“Hush!” she cried. “What is that noise?”
Again came the rumbling sound, punctuated with quick volleys of cheering. The men glanced at each other. They knew well that sound, a sound they had often heard during the stirring days of the war, in the streets of the great cities across the seas, and in other places, too, where men were wont to crowd. As they listened in tense silence, there came the throbbing of a drum.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Templeton faintly to her eldest daughter, “I think I shall go in.”
At once Hugh offered her his arm, while Adrien took the other, and together they led her slowly into the house.
Meanwhile the others tumbled into Rupert's car and motored down to the gate, and there waited the approach of what seemed to be a procession of some sort or other.
At the gate Dr. Templeton, returning from his pastor visitations, found them standing.
“Come here, Papa!” cried Patricia. “Let us wait here. There is something coming up the street.”
“But what is it?” asked Dr. Templeton. “Does anybody know?”
“I guess it is a strikers' parade, sir. I heard that they were to organise a march-out to-night. It is rather a ridiculous thing.”
Through the deepening twilight they could see at the head of the column and immediately before the band, a double platoon of young girls dressed in white, under the command of an officer distinguished from the others by her red sash, all marching with a beautiful precision to the tap of the drum. As the head of the column drew opposite, Patricia touched Vic's arm.