roadway blazed. Under the
shop-blinds, which drooped forward like heavy lids over the tired eyes
of the windows, little crowds from Streatham and Kentish Town were
shopping. They stared at us. Through the frippery of this market-place
we reached the homelier atmosphere of Holborn. The rattle of our boxes'
had grown apace, and we made small bets among ourselves as to what the
total takings would be. I was thankful when the march or solemn walk was
ended. For days afterwards my ears rang with the incessant
clat-clat-clatter of those boxes, and for days afterwards I was haunted
by those faces that stared at us, and then turned to stare at us, and
then called other faces to stare at us. Nobody in the whole march
troubled us. Nobody cursed us; nobody had a kind word for us. They just
gave us their pennies, because we had been "got up" for that procession
by those dear, hard-working friends of theirs. On our return, and after
the very thin _croute-au-pot_ that was served out to us, we were
addressed on the subject of our discontents. I forget what they were,
if, indeed, I ever knew, for I had joined the march only as Johnnie's
guest.

Whether Johnnie really knows or cares anything about economics I cannot
say. I only know that I don't like him in that part. I like him best
sitting round his open kitchen-range, piled with coke, or sitting in the
four-ale bar of "The Griffin." For what he does know a tremendous lot
about is human nature; only he does not know that he knows it. His
knowledge drops out of him, casually, in side remarks. At his post on
the docks he observes not only white human nature but black and yellow
and brown, and he knows how to deal with it all. He can calm a squabble
among Asiatics of varying colour and creed, when everybody else is
helpless; not by strength of arm or position or character, but simply
because he appreciates the subtle differences of human natures, and
because he understands the needs and troubles of the occasion.

"Yes," he has said to me sometimes, on my asking whether he didn't find
his night-watch rather lonely--"yes, I suppose some chaps would find it
lonely. But not me. If you're a philosopher, you ain't ever lonely.
Another thing--there's too much to do, old son. Night-watchman at a
docks ain't the same thing as night-watchman at the road-up.
Notterbitterfit. Thieves, my boy. Wouldn't think they'd venture into a
place the size of ours, perhaps? Don't they, though? And, my word, if