"Give us American dimes," they'd cry. "Give us American dimes," and they fought for them. I had some Confederate money with me. They snapped it up.
Two bobbies—they are the English policemen, you know—came to our rescue, and packed us into taxies, but not before the crowd surged around us exclaiming about our caps—our little white canvas hats. They had never seen any like them. They wanted those, too. I don't know what would have become of us if the police hadn't taken a hand.
Say, by that time, we were hungry and thirsty, but we didn't dare get out for fear of starting another young mob. I felt like the President on inauguration day, or the King, or someone.
"Stop at a beanery," yelled Bill to our driver, a little old man with round shoulders and a shiny coat. He cocked an eye at us.
"Beg pardon, sir?" he said.
Bill replied, "As me Allies, the French, put it, 'Jay fame.'"
Our driver wasn't a French scholar. He looked at me.
"Where is it you want to go, sir?"
"Food," I said. "In plain Anglo-Saxon, I hunger—I crave nourishment."