Clarges Street—Half Moon Street—Bolton Street—known names, black-lettered on gray stone—Apsley House—The Ritz—corner of Bond Street. . . .
And, suddenly, they heard a voice. “P.J.!” bawled the voice. “Hi! P.J.! Halt, will you! Halt, I say.”
Peter, jamming brakes hard on, felt the car skid under him; felt wheels jar against sidewalk; was aware of Francis, shouting in his ear “Bravo, well-driven old thing,” of Beatrice and Patricia standing up, of a taxi-back two inches from his radiator, of a motor-bus grinding to standstill—and of a little red man, with flat red moustaches on his face and faded red tabs on his uniform, a little red man in a huge cap, who came dashing out of Scott’s hat-shop, bawling: “Halt, confound you, P.J. Halt! It’s eleven o’clock.” . . .
It was the Weasel; and even as the Weasel darted across the sidewalk, London went mad and they with London!
Pandemonium broke loose—a tornado of sound—horns, whistles, rowing-rattles, bugles—men shouting—women screaming. The five in the Crossley couldn’t hear pandemonium. They were of pandemonium—crazy. Brigadier General the Weasel, palms to mouth, straddling the radiator with spurred legs, beating bonnet with his cane, was hallooing like a lunatic: “Forrard away!” hallooed the Weasel. “Forrard away! Forrard away! Hi, tear ’em, tear ’em, tear ’em.” Francis, scarlet in the face, bolt upright, lameness forgotten, bawled an inarticulate “Eton! Well rowed, Eton.” Peter, finger pressed home on the hoarsely-shrieking Klaxon, was howling some Indian war-whoop of his own. Patricia, dumb with emotion, imagined herself to be cheering. And Beatrice, the hyper-critical, hyper-sensitive Beatrice, was yelling, yelling at the top of her voice. “Ya, ya, ya, ya, ya,” yelled Beatrice—but somehow or other she couldn’t finish the yell; dropped back, speechless, in the tonneau. . . .
Pandemonium! Traffic had stopped. There was no traffic: only motionless vehicles—lorries, motor-omnibuses, taxis, a Rolls-Royce, a hansom-cab—yes, a veritable hansom cab. And every vehicle swarmed with men and women. Men and women swarmed on every vehicle. Swarmed and shrieked and waved flags. . . .
Pandemonium! The very houses had gone mad. The houses were alive—alive with men and women. The houses were wide open. Men and women poured out of the houses into the streets. The streets were alive with men and women. They swarmed in the streets; swarmed and danced and cheered and shouted and waved flags. . . .
Pandemonium! The flags had gone mad. There were a million flags—Union Jacks and Stars-and-Stripes, Tricolour flags and Belgian flags and Japanese flags; Italian flags and Portuguese flags, Commonwealth flags and Dominion flags, Royal Standards and White Ensigns. . . .
Pandemonium! Everybody was moving—vehicles were moving—people were moving—flags were moving. Their own flags—Union Jack with Old Glory—were moving. The Crossley was moving. . . .
“Forrard away,” hallooed Brigadier General the Weasel, still astride the radiator. “Forrard away, sir,” Peter howled back from the driving seat. . . .