“Why, he couldn’t miss you!” said Norah, laughing. “Come on.”
Even when more than a year of War had made uniform a commonplace in London streets, you might have turned to look at Jim and Wally. Jim was immensely tall; his chum little less so; and both were lean and clean-shaven, tanned to a deep bronze, and stamped with a look of resolute keenness. In their eyes was the deep glint that comes to those who have habitually looked across great spaces. The type has become familiar enough in London now, but it generally exists under a slouch hat; and these lads were in British uniform, bearing the badges of a famous marching regiment. At first they had hankered after the cavalry, being much more accustomed to ride than to walk: but as the armies settled down into the Flanders mud it became increasingly apparent that this was not to be a horseman’s war, and that therefore, as Wally put it, if they wanted to be in the fun, they had better make up their minds to paddle with the rest. The amount of “fun” had so far been a negligible quantity which caused them some bitterness of spirit. They earnestly hoped to increase it as speedily as might be, and to give the Hun as much inconvenience as they could manage in the process.
They strolled across the grass to the railings, and looked up and down the tan ribbon of Rotten Row. Small boys and girls, on smart ponies and woolly Shetlands, walked or trotted sedately; or occasionally galloped, followed by elderly grooms torn between pride and anxiety. Jim and Wally thought the famous Row an over-rated concern; failing to realize, from its war aspect, the Row of other days, crammed from fence to fence with beautiful horses and well-turned-out riders, and with half the world looking on from the railings. Nowadays the small boys and girls had it chiefly to themselves, and could stray from side to side at their own sweet will. A few ladies were riding, and there was a sprinkling of officers in khaki; obviously on Army horses and out for exercise. Now and then came a wounded man, slowly, on a reliable cob or sturdy pony—bandages visible, or one arm in a sling. A few people sat about, or leaned on the fences, watching; but there was nothing to attract a crowd. Every one looked business-like, purposeful; clothes were plain and useful, with little frippery. The old glitter and splendour of the Row was gone: the London that used to watch it was a London that had forgotten how to play.
Beyond the Row, carriages, drawn by beautiful pairs of horses, high-stepping, with harness flashing in the sunlight, drove up and down. Some contained old ladies and grey-haired men; but nearly all bore a load of wounded soldiers, with sometimes a tired-faced nurse.
“There’s that nice old Lady Ellison—the one that used to take Jim and me out when we were in hospital,” Wally said, indicating a carriage with a magnificent pair of bays. “She was an old dear. My word, I’d like to have the driving of those horses—in a good light buggy on the Billabong track!”
“So would I,” Jim assented. “But I’d take those beastly bearing-reins off before I started.”
“Yes,” said Norah eagerly. “Poor darlings, how they must hate them! Jim, I wish we’d struck London when the coaches used to be seen.”
“Rather!” said Jim. “Anstruther used to tell me about them. Coaches bigger than Cobb & Co.’s, and smart as paint, with teams of four so matched you could hardly tell which was which—and educated beyond anything Australians could dream about. There was one man—poor chap, Anstruther said he was drowned in the Lusitania—who had a team of four black cobs. I think Anstruther used to dream about them at night; he got poetical and incoherent when he tried to describe ’em.”
“Fancy seeing a dozen or so of those coaches swinging down Piccadilly on a fine morning!” said Wally. “That would be something to tell black Billy about, Norah!”
“He’d only say Plenty!” said Norah, laughing. “Look—there’s Dad!”