Читать книгу Radio Boys in the Secret Service; Or, Cast Away on an Iceberg - J. W. Duffield - Страница 6

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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.”