Seeing London in a Fog
London!
Guy forgot all about his poor eyesight, except to regret occasionally
that he was forced to take his first view of that great city through
colored glasses. The Old World had been almost a mystic hemisphere to
his mind from his earliest reading days. In his younger boyhood he had
entertained some elusive and confusing ideas concerning persons and
things far removed from his daily association. He had wondered if so
great a man as the president of the United States were real flesh and
blood, and even now he could not dismiss lightly some of his myth-fed
mental pictures of Europe, as if the latter were located on a distant
and doubtful-natured planet of another universe.
“Does the grass that grows over there look like the grass that grows on
our lawn?” was the question that had come to him sometimes as he studied
in school the history of the country over which hung the storied glamour
of King Arthur and Robin Hood. And when he for the first time got near
enough to a patch of little green blades in London to pluck one and
examine it, he felt a flush of confusion at the foolishness of the act.
Guy was impressed with the immensity of the city before they reached the
railroad terminal, but that impression became a prolonged thrill of
metropolitan wonder as he and his mother left the train and moved
through the throng of many nationalities toward the long line of cabs
waiting for passengers. Here he noticed a marked distinction between the
old and new world. New York with its dash and go, its modern buildings
and sunny people; London old and grim, brooding thru its veil of smoke
and soot on its antiquated buildings and solemn people.
Their hotel they found to be a favorite stopping place for Americans and
excellently located for visitors wishing to see the city. Guy and his
mother were soon comfortably provided for and sought refreshments and
rest after their journey’s end.
On the following day they set out to meet the specialist, Dr. Sprague.
They found him at one of the big hospitals of the city. He had been
informed of their coming, but was unable to make an examination of the
boy’s eyes that day. They had to be content with an appointment two days
later.
Guy made friends rapidly wherever he went, and in London several such
acquaintances contributed much to the interest of his visit. One of
these was a clerk of the hotel, two years older than the young American.
This clerk, whose name was Arthur Fletcher, made his friendship doubly
acceptable to Guy by reason of his volunteered usefulness. He knew
London like a book and was ever ready with his information when needed.
Occasionally Guy and Arthur would go out to see London by night. During
these walks the former plied his English friend with questions so
industriously that his own fund of information grew rapidly. The second
of these occasions proved particularly memorable.
It was early March and pleasant weather when the fogs lifted or were
blown away. London has little low temperature, even in the middle of
winter, the most disagreeable feature of the atmosphere being its heavy,
smoke-laden mists. On the evening in question a thick fog had settled
over the city, making it difficult for one to distinguish the features
of another even under a street-light and at “how-de-do” proximity.
Guy still wore his amber glasses, which caused the vapor to look weird
in lighted places. He had been receiving daily treatments to strengthen
his eyes, and it was uncertain as yet whether he would have to undergo
an operation. Mrs. Burton would have protested against his going out in
the fog, but the specialist had said that he need take no particular
precautions, except that he must not read and he must not lose sleep.
“I’ll show you London in a fog,” said Artie, as he was familiarly known
because of a constitutional suggestion of effeminacy in him.
Nevertheless, in spite of this appearance, he was a vigorous youth.
“We won’t see much London, I’m afraid,” laughed Guy.
“We’ll see London in its nightgown,” said the clerk. “The city looks
like a ghost now. An’ there’s some ghostly things goin’ on in this
village, you can bet safe.”
It was like wading in thin water over-head deep—this is what it was in
fact. In ten minutes Guy had lost all reckoning of the points of the
compass.
“We’re goin’ to have some fun tonight,” said Artie as he stepped along
briskly. “We’ll get over on some o’ the quieter streets an’ see what we
find there.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Guy.
“Do you know where we are right now?” asked Artie evasively.
“Why, no, not exactly.”
“What direction are we from Trafalgar square?”
“East, aren’t we?”
“You’re wrong. You’re lost.”
“I guess I am,” admitted Guy with a laugh.
“That’s what I brought you out for—to get you lost,” Artie announced
gayly. “It’s part o’ seein’ London in a fog. We’re on Shaftsbury avenue,
going towards Piccadilly. I’ll get you lost again in a minute.”
Suddenly Guy saw the waving of a light before them like the swath of a
scythe in a hay field. It swung across their path.
“What’s that?” asked the young American.
“That’s a ‘bobby’,” replied the clerk.
