"Scouts, attention! Fall in!
Double quick--follow me!"
He ran in the direction of the sound, and they followed. Five minutes
brought them to the scene of the disturbance. They reached a street of
cheaper houses and small shops. About one of these a crowd was surging,
made up largely of young men of the lower class, for in West Kensington, as
in all parts of London, the homes of the rich and of the poor rub one
another's elbows in easy familiarity.
The crowd seemed to be trying to break in the door of this shop. Already
all the glass of the show windows had been broken, and from within there
came guttural cries of alarm and anger.
"It's Dutchy's place!" cried Dick Mercer. "He's a German, and they're
trying to smash his place up!"
"Halt!" cried Franklin. He gathered the scouts about him.
"This won't do," he said, angry spots of color showing on his cheek bones.
"No one's gone for the police--or, if they have, this crowd of muckers will
smash everything up and maybe hurt the old Dutchman before the Bobbies get
here. Form together now--and when I give the word, go through! Once we get
between them and the shop, we can stop them. Maybe they won't know who we
are at first, and our uniforms may stop them."
"Now!" he said, a moment later. And, with a shout, the scouts charged
through the little mob in a body.
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