he
'buses and the honk-honk of motors and the frivolous tinkle of hansoms
rose their harsh, insistent rattle. Now and again a gust of wind would
send a dozen separate swirls of dust into our eyes. People stared at us
much as one stares at an Edgware Road penny-museum show. We were not
men. We were a procession of the Unemployed: An Event. We were a jolly
lot. Most of us stared at the ground or the next man's back; only a few
gazed defiantly around. None talked. Possibly a few were thinking, and
if any of them were imaginative, that slow shuffle might have suggested
a funeral march of hopes and fears. There was a stillness about it that
was unpleasant; a certain sickness in the air. I think the crowd must
have wondered what we were going to do next. You may punch an
Englishman's nose, and heal the affront with apologies and a drink. You
may call him a liar, and smooth over the incident by the same means. You
may take bread out of his mouth, and still he may be pacified. But when
you touch his home and the bread of the missus and the kids, you are
touching something sacred and thereby inviting disaster; and I think the
crowd was anticipating some concerted assault. As a matter of fact, we
were the tamest lot of protesters you ever saw. I don't think any of us
realized that he had anything sacred.

As we reached Piccadilly Circus the watery grey suddenly split, and
through the ragged hole the sun began to peer: a pale sun that might
have been out all night. It streamed weakly upon us, showing up our
dismal clothes, glancing off the polished rails of the motor-'buses and
the sleek surfaces of the hansoms. But it gave us no heart. Our escorts
deigned us an occasional glance, but they had a soft job; we were not
gnashing our teeth or singing the "Marseillaise" or "The Red Flag."
People stared ... and stared. The long black snake of our procession
threaded disconsolately into Knightsbridge. Hardly a word or a sign of
interest escaped us. On the whole four hours' march there was but one
laugh. That came from a fellow on the near side, who thought he'd found
a cigar by the kerb, and fell and hurt his knee in the effort to secure
his treasure--a discoloured chip of wood. Curiously enough, we didn't
laugh. It was he who saw the fine comedy of the incident.

We debouched into Church Street, so to Notting Hill, and up the wretched
Bayswater Road to Oxford Street. The sun was then--at one
o'clock--shining with a rich splendour. The