“So it seems,” O’Rane answered, as a new volley of stones rattled on to the pavement and a series of short scuffles gave place to the sound of running feet. The battle, we were told, had been raging for half-an-hour. At first the assailants had concentrated on the front door; when that refused to yield, they began to break every window within reach until the police scattered them. Then the attack was transferred to a distance. On the Embankment twenty yards away, where the road was under repair, lay miscellaneous heaps of stones and granite blocks. By these the hunger-marchers collected and bombarded both the house and the newly formed cordon. It was a difficult attack to meet at any time, but the fog made it impossible. When the police charged, the assailants slipped between and round them, to reassemble in flank and to continue their bombardment of the house at close-quarters; when the police charged back, the hunger-marchers returned to their ammunition-dump and reopened a long-range fire. The present lull in the fighting was due to a change of tactics: half the police were stationed in open order round the house, while the other half encircled the granite piles to cut off supplies. Their numbers, however, were insufficient to hold either position effectively; and, though further reinforcements were reported to be on their way, there were enough stones lying loose about the house for a long spell of irregular practice. “Is that fellow Griffiths in charge?,” asked O’Rane. “I’ve heard so,” answered the constable. “I want to get hold of him. This must be stopped, but it’s no good breaking heads and putting people under arrest. We must stop it before the reinforcements come up and the whole thing starts again. There’s a lot to be said for these fellows: they’re hungry, to begin with, and they’ve been fooled by everybody, Griffiths most of all. The first thing they need is a meal; and I’m going to promise them that, if they’ll stop this stone-throwing business. And after that we must find ’em a place for the night; but I must promise them there’ll be no arrests. Where’s the inspector?” “He’s guarding the area window, sir.” “I hope to God I can make my voice heard,” O’Rane muttered, as he vanished from my side to be swallowed up in the fog. I waited with the constable because I had been given no orders. He had been on duty for little more than half-an-hour and could tell me nothing of the battle’s beginning. On the other hand, he told me much about the rest of London: my premonition of a duel between Griffiths and the O’Ranes had come true; in every other part, the hunger-marchers were being peacefully conducted to makeshift kitchens and dormitories; Hampstead was quiet again; and this brawl, between unknown numbers on either side, was the nearest approach—as Philip Hornbeck might have said—to barricade-fighting.