“Don’t count on it. The London Police have eyes like lynxes.” “All right,” said Gypsy cheerfully. We’re discovered. We’re trapped. But _you_ shan’t suffer--it’s all me and Ginger” (he couldn’t be bothered with grammar at the moment), “and I’m going to tell them so. Come along, darling.” And passing his arm around Ginger’s waist he leaped with her to the head of the Lion who looks towards St. James’s, and stood exposed to the gaze of the London Police. The Strand Policeman advanced, and pointed with his truncheon to the legend on the National Gallery. Gypsy gazed steadily down into his questioning eyes, and prepared to confess. As he opened his lips, the Strand Policeman saw a vision of rapid promotion, and Gypsy saw another of Six Months’ Hard. But before he had uttered the first word of his confession, a sharp command rang out upon the night. “Move on!” it said. It was the voice of Lionel. And out of the mossy bank of the Nelson Column, the form of Lionel rose. Gypsy and Ginger nearly fell off the Lion. “Move on!” said Lionel sternly. “Where to?” whispered Ginger. “Where would you like to?” whispered Lionel. “S-S-Sussex!” stammered Ginger. “Get _down_ orf that Lion!” thundered Lionel, and he shook his truncheon truculently at Gypsy and Ginger. “Can’t you see you’re obstructing traffic?” He cast an eye over the crowd of children and Moonshiners. “Get along ’ome,” he said to them briefly. “Move on!” he said to Gypsy and Ginger, still more briefly. This time Gypsy and Ginger quite fell off the Lion. With Lionel at their backs they moved on. A way melted for them like magic through the serried ranks of the London Police. The Police made no protest. One of them had the matter well in hand; they heard from his lips the sacred formula which is the motor power of the Police and the Solar Systems. “Move on!” said Lionel at punctuated intervals. “Move on! Move on!” Gypsy and Ginger moved on, as in a dream. They did not see the London Arabs shinning off to their respective slums; they did not see the London Police resume their respective beats, or the People of the London Streets return to their respective kerbs and cornerstones. With Lionel at their backs, they kept moving on. But it rather seemed as though it was the world, not they, that moved.