A grim old man melted by the tragedy obtained a long pole employed in pulling down shop blinds. He succeeded in driving the balloon from its fastness and sending it fatuously bumping into another. Meanwhile the entire shop held its breath, expecting these good intentions to end in a loud plop and a worse tragedy. There was a gasp of relief as this ancient hero gave way to a man in an apron with a step-ladder.
He did the deed.
The tea-shop settled down. The smug child that had united an afternoon's assembly left unnoticed. Over the tea-tables rose again the talk of bridesmaids and husbands and shingles and Maud's hennaed hair. The orchestra played some more Puccini, and a small boy who had profited by the commotion to seize his fourth éclair gave an enormous sigh of joy.
An Open Door
Shortly after midnight a decently dressed young man glanced furtively round Trafalgar Square, hesitated a moment, and then ran swiftly up the broad, black steps of St. Martin's Church. I came up behind him as he tapped the door.
There was the sound of a drawn bolt, and the door swung back. The young man stammered. He was blue with cold, and—there was something else:
"I'm—I'm broke," he said. "I've never done this before. I've always had a bit of money; but—well, I've nowhere to sleep to-night, and—please can I come in?"
The door opened wider, and a pleasant, middle-aged policewoman said:
"Come along!" I followed.