After shedding her heavy coat, Cherry stood before her strange audience. All lovely in gold and blue, she caught their eyes at once. Leaning over, she whispered to the girl at the piano, giving her the name of her first song. The social worker clapped her hands for silence. Deep, appreciative silence followed. “Miss Ramsey, a friend of Lady Applegate, from Dorset way, will sing to us,” Miss Meeks announced. “Let’s give her a hand.” The applause was tumultuous. Somehow, a light, not too strong, was made to play on the slender girl as she sang. “In the gloaming, Oh my darling, When the lights are dim and low.” She sang the song through to the end. The applause that followed drowned out the sound of exploding bombs. “More! More!” came from every corner. The social worker slid a microphone before the singer. Bending over, a smile on her lips, Cherry once more whispered a title. Then, lifting her voice high, she cried: “Roll out the Barrel! Everybody sing! Let’s make it ring!” Everybody did sing,—more people than Cherry will ever know, for through the microphone that had been placed before her, Cherry was at last singing on the radio. From end to end of England the song boomed on: “Roll out the Barrel.” Every platform in the subway had its radio. Station by station they joined in until the whole tube, miles on end, echoed with the song. “Roll out the barrel! We’ll have a barrel of fun Roll out the barrel! We’ll put the blues on the run.” It seemed to Dave as he listened after that song was over, that even the Führer must have heard the applause that followed, heard and shuddered. Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters who recalled that other terrible war, Cherry sang: “There’s a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams, Where the nightingale is singing And the white moon beams.” Then, scarcely pausing for breath, leaning far forward, a bewitching smile on her face, she sang: “No! No! No! Papasista.” When the roar of applause had died away, Dave heard a gray-haired lady in a Persian lamb coat say: “Such a vulgar song!” “Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar and wonderful. I quite love this war. It has given me one more chance for a fling at life.” “All out for England!” Cherry called into the megaphone. “Everybody sing, ‘We’ll roll the old chariot along’.” They sang. They roared. They sang. “If Hitler’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. If Tubby’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. If Il Duce’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. If the devil’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. We’ll roll the old chariot along And we won’t tag on behind.” In the hush that followed, Cherry announced in a low, husky voice: “God save the King.” There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man, woman and child was on his feet. Even the enemy planes above seemed to hush as the glorious National Anthem rolled over England from Dover to Newcastle.