I returned to my chambers in Adelphi Terrace on Sunday morning, to find London dull to the very point of stagnation. So few people I do not ever remember, even on a Sunday, to have seen in the streets. The Strand was for once justified of its name, for it was like some sea strand or beach from which the tide has withdrawn, leaving a long stretch of untenanted sands. Yet that same night the returning up-gathered tidal wave swept and broke over London like a devastating sea. A meeting of the unemployed was, I saw by the papers, to be held that afternoon in Victoria Park. Instead of the few thousands whom the public had expected to assemble, the meeting--no doubt by pre-concerted action--mustered nearly half a million. The organisation of this unwieldy mob was wonderful. At five minutes to three the people were sullenly, suspiciously silent. At three a bugle-call was heard, and suddenly in their midst the red flag was raised, and at that sight the hounds of insurrection gave tongue, baying for blood, in one prolonged and awful roar, that might have been heard a mile away. Then the Dumpling, who was standing on the pedestal of a drinking fountain, raised his hand, and again the bugle-call rang out. Another roar burst forth as, in every part of the open space of the park, poles were set up, on the top of which were immense black boards, each with a letter of the alphabet printed prominently upon it in white. With one accord the multitude broke up to sort itself into huge companies, according to the letter of the alphabet under which each had been previously instructed to place himself. Another bugle-call, and from hundreds of houses, surrounding the park, companies of men were seen to come forth, carrying weapons for distribution. For months this secret storage of weapons in private houses had been going on all over London, with the result that when the outbreak came, every man knew where to obtain a weapon. In the neighbourhood of the park itself it was, of course, not possible to store a sufficient number of rifles to arm more than some few thousands of men; but those so armed had been more or less drilled and trained to shoot. They were placed in the van of the Labour army with the foreign mercenaries--expert riflemen--immediately in the forefront, ready to resist the first attacking force, whether of the military or of the police. Then, at a signal from the Dumpling, the bugle was once again sounded, and the westward march commenced by a route so planned that weapons for those still unarmed could be picked up at the various storage centres on the way. The rebel army, more than half a million strong, and led by its new Napoleon, was marching on London. The Revolution of which the Dumpling had so often boasted had begun. CHAPTER XXXII. BLOODSHED.