down again. But stop, you are going to walk up the street? I’ll go with you.”
At the outer door of the station—just as I had remembered it—stood a group of hotel bus-men and porters.
But how changed!
They were like men blasted by a great sorrow. One, with his back turned, was leaning against a post, his head buried on his arm.
“Prince George Hotel,” he groaned at intervals. “Prince George Hotel.”
Another was bending over a little handrail, his head sunk, his arms almost trailing to the ground.
“King Edward,” he sobbed, “King Edward.”
A third, seated on a stool, looked feebly up, with tears visible in his eyes.
“Walker House,” he moaned. “First-class accommodation for———” then he broke down and cried.
“Take this handbag,” I said to one of the men, “to the Prince George.”
The man ceased his groaning for a moment and turned to me with something like passion.
“Why do you come to us?” he protested. “Why not go to one of the others. Go to him,” he added, as he stirred with his foot a
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