“Can you call over those women?” he asked the potato-man.
A tall, fresh-faced young policeman came upon the group round the Criterion corner. Although the pounding of his thick boots on the pavement had been audible long before his appearance, he regarded them with the slightly dramatic air of one who has deftly surprised a group of conspirators. The potato-man looked from Christian to the officer and made no reply.
Christian drew some silver from his pocket, shaking off the restraining hand Westland tried to lay on his arm. “Is there any objection, constable,” he inquired, “to my buying potatoes for those friends of ours over there? It is a cold morning.”
The policeman’s glance ranged from the white ties of the young gentlemen to the coins in Christian’s palm. His official expression relaxed. “I dare say it’ll do no ’arm, sir,” he replied with courtesy. He even lent himself to the enterprise by stooping down and beating a certain number of strokes with his baton on the pavement.
“How many times did he strike?” Dicky made whispered inquiry. “That’s a new dodge to me.”
New or old, it was efficient. Forlorn shapes began to emerge from the shadows of the big streets opposite, and move forward across the empty open space. Others stole noiselessly in from the byways of Leicester Square. There were perhaps a dozen in all when the potato-man made his census—poorly dressed, fagged, bold-faced, furtive-eyed women. They spoke in monotonous, subdued tones among themselves. There were to be heard German, French, Belgian French, cockney English, and Lancashire English. Two of them pulled at the sleeve of the potato-man to make him hurry.
Christian, regarding his motley guests, found himself neither touched nor entertained. They seemed as stupid as they were squalid. With a gesture of decision he gave the money to the policeman.
“Pay for it all,” he directed, “and if more come, give them a look-in, too—and keep what is left for yourself.”
“Now then, Frenchy!” broke in the constable, sharply. “Mind what you’re at! Pass Germany the salt!” With an abrupt change to civility, he turned to Christian. “Right you are, sir!” he said.
Dicky laughed drowsily. “It’s like the Concert of Europe,” he declared. “Shall we go on?”