It was the time when London is supposed to
be empty; and when those who remain in town feel there is not room
for a soul more.
We were eleven inside the omnibus when it pulled up at Charing Cross,
so that legally there was room for just one more. I had travelled
enough in omnibuses to know my fellow-passengers by heart--
a governess with some sheets of music in her satchel; a minor actress
going to rehearsal; a woman carrying her incurable complaint for the
hundredth time to the hospital; three middle-aged city clerks; a
couple of reporters with weak eyes and low collars; an old
loose-cheeked woman exhaling patchouli; a bald-headed man with hairy
hands, a violent breast-pin, and the indescribable air of a
matrimonial agent. Not a word passed. We were all failures in life,
and could not trouble to dissemble it, in that heat. Moreover, we
were used to each other, as types if not as persons, and had lost
curiosity. So we sat listless, dispirited, drawing difficult breath
and staring vacuously. The hope we shared in common--that nobody
would claim the vacant seat--was too obvious to be discussed.
But at Charing Cross the twelfth passenger got in--a boy with a
stick, and a bundle in a blue handkerchief. He was about thirteen;
bound for the docks, we could tell at a glance, to sail on his first
voyage; and, by the way he looked about, we could tell as easily that
in stepping outside Charing Cross Station he had set foot on London
stones for the first time.
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