It was dull for them, too. London is never at its best in early September, even for the _habitue_. There was nothing to do. Most of the theatres were shut. The streets were damp and dirty. It was all very well for the generals, appearing every night in the glare and glitter of the footlights; but for the rank and file the occupation of London spelt pure boredom. London was, in fact, a human powder-magazine. And it was Clarence Chugwater who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it in a blaze. Chapter 6 THE BOMB-SHELL Clarence had called at the offices of the _Encore_ on a Friday. The paper's publishing day is Thursday. The _Encore_ is the Times of the music-hall world. It casts its curses here, bestows its benedictions (sparely) there. The _Encore_ criticising the latest action of the Variety Artists' Federation is the nearest modern approach to Jove hurling the thunderbolt. Its motto is, "Cry havoc, and let loose the performing dogs of war." It so happened that on the Thursday following his momentous visit to Wellington Street, there was need of someone on the staff of Clarence's evening paper to go and obtain an interview from the Russian general. Mr. Hubert Wales had just published a novel so fruity in theme and treatment that it had been publicly denounced from the pulpit by no less a person than the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Dean of His Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet and Sub-Almoner to the King. A morning paper had started the question, "Should there be a Censor of Fiction?" and, in accordance with custom, editors were collecting the views of celebrities, preferably of those whose opinion on the subject was absolutely valueless. All the other reporters being away on their duties, the editor was at a loss. "Isn't there anybody else?" he demanded. The chief sub-editor pondered. "There is young blooming Chugwater," he said. (It was thus that England's deliverer was habitually spoken of in the office.) "Then send him," said the editor. * * * * * Grand Duke Vodkakoff's turn at the Magnum Palace of Varieties started every evening at ten sharp. He topped the bill. Clarence, having been detained by a review of the Scouts, did not reach the hall till five minutes to the hour. He got to the dressing-room as the general was going on to the stage. The Grand Duke dressed in the large room with the other male turns. There were no private dressing-rooms at the Magnum. Clarence sat down on a basket-trunk belonging to the Premier Troupe of Bounding Zouaves of the Desert, and waited. The four athletic young gentlemen who composed the troupe were dressing after their turn. They took no notice of Clarence. Presently one Zouave spoke. "Bit off to-night, Bill. Cold house." "Not 'arf," replied his colleague. "Gave me the shivers." "Wonder how his nibs'll go." Evidently he referred to the Grand Duke.