“A serenade,” said Henry. “A lot of soldiers gathered down there in the street and began to yell at the sign.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Just a crowd,” said Henry, abstractedly. “All crowds have to howl. They didn’t have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they’d probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up.”
“Yes,” said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, “you should have been here.”
He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal, for he turned abruptly and went back to his desk.
“Are the soldiers all set against the Socialists?” demanded Edith of her brother. “I mean do they attack you violently and all that?”
Henry replaced his eye-shade and yawned.
“The human race has come a long way,” he said casually, “but most of us are throw-backs; the soldiers don’t know what they want, or what they hate, or what they like. They’re used to acting in large bodies, and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be against us. There’ve been riots all over the city to-night. It’s May Day, you see.”
“Was the disturbance here pretty serious?”
“Not a bit,” he said scornfully. “About twenty-five of them stopped in the street about nine o’clock, and began to bellow at the moon.”