All this amused Eden; he liked it better than the wild talk about impending eruptions, and began to feel rather pleased that he had met Merton after all. Still, he could not help experiencing some curiosity about his mysterious friend's way of life; and in spite of prudence he led the way to this dangerous topic. “Just look at this, Eden; this will show you what I am doing. You Pall Mall gentlemen are living in a fool's paradise--excuse me for putting it so bluntly--but personally you are my friend, although in our ways of thought we are as far as the poles asunder.” He had taken a newspaper from his pocket, a small sheet of coarse paper printed with bad type, and turning and refolding it he handed it to his friend. The article to which Eden's attention was drawn was headed “A Last Word,” and occupied three columns, and at the foot appeared the name of Merton Chance. “I see; but surely you don't expect me to read this now?” said Eden. “Your last word is a very long one.” “No, you can put the paper in your pocket to read at your leisure. I think it will have the effect of opening your eyes, Eden. That you may escape the wrath to come is my devout wish.” “Thanks. So you have gone in for the Salvation Army business?” And he glanced at the title of the paper, but it was not the _War Cry_. _The Time Has Come_ was the name of the sheet he held in his hand, to which Merton Chance had the honour to be a contributor. “No, Eden,” said the other, with a look on his face of such deep and serious meaning as to be almost tragic. “This is not the war cry you imagine, but it is a war cry nevertheless. You can shut your ears to it, if you feel so minded, and persuade yourself that there is no war in preparation. The streets of London are full of soldiers, but then they wear no red jackets, and carry no banners, and you needn't know that they are soldiers at all. You can safely let them march on, since they march without blare of trumpets and beat of drums.” “All right, Chance, I'll have a shot at it before going to bed to-night”; and he was again about to thrust the paper into his pocket, feeling that he was getting tired of this kind of talk. “Wait a moment, Eden,” said the other. “I'm afraid you do not quite know yet what the matter is all about. Allow me to look at the paper again.” Taking it, he found and asked his friend to read a rather long editorial paragraph. This was all about the trumpet-tongued Merton Chance, congratulating the League on the accession to its ranks of so able a fighter with the pen--one who was only too ready to handle other weapons in their cause. It spoke of all he had nobly abandoned--social position, Government appointment, etc.--to cast in his lot with theirs; his brilliant and impassioned oratory, pitiless logic, with more in the same strain.