In the last act the hero pretends to be blotto (British for spiflicated), so that, while he is apparently dead to the world, he can eavesdrop on a dialogue between two of the boche plotters and obtain information invaluable to England. The boches were completely deceived, which is more than can be said of the audience.
Wednesday, September 19. London.
Took a walk past Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace and found they looked just like their post-card pictures.
It’s almost as bad crossing streets here as in Paris. The taxis don’t go as fast, but their habit of sticking to the left side keeps an American on what are known as tenterhooks.
Mr. O’Flaherty loomed up at noon and guided me to the office of a friend with money. This rara avis honored a check on an American bank, and now I think there’s enough cash on hand to see me through. The only trouble is that my education in English money has been neglected and I don’t know when I’m being short-changed. Constantly, I presume.
Living conditions here have it on those in Paris. There are no meatless days, and a hot bath is always available. The town is dark at night, but it’s said to be not for the purpose of saving fuel, but as a measure of protection against air raids.
One of those things was staged last week and a bomb fell uncomfortably close to ye hotel. The dent it made in Mother Earth is clearly visible to the naked eye. I trust the bombers take every other week off. At dinner we met two American naval officers—a captain from Baltimore and a lieutenant from Rockford, which is in Illinois. What they told us was the most interesting stuff I’ve heard yet. But, like all interesting stuff, it’s forbidden to write it.
Thursday, September 20. London.
The American naval officers took me to luncheon. After luncheon I went to the American consul’s where I was viséed. Thence to the Bow Street station for final registration.
This evening to The Boy, a musical play which could use some of the plot so prodigally expended in Seven Days’ Leave. But the music isn’t bad.