THE POET AND THE EDITOR
It was not bad sport - being in London entirely on our own hook.
We asked the way to Fleet Street, where Father says all the newspaper offices are. They said straight on down Ludgate Hill - but it turned out to be quite another way. At least we didn't go straight on.
We got to St Paul's. Noel WOULD go in, and we saw where Gordon was buried - at least the monument. It is very flat, considering what a man he was.
When we came out we walked a long way, and when we asked a policeman he said we'd better go back through Smithfield. So we did. They don't burn people any more there now, so it was rather dull, besides being a long way, and Noel got very tired. He's a peaky little chap; it comes of being a poet, I think. We had a bun or two at different shops - out of the shillings - and it was quite late in the afternoon when we got to Fleet Street. The gas was lighted and the electric lights. There is a jolly Bovril sign that comes off and on in different coloured lamps. We went to the Daily Recorder office, and asked to see the Editor. It is a big office, very bright, with brass and mahogany and electric lights.
They told us the Editor wasn't there, but at another office. So we went down a dirty street, to a very dull-looking place. There was a man there inside, in a glass case, as if he was a museum, and he told us to write down our names and our business. So Oswald wrote -OSWALD BASTABLE.
NOEL BASTABLE.
Business very private indeed.
Then we waited on the stone stairs; it was very draughty. And the man in the glass case looked at us as if we were the museum instead of him. We waited a long time, and then a boy came down and said -'The Editor can't see you. Will you please write your business?'