Twenty-four years of age, well
educated, a gentleman by birth and breeding, an athlete who stood six
feet two inches high in his stockings, the gulf was wide, indeed,
between him and the charity-cursers who had taken his money. Yet--the
words stuck....
Evidently, he was fated to be a sight-seer that morning. When he
entered Buckingham Palace Road, the strains of martial music banished
the gaunt specter called into being by the red cotton banner. A
policeman, more cheerful and spry than his comrades who marshaled the
procession shuffling towards Westminster, strode to the center of the
busy crossing, and cast an alert eye on the converging lines of
traffic. Another section of the ever-ready London crowd lined up on the
curb. Nursemaids, bound for the parks, wheeled their perambulators into
strategic positions, thus commanding a clear view and blocking the edge
of the pavement. Drivers of omnibuses, without waiting for the lifted
hand of authority, halted in Lower Grosvenor Gardens and Victoria
Street. Cabs going to the station, presumably carrying fares to whom
time meant lost trains, spurted to cross a road which would soon be
barred.
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