He stopped on seeing Clarence.
“Paper, General?”
Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, for his eye had fallen on the poster.
It ran as follows:—
SURREY DOING BADLY GERMAN ARMY LANDS IN ENGLAND
Chapter 2
THE INVADERS
Clarence flung the boy a halfpenny, tore a paper from his grasp, and scanned it eagerly. There was nothing to interest him in the body of the journal, but he found what he was looking for in the stop-press space. “Stop press news,” said the paper. “Fry not out, 104. Surrey 147 for 8. A German army landed in Essex this afternoon. Loamshire Handicap: Spring Chicken, 1; Salome, 2; Yip-i-addy, 3. Seven ran.”
Essex! Then at any moment the foe might be at their doors; more, inside their doors. With a passionate cry, Clarence tore back to the house.
He entered the dining-room with the speed of a highly-trained Marathon winner, just in time once more to prevent Mr. Chugwater lowering his record.
“The Germans!” shouted Clarence. “We are invaded!”
This time Mr. Chugwater was really annoyed.
“If I have told you once about your detestable habit of shouting in the house, Clarence, I have told you a hundred times. If you cannot be a Boy Scout quietly, you must stop being one altogether. I had got up to six that time.”
“But, father–-“
“Silence! You will go to bed this minute; and I shall consider the question whether you are to have any supper. It will depend largely on your behaviour between now and then. Go!”
“But, father–-“
Clarence dropped the paper, shaken with emotion. Mr. Chugwater’s sternness deepened visibly.
“Clarence! Must I speak again?”
He stooped and removed his right slipper.
Clarence withdrew.
Reggie picked up the paper.
“That kid,” he announced judicially, “is off his nut! Hullo! I told you so! Fry not out, 104. Good old Charles!”
“I say,” exclaimed Horace, who sat nearest the window, “there are two rummy-looking chaps coming to the front door, wearing a sort of fancy dress!”
“It must be the Germans,” said Reggie. “The paper says they landed here this afternoon. I expect–-“
A thunderous knock rang through the house. The family looked at one another. Voices were heard in the hall, and next moment the door opened and the servant announced “Mr. Prinsotto and Mr. Aydycong.”
“Or, rather,” said the first of the two newcomers, a tall, bearded, soldierly man, in perfect English, “Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig and Captain the Graf von Poppenheim, his aide-de-camp.”
“Just so—just so!” said Mr. Chugwater, affably. “Sit down, won’t you?”
The visitors seated themselves. There was an awkward silence.
“Warm day!” said Mr. Chugwater.
“Very!” said the Prince, a little constrainedly.
“Perhaps a cup of tea? Have you come far?”
“Well—er—pretty far. That is to say, a certain distance. In fact, from Germany.”
“I spent my summer holiday last year at Dresden. Capital place!”
“Just so. The fact is, Mr.—er—”
“Chugwater. By the way—my wife, Mrs. Chugwater.”
The prince bowed. So did his aide-de-camp.
“The fact is, Mr. Jugwater,” resumed the prince, “we are not here on a holiday.”
“Quite so, quite so. Business before pleasure.”
The prince pulled at his moustache. So did his aide-de-camp, who seemed to be a man of but little initiative and conversational resource.
“We are invaders.”
“Not at all, not at all,” protested Mr. Chugwater.
“I must warn you that you will resist at your peril. You wear no uniform—”
“Wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Except at the lodge, of course.”
“You will be sorely tempted, no doubt. Do not think that I do not appreciate your feelings. This is an Englishman’s Home.”
Mr. Chugwater tapped him confidentially on the knee.
“And an uncommonly snug little place, too,” he said. “Now, if you will forgive me for talking business, you, I gather, propose making some stay in this country.”
The prince laughed shortly. So did his aide-de-camp. “Exactly,” continued Mr. Chugwater, “exactly. Then you will want some pied-a-terre, if you follow me. I shall be delighted to let you this house on remarkably easy terms for as long as you please. Just come along into my study for a moment. We can talk it over quietly there. You see, dealing direct with me, you would escape the middleman’s charges, and—”
Gently but firmly he edged the prince out of the room and down the passage.
The aide-de-camp continued to sit staring woodenly at the carpet. Reggie closed quietly in on him.
“Excuse me,” he said; “talking shop and all that. But I’m an agent for the Come One Come All Accident and Life Assurance Office. You have heard of it probably? We can offer you really exceptional terms. You must not miss a chance of this sort. Now here’s a prospectus—”
Horace sidled forward.
“I don’t know if you happen to be a cyclist, Captain—er—Graf; but if you’d like a practically new motorbike, only been used since last November, I can let you—”
There was a swish of skirts as Grace and Alice advanced on the visitor.
“I’m sure,” said Grace winningly, “that you’re fond of the theatre, Captain Poppenheim. We are getting up a performance of ‘Ici on parle Francais,’ in aid of the fund for Supplying Square Meals to Old-Age Pensioners. Such a deserving object, you know. Now, how many tickets will you take?”
“You can sell them to your friends, you know,” added Mrs. Chugwater.
The aide-de-camp gulped convulsively.
Ten minutes later two penniless men groped their way, dazed, to the garden gate.
“At last,” said Prince Otto brokenly, for it was he, “at last I begin to realise the horrors of an invasion—for the invaders.”
And together the two men staggered on.
Chapter 3
ENGLAND’S PERIL
When the papers arrived next morning, it was seen that the situation was even worse than had at first been suspected. Not only had the Germans effected a landing in Essex, but, in addition, no fewer than eight other hostile armies had, by some remarkable coincidence, hit on that identical moment for launching their long-prepared blow.
England was not merely beneath the heel of the invader. It was beneath the heels of nine invaders.
There was barely standing-room.
Full details were given in the Press. It seemed that while Germany was landing in Essex, a strong force of Russians, under the Grand Duke Vodkakoff, had occupied Yarmouth. Simultaneously the Mad Mullah had captured Portsmouth; while the Swiss navy had bombarded Lyme Regis, and landed troops immediately to westward of the bathing-machines. At precisely the same moment China, at last awakened, had swooped down upon that picturesque little Welsh watering-place, Lllgxtplll, and, despite desperate resistance on the part of an excursion of Evanses and Joneses from Cardiff, had obtained a secure foothold. While these things were happening in Wales, the army of Monaco had descended on Auchtermuchty, on the Firth of Clyde. Within two minutes of this disaster, by Greenwich time, a boisterous band of Young Turks had seized Scarborough. And, at Brighton and Margate respectively, small but determined armies, the one of Moroccan brigands, under Raisuli, the other of dark-skinned warriors from the distant isle of Bollygolla, had made good their footing.
This was a very serious state of things.
Correspondents of the Daily Mail at the various points of attack had wired such particulars as they were able. The preliminary parley at Lllgxtplll between Prince Ping Pong Pang, the Chinese general, and Llewellyn Evans, the leader of the Cardiff excursionists, seems to have been impressive to a degree. The former had spoken throughout in pure Chinese, the latter replying in rich Welsh, and the general effect, wired the correspondent, was almost painfully exhilarating.