CHAPTER I 



'THE SCOTCH MAIL' 



THE lamps are being lit in Bloomsbury. Long ago 

 they have begun to twinkle in the small bird shops of 

 the ' Dials,' and to flare in the gin palaces of the 

 avenues. As the dull brown haze of a London 

 August evening settles down the streets become 

 thicker with people, and every tenement in this part 

 of the town pours forth its quota to the stream upon 

 the pavement, there to strut or loaf, or drink away 

 its short hour of ease, until bed, straw, and plank 

 receive once more the weary bones of the toilers of 

 the city. 



As your cab rattles along towards Euston or 

 King's Cross the wheels spatter black mud legacy 

 of the leaden drizzle of the afternoon -upon the pale 

 faces and ragged clothing of the drni/.ens of the 

 cellar and the garret : men, \vomm, and children in 

 crowds, to whom gas serves for air, garbage for food. 

 and vitriol for drink ; who have nr\vr trod a hillside 



