"Oh," he said, "I see, sir," and he dumped us out before a restaurant. We went in.
"Ham and eggs," we all shouted. Every good American sailor always orders that, but our waiter didn't care.
"You can have either ham, sir, or eggs. Not both."
And we learned something else, too. You couldn't order more than thirty cents' worth of food at one sitting. It's against the law, and, what's more, you can't treat a pal; you can't even treat a girl, which ought to please some people I know back home.
We didn't stay in that joint. We tried four others with the same result. I never wanted to spend money so badly before in my life.
What got me was the work the women are doing in London. Women bus drivers—women street cleaners—women baggage smashers—and all of them the healthiest lot of girls I've ever seen—red cheeks and clear eyes and a smile for us always.
"Will you let us wish on you?" they'd cry. Of course we let them. I only hope their wishes came true.
But, say, night in London is one great party. It gets dusk, and, if you're on to what you are in for, you make a bee-line for where you are going, before the light fades entirely—or you don't get there. We didn't know that, so we planned to go to the Hippodrome; but we waited until dark. Say, talk about pitch black! It's pale beside London at night!
Imagine Broadway with not a single light—not even a pale glimmer. Imagine it filled with thousands and thousands of people, bumping into each other—talking, laughing, whispering.