Suddenly Guy saw the waving of a light before them like the swath of a scythe in a hay field. It swung across their path.
“What’s that?” asked the young American.
“That’s a ‘bobby’,” replied the clerk.
“A ‘bobby’?”
“Yes—a policeman. You call ’em ‘cops’ in New York. He’s lookin’ for strangers in the fog and steerin’ ’em clear o’ the rocks.”
They continued to “wade” through the mist several squares, passing two other “bobbies” on the way. Meanwhile Guy found himself wondering what would be the next number on the program.
“I wonder if it’s going to be like hazing freshmen,” he mused. “If it is, I’ll take my medicine without a squirm. It’ll be all right, jus’ so he doesn’t walk me into the Thames.”
There were a good many pedestrians moving up and down Charing Cross road. They seemed not to be inconvenienced by the fog, passing one another like fish in water. Guy could not see them, but he could hear their footsteps, which seemed firm and unhesitating, and he heard no collisions or evidences of such.
“How does it happen that nobody runs into anybody else?” inquired the young American as he walked along with one hand on his companion’s arm.
“Oh, everybody’s used to it,” replied Artie with an air of experience. “I can dodge an express train if I don’t see it till it’s two feet away.”