There were four
torrents converging at a point, and when four torrents converge at one
point engineering experts buy tickets for another place.
But here, again, it was drill, plain, simple drill. I must not falter in
saying that I think the management of the traffic--as the phrase goes--
to be distinctly illuminating and wonderful. The police were not ruffled
and exasperated. They were as peaceful as two cows in a pasture.
I can remember once remarking that mankind, with all its boasted modern
progress, had not yet been able to invent a turnstile that will commute
in fractions. I have now learned that 756 rights-of-way cannot operate
simultaneously at one point. Right-of-way, like fighting women, requires
space. Even two rights-of-way can make a scene which is only suited to
the tastes of an ancient public.
This truth was very evidently recognized. There was only one right-of-
way at a time. The police did not look behind them to see if their
orders were to be obeyed; they knew they were to be obeyed. These four
torrents were drilling like four battalions. The two blue-cloth men
maneuvered them in solemn, abiding peace, the silence of London.
I thought at first that it was the intellect of the individual, but I
looked at one constable closely and his face was as afire with
intelligence as a flannel pin-cushion. It was not the police, and it was
not the crowd.
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