer stopped.

"Wot's the matter?" he enquired.

"You're causing an obstruction," said the inspector warningly.

"Ted!" yelled the voice of the leader at the top of the house, who was
gathering at the river upon the cornet in a fine frenzy, "wot the 'ell
are you stoppin' for?"

"It's the pleece," yelled back Ted informatively.

"The cheese?" bawled back Charlie. "Shouldn't eat it; it always makes
you ill. Go ahead and bang that ruddy drum."

"Can't," yelled Ted. "The