I believed in the redcoat; in the great heart of the people: above all in myself. The conductor, who advertised that he "doctored bad songs," had devised a pleasant little lilting air for my needs, but it struck me as weak and thin after the thunderous surge of the "Shopmates." I glanced at the gallery--the redcoats were there. The fiddle-bows creaked, and, with a jingle of brazen spurs, a forage-cap over his left eye, my Great and Only began to "chuck it off his chest." Thus: "At the back o' the Knightsbridge Barricks, When the fog was a-gatherin' dim, The Lifeguard talked to the Undercook, An' the girl she talked to 'im." "_Twiddle-iddle-iddle-lum-tum-tum!_" said the violins. "_Ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-ting-ling!_" said the spurs of the Great and Only, and through the roar in my ears I fancied I could catch a responsive hoof-beat in the gallery. The next four lines held the house to attention. Then came the chorus and the borrowed refrain. It took--it went home with a crisp click. My Great and Only saw his chance. Superbly waving his hand to embrace the whole audience, he invited them to join him in: "You may make a mistake when you're mashing a tart, But you'll learn to be wise when you're older, And don't try for things that are out of your reach, And that's what the girl told the soldier, soldier, soldier, And that's what the girl told the soldier." I thought the gallery would never let go of the long-drawn howl on "soldier." They clung to it as ringers to the kicking bell-rope. Then I envied no one--not even Shakespeare. I had my house hooked--gaffed under the gills, netted, speared, shot behind the shoulder--anything you please. That was pure joy! With each verse the chorus grew louder, and when my Great and Only had bellowed his way to the fall of the Lifeguard and the happy lot of the Undercook, the gallery rocked again, the reserved stalls shouted, and the pewters twinkled like the legs of the demented ballet-girls. The conductor waved the now frenzied orchestra to softer Lydian strains. My Great and Only warbled piano: "At the back o' Knightsbridge Barricks, When the fog's a-gatherin' dim, The Lifeguard waits for the Undercook, But she won't wait for 'im." "_Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rah!_" rang a horn clear and fresh as a sword-cut. 'Twas the apotheosis of virtue. "She's married a man in the poultry line That lives at 'Ighgate 'Ill, An' the Lifeguard walks with the 'ousemaid now, An' (_awful pause_) she can't foot the bill!" Who shall tell the springs that move masses? I had builded better than I knew. Followed yells, shrieks and wildest applause. Then, as a wave gathers to the curl-over, singer and sung to fill their chests and heave the chorus through the quivering roof--alto, horns, basses drowned, and lost in the flood--to the beach-like boom of beating feet: