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Lee, were waiting for them at the back of the crowd. And they were cheering loudest of all.

Almost as soon as the pink dawn light touched the tops of the trees at the edge of the park, people began to arrive. Sergeant Short wasn’t the least bit surprised. He knew his city, and he knew when something big was going to happen.
    At six-thirty he asked Julie to heat some water for tea, then he woke the children, who had spent the night curled up in a nest of hay bales under their silver “tent” with the ducklings and the poodle-lambs.
    Meera opened her eyes. She saw the treetops, the blue sky, and Sergeant Short’s big, beaming face looking down at her.
    “Time to meet your supporters,” he said. “Told you it wasn’t over till the fat policeman sings.”
    Meera sat up and rubbed her eyes, then she rubbed them again. This
had
to be a dream. She nudged Gemma and kicked Karl in the leg — harder than she’d meant to out of sheer astonishment.
    Beyond the crash barriers, hundreds and hundreds of people of all ages, shapes, and sizes stood quietly waiting. Many carried homemade banners saying SILVER STREET FARM and WE WANT A FARM NOT A PARKING GARAGE , or simply showing pictures of farm animals.
    “We’ve done it!” exclaimed Karl. “We’ve gotten the whole city behind us!”
    “If we arrive at Silver Street Station with this crowd,” said Gemma, “
nothing’s
going to be demolished!”
    Meera climbed onto the hay bales and called out, “Good morning, everybody!” to the crowd.
    “Good morning!” they called back. And, as if Meera’s “good morning” had flipped a switch, the whole park suddenly seemed to wake up. Everyone began to talk at once. People worked on their banners, drank from thermoses, ate sandwiches, and jumped up and down to warm up in the chilly early morning air.
    More and more people began to arrive: Auntie Nat, with a thermos of hot chocolate and homemade rolls to dip in it (“So exciting,” she said. “My Karl and his friends all celebrities now, eh?”); Meera’s mom and dad and her three little brothers, with a banner attached to the stroller saying SILVER STREET CITY FARM in letters made of aluminum foil; Lee and his friends, dressed up as animals (three chickens, one sheep, and something that might have been a zebra or a tiger or possibly just a striped caterpillar).
    Finally, Gemma’s dad turned up with his accordian and started singing “Silver Street’s a City Farm” to the tune of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” Lots of people joined in, so Gemma couldn’t be embarrassed.
    Then Sergeant Short spoke to the crowd through the megaphone.
    “Citizens of Lonchester,” he began, so sternly that everyone immediately became very quiet. “It is the duty of the Lonchester Police Force to uphold the law. So I must ask you now to leave the park.”
    There were a few cries of “Shame!” but the Sergeant held up his hand for silence. “However, if you wish to make your way to Silver Street Station, I will be obliged to provide a full police escort to make sure that nobody gets into any trouble.”
    Only Meera was close enough to see the twinkle in Sergeant Short’s eye as he spoke, but the crowd understood anyway.
    And that was how Meera, Karl, and Gemma led a procession of ducklings, sheep-poodles, goats, chickens, and cheering Lonchester citizens across the city to Silver Street Station, with twenty police officers as a guard of honor.

The protesters sang at the top of their voices, all the way from the park.
    “Silver Street’s a city farm
    Ee-i, ee-i, oh!
    And on that farm we’ll have some sheep
    Ee-i, ee-i, oh!”
    Gemma’s dad’s accordian was joined by Mr. Khan’s trombone, a pair of cymbals, and some sleigh bells that were being shaken very enthusiastically by the oldest of Meera’s little brothers. Even some of the police officers were humming along.
    All the people standing outside the gates of Silver Street must have heard them coming for
ages
because the man