Grimy navvies wept, roared, stamped, as they bore him. They fought for a grip of his hand. They jostled for a look. They sang hymns and bawdy ballads, the tears rolling down their faces. Women, drunk with ecstasy, screamed and tossed their babies. Urchins howled and tumbled. Young men lurched, laughed, and fought. In front a tiny boy in a blue jersey marched manfully, thumping a toy drum. A grey virago, locks a-flutter, fell on her knees in the path of the mob. "Save us, Lard Nelson, save us!" she screamed. In a lull of the tempest, the clear voice, somewhat shrill, made answer, "Yes, I'll save you." There was a second's quiet, one of those tremendous seconds such as must have been before the world was: then a roar to shatter hearts. A hand gripped Kit's. The boy looked up into the Parson's blue and brimming eyes. "It was worth it," those eyes said. Then the crowd broke all about them. The boy was carried off his feet. It was like swimming amid breakers. He caught a tumbling glimpse of Nelson stretching a hand over many heads to the Parson; and his eye read the words, "But for you, old friend!" Then dimly, as in a dream, he was butting his way towards the boat, he and the Parson, Nelson between them. A hand touched his--a touch, no more; but it was the Nelson-touch. Then he would have liked to die. Earth contained no more for him; and he was sure of heaven. [_ I will answer no questions about this book_--A. O.]