None in that miscellaneous multitude sang more lustily than Joe and Billy. The stalwart stableman, card in hand, roared forth the glories of the Better Land, and Billy also, hopping through the snow and slush, trilled out in his clear boyish voice the wonders of the Golden City. Here, in the grim and sombre wilderness of bricks and mortar, they sang of heaven-built walls and pearly gates, of halls of Zion jubilant with praise, of mansions bright with saints and angels and all the martyred throng. Here, in the fading afternoon of London streets, they sang of a land where daylight is serene. Here, with no glimpse of the fadeless flowers of Paradise, they sang of the pastures of the blessed. Here, in the miserable garments of the poor, they sang of robes of white and crowns of glory. Raggett, momentarily silenced by the swelling notes of the triumphant hymn, turned round and glared upon the priest as the procession passed between him and the National Gallery. Half his meeting melted away, but, with gleaming eyes and fantastic gestures, he renewed his harangue and poured abuse and scorn upon the Church and all her works. His violent language and gesticulations met with some success in stirring up the latent hostility of the baser sort among his hearers. Faces full of hate and brutality looked towards those who were gathered round the shining cross upon the steps of St Martin’s. The fire was smouldering, and Raggett fanned it into flame. “There’s one of them,” he shouted, with left hand extended; “one of ’the unco’ guid!’ Plenty to eat and drink; purple and fine linen to wear--all the good things of life to call his own. What does he care about Lazarus and his sores! They come into the streets singing about the heavenly kingdom. But, as I’ve told you in the Park, it’s the rich who are to have it both ways--a good time here and the best places up above. Where do you come in? They give you stones, my friends, instead of bread--the stones of London. They’ve got their cellars full of wine, but they want to rob a poor man of his beer; yes, even on Bank Holiday. That’s one of them that wants to do it. Why don’t you go and tell him what you think of him?” A storm of groans and hisses burst from his hearers. A sodden-faced woman, passing a black bottle to her companion--a towering navvy, whose eyes were glazed with drink--yelled to Raggett between her raised hands: “Right you are, mate! right you are!” The navvy took a great pull at the bottle, and then swore freely and at large.