the war-tragedy for long, and I am one of those who think it cowardly to attempt to do so. Our way to the next factory lies along a road that borders one of the sinuous reaches of the Thames, past the docks for the ships that bring foreign cattle. A few hours hence these dark ways will be noisy with the trundling of heavy lorries taking live cattle to the abattoirs and dead ones to Smithfield market, that the big, hungry monster, London, may be fed to-morrow. It is growing late, and the night air is misty and damp. We can scarcely see the waters of the river, though we can hear their wash as they run past the wharf-head to the sea. But we can plainly descry the dark outlines of a line of barges which are being tugged at long range up-stream. These spectre-like shapes are ammunition boats, carrying the filled charges we have seen to Woolwich. They bear a signal, often changed but always known to the initiated, warning other craft to keep clear.
