There
is an ordained ritual for the handling of all things, to which if a man
will only conform and keep quiet, he and his will be attended to with
the rest. The people that I watched would not believe this. They charged
about futilely and wasted themselves in trying to get ahead of their
neighbours.
Here is a fragment from the restaurant-car: 'Look at here! Me and some
friends of mine are going to dine at this table. We don't want to be
separated and - '
'You 'ave your number for the service, sar?' 'Number? What number? We
want to dine here, I tell you.'
'You shall get your number, sar, for the first service?'
'Haow's that? Where in thunder do we get the numbers, anyway?'
'I will give you the number, sar, at the time - for places at the first
service.'
'Yes, but we want to dine together here - right now.'
'The service is not yet ready, sar.'
And so on - and so on; with marchings and counter-marchings, and every
word nervously italicised. In the end they dined precisely where there
was room for them in that new world which they had strayed into.
On one side our windows looked out on darkness of the waste; on the
other at the black Canal, all spaced with monstrous headlights of the
night-running steamers.
