is one of the few places in town where the street-merchant survives
in all his glory. Everywhere in London, of course, we have the
coffee-stall, the cockle, whelk, and escallop stall, the oyster bar (8d.
per doz.), the baked potato and chestnut man, and (an innovation of
1914) the man in the white dress with a portable tin, selling _pommes
frites_ in grease-proof bags at a penny a time. But in Homerton, in
addition to these, you have the man with the white-metal stand, selling
a saveloy and a dab of pease-pudding for a penny, or boiled pig's
trotters, or many kinds of heavy, hot cakes.

After our orgy, we bought a sweet cake, and Georgie took me to what
looked like a dirty little beerhouse that hid itself under one of the
passages that lead to the perilous Marshes of Hackney. We slipped into a
little bar with room for about four persons, and Georgie swung to the
counter, peremptorily smashed a glass on it, and demanded: "Crumdy
munt--two!" I was expecting a new drink, but the barman seemed to
understand, for he brought us two tiny glasses of green liqueur, looked
at Georgie, casually, then again, sharply, and said, in mild surprise,
"God ... it's old Georgie!" and then went to attend the four-ale bar.
When he came back we exchanged courtesies, and bought, for ourselves and
for him, some of the sixpenny cigars of the house. We lingered over our
drink in silence, and, for a time, nothing could be heard except the
crackling of the saltpetre in the Sunday-Afternoon Splendidos. Then
Georgie inquired what was doing at my end, and told me of what he was
writing and of how he was amusing himself, and I told him equally
interesting things.

* * * * *

It was half-past eight before Georgie and I were tired of Homerton; and
he then demanded what we should do _now_. I said: Return; and it was
carried. We went westwards, and called at Rule's for a chat with Harry,
and then dropped in at The Alhambra, just in time to catch Phyllis
Monkman at her Peruvian Pom-Pom dance in a costume that is surely one of
the inspirations of modern ballet. We remained only long enough to pay
homage to the young danseuse, and then drifted to those parts of the
Square where, from evening until midnight, the beasts of pleasure pace
their cells. I have often remarked to various people on the dearth of
decent music in our lounges and cafes. I once discussed the matter with
the _chef d'orchestre_ of the Cafe de l'Europe, but