Huge hotels and brilliant shops vividly impressed him, though he saw them for the thousandth time; a new device in advertising won his ungrudging admiration.

Above all he liked to find himself in the Strand at that hour of the day when east and west show a double current of continuous traffic, tight wedged in the narrow street, moving at a mere footpace, every horse's nose touching the back of the next vehicle.

The sun could not shine too hotly; it made colours brighter, gave a new beauty to the glittering public-houses, where names of cooling drinks seemed to cry aloud.

He enjoyed a "block," and was disappointed unless he saw the policeman at Wellington Street holding up his hand whilst the cross traffic from north and south rolled grandly through.

It always reminded him of the Bible story--Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea.
He was in the full enjoyment of this spectacle when an odour of cloves breathed across his face, and a voice addressed him.
"Isn't that you, Mr.Gammon?
Well, if I didn't think so!" The speaker was a young woman, who, with a male companion, had just mounted the bus and seated herself at Gammon's back.