You cannot lock up or fine a hundred thousand men, and if
you could you would still be unable to make them work. No means have
ever been devised to make unwilling men work, except the lash, and
that is useless with skilled labour. No one in the North cares a rap
for Acts of Parliament, but there is a mystery about martial law which
carries terror into the hardest heart and the most stupid brain. I
want a signed proclamation of martial law, but I undertake not to
issue it unless all other forms of pressure fail. I must have it all
in cold print to show to the shop stewards when I strike my blow.
Without that proclamation I am helpless, and you will be helpless,
too, by Friday next. This is Wednesday. Unless I cut off the snake's
head to-morrow, it will bite you here even in your sheltered London."

The Prime Minister fumbled once more with the papers before him, but
they gave him no comfort. All advised the one measure of giving full
authority to Dawson and of trusting to his energy and skill. "Dawson
is a man of the people, and knows his own class. He can deal with the
men; we can't." So the urgent appeals ran.

"And if you do not succeed? If you proclaim martial law and we have to
enforce it, where shall we be then?"

"No worse off than you will be anyhow by Friday," said Dawson curtly.

"So you say. But suppose that we think you needlessly fearful. Suppose
that we prefer to wait until Friday and see; what then?"

"You will see what has not been seen in our country for over a hundred
years," retorted Dawson. "You will see artillery firing shotted guns
in the streets."

The Prime Minister shrugged his shoulders, but the War Secretary
turned to his pile of maps and picked up one on which was marked all
the depots and training camps in the northern district. "How many men
do you want?" he asked.

"No khaki, thank you," replied Dawson. "It is not trained, and the
workmen are used to it. To them khaki means their sons and brothers
and friends dressed up. I want my own soldiers of the _Sea Regiment_
in service blue. I want eighty men from my old division at Chatham."

"Eighty!" cried the War Minister--"eighty men! You are going to stop a
revolution with eighty Red Marines!"

"I could perhaps do with fewer," explained Dawson modestly. "But I
want to make sure work. Give me eighty Marines, none of less than five
years' service, a couple of sergeants, and a lieutenant--a regular
pukka lieutenant. Give them to me, and