nspicuous. When you consider out of
Great Britain's four hundred million subjects how many live, die, and
are buried without at any age having drawn down upon themselves the
anger of the House of Commons, to have done so twice, before one has
passed his twenty-first year, seems to promise a lurid future.

The first time Churchill disturbed the august assemblage in which so
soon he was to become a leader was when he "ragged" a brother subaltern
named Bruce and cut up his saddle and accoutrements. The second time was
when he ran away to Cuba to fight with the Spaniards.

After this campaign, on the first night of his arrival in London, he
made his maiden speech. He delivered it in a place of less dignity
than the House of Commons, but one, throughout Great Britain and her
colonies, as widely known and as well supported. This was the Empire
Music Hall.

At the time Mrs. Ormiston Chant had raised objections to the presence in
the Music Hall of certain young women, and had threatened, unless they
ceased to frequent its promenade, to have the license of the Music Hall
revoked. As a compromise, the management ceased selling liquor, and
on the night Churchill visited the place the bar in the promenade was
barricaded with scantling and linen sheets. With the thirst of tropical
Cuba still upon him, Churchill asked for a drink, which was denied him,
and the crusade, which in his absence had been progressing fiercely,
was explained. Any one else would have taken no for his answer, and
have sought elsewhere for his drink. Not so Churchill. What he did is
interesting, because it was so extremely characteristic. Now he would
not do it; then he was twenty-one.

He scrambled to the velvet-covered top of the railing which divides
the auditorium from the promenade, and made a speech. It was a plea in
behalf of his "Sisters, the Ladies of the Empire Promenade."

"Where," he asked of the ladies themselves and of their escorts crowded
below him in the promenade, "does the Englishman in London always find a
welcome? Where does he first go when, battle-scarred and travel-worn,
he reaches home? Who is always there to greet him with a smile, and
join him in a drink? Who is ever faithful, ever true--the Ladies of the
Empire Promenade."

The laughter and cheers that greeted this, and the tears of the ladies
themselves, naturally brought the performance on the stage to a stop,
and the vast audience turned in the seats and boxes.

They saw a