“A ‘bobby’?”
“Yes—a policeman. You call ’em ‘cops’ in New York. He’s lookin’ for
strangers in the fog and steerin’ ’em clear o’ the rocks.”
They continued to “wade” through the mist several squares, passing two
other “bobbies” on the way. Meanwhile Guy found himself wondering what
would be the next number on the program.
“I wonder if it’s going to be like hazing freshmen,” he mused. “If it
is, I’ll take my medicine without a squirm. It’ll be all right, jus’ so
he doesn’t walk me into the Thames.”
There were a good many pedestrians moving up and down Charing Cross
road. They seemed not to be inconvenienced by the fog, passing one
another like fish in water. Guy could not see them, but he could hear
their footsteps, which seemed firm and unhesitating, and he heard no
collisions or evidences of such.
“How does it happen that nobody runs into anybody else?” inquired the
young American as he walked along with one hand on his companion’s arm.
“Oh, everybody’s used to it,” replied Artie with an air of experience.
“I can dodge an express train if I don’t see it till it’s two feet
away.”
“You’re very clever,” assured Guy with laughing sarcasm. “But suppose
the fellow comin’ your way is a green one, like me—what then?”
“I’ve got to be smart enough for both. There—see? If that guy hadn’t
known ’is business, you’d both had your headlights pushed in.”
The American youth’s awkwardness produced a choleric grunt from a portly
individual who proved to be surprisingly agile. Artie caught his
companion by the sleeve and jerked him aside. The pass was effected
without a touch.
“You’ll learn how to do it after a few more narrow escapes,” assured the
hotel clerk. “Take this advice—never get excited and always turn to the
left.”
“To the left?”
“Yes, haven’t you noticed? Everybody takes the left side of the sidewalk
here, and the drivers take the left side of the street.”
“I thought there was something funny, but I didn’t figure out what it
was,” laughed Guy. “This is where everybody stands on his head, isn’t
it?”
“If it is, we hop along on our hair pretty well, don’t we? You know the
man ’at uses his head to get along in the world, gets along a lot
better.”
“Don’t people who live here ever get lost in the fog?”
“No, that’s another case of usin’ our head, or part of it. We smell
directions here. Didn’t you ever hear that an Englishman can make his
nose work farther than any other nationality on earth?”
Presently they turned into a cross street, where they did not meet so
many people. They advanced one square and a half; then suddenly Artie
called a halt.
“Stan’ still an’ keep quiet,” he whispered, gripping Guy’s arm
warningly. “Don’t make a sound.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the other boy, also in a whisper.
“There’s trouble ahead. Listen.”
Both were silent for some moments, during which they heard voices
seemingly not more than twenty feet ahead. One was a gruff, heavy voice
and was giving orders. The other vibrated in trembling, whining tones,
begging for mercy.
“Don’t take my money, don’t take my money,” it pleaded. “It’s all I’ve
got in the world, and I’ll starve.”
“Oh, stow that,” was the merciless answer. “You’ve got plenty where that
come from, you old miser. Move out in the middle of the street an’ don’t
make another sound or—”
The rest of the sentence, presumably expressing a threat, was inaudible
to the boys. Guy’s sympathy was aroused at once.
“We ought to help ’im,” he suggested.
“We’re not going to get mixed up in it,” replied Artie. “Leave it to
me.”
The victim seemed cowed into silence, for he ceased his whimpering. As
the highwayman drove him out of the way of pedestrians, their footsteps
could be heard on the pavement.
“Run, pal! The bobbies is comin’.”
This cry of warning came from Artie and was intended evidently for the
hold-up man. The ruse was successful, for, with an oath, the footpad
dashed away, his rapidly pattering shoes on the pavement giving evidence
of his panic.
“That’s the way to handle a case o’ that kind, an’ you don’t get into
trouble,” said Artie wisely.
“We’ll be held up next,” warned Guy, as they continued on their way,
leaving the “miser” to take care of himself.
“Not much chance,” was the clerk’s reply. “They don’t stop two together,
especially boys who ain’t supposed to carry a lot o’ money anyway.”
But Artie’s confidence proved unwarranted. After the boys had proceeded
two blocks farther, a man suddenly stepped up and covered them with a
pistol, commanding gruffly:
“Quick, now, out in the street! I’ll shoot if you make a sound.”