It was a mean street somewhere in the wilderness of Fulham. How I
got there I don't exactly know; all that I am clear about is that I
was trying, on insufficient data, to make a short cut. Twilight was
falling, there was a slight drizzle of rain and I told myself that I
had stumbled on the drabbest bit of all London.
Here and there, breaking the monotony of dark house-fronts, were
little isolated shops, which gave a touch of colour to the drabness. I
paused before one of them, through whose small and dim window a light
shed a melancholy beam upon the pavement. Nothing seemed to be sold
there, for the window was occupied by empty glass jars, bearing
such labels as "peppermint rock," "pear drops" and "bull's-eyes."
Apparently the shop had sold out.
I was on the point of turning away when I noticed that someone was
moving about inside, and presently an ancient dame began to take
certain jars from the window and fill them with sweets from boxes on
the counter. Evidently a new stock had just arrived. Then I remembered
that sweets had been "freed."
A little girl stopped beside me, stared through the window and
then ran off at top speed. Within a couple of minutes half-a-dozen
youngsters were peering into the shop, and a pair of them marched in,
consulting earnestly as they went. The news spread; more children
arrived. I distributed a largesse of pennies which gave me a
popularity I have never achieved before. The street seemed to take on
a different aspect. I almost liked it.
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