Already the thing has become a
tradition. As a stock situation it will doubtless linger in literature
for a century to come, but as a cold fact it has ceased to be. Here are
the doorways, and here are the boys, but happy conjunctions are no longer
effected. The doorways remain empty, and the boys keep awake and carry
the banner.
"I was down under the arches," grumbled another young fellow. By
"arches" he meant the shore arches where begin the bridges that span the
Thames. "I was down under the arches wen it was ryning its 'ardest, an'
a bobby comes in an' chyses me out. But I come back, an' 'e come too.
''Ere,' sez 'e, 'wot you doin' 'ere?' An' out I goes, but I sez, 'Think
I want ter pinch [steal] the bleedin' bridge?'"
Among those who carry the banner, Green Park has the reputation of
opening its gates earlier than the other parks, and at quarter-past four
in the morning, I, and many more, entered Green Park. It was raining
again, but they were worn out with the night's walking, and they were
down on the benches and asleep at once. Many of the men stretched out
full length on the dripping wet grass, and, with the rain falling
steadily upon them, were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
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