“You will find that nearly every London name is familiar,” said the Captain, “if you have heard or read much about the place. But I am afraid you will be disappointed in St. Paul’s Churchyard, for it is not a burying-ground. It is only the name of a street; all the graves were emptied long ago and the ground sold for business purposes.”
“Why, there are no windows in the Bank of England!” Kit cried, when they reached that great, low, square building occupying a whole block.
“Plenty of them,” Mr. Watkins answered, “but not on the outside. These outer walls that you see are not really part of the building. The real building is inside these walls, and separate. It has to be very strong and well guarded, you see, because so much money is kept there.”
“And that crowd in front of the big doors!” Kit went on. “Why, it looks as if the bank had failed, and the depositors were trying to get their money.”
“Ah, that crowd ought to remind you of home,” said Mr. Watkins, laughing. “We often see such a crowd in front of the bank. The people are generally American tourists, ‘Cook’s personally Conducted,’ we call them, and they are visiting the banks among the other sights. They are led about from one place to another like flocks of sheep.”
“You are seeing something of the world without being a ‘personally conducted tourist,’ Silburn,” the Captain said. “We sailors have some advantages, after all.”
“I don’t think I should like to be led about like a sheep,” Kit laughed, “though I suppose it is cheaper and saves a lot of time. You must see a great many Americans in London, Mr. Watkins; though of course you do not always know them when you see them.”
“Oh, don’t we!” the clerk exclaimed. “They say there are always about forty thousand Americans here, and we can tell one the minute we lay eyes on him. They dress a little differently, you know; and then when they speak they have such a different accent. I hope you’ll not mind my saying so.”
“Not a bit of it!” the Captain answered; “give it to us. Turn about is only fair play, and we always poke a little fun at the Englishmen in America; when we see a stranger arrive with three or four big leather satchels, a leather hat-box, a tin bath-tub, and two or three steamer rugs, we know he is an Englishman before we hear him speak. We have a great many of them, too, and generally disappointed because they can’t shoot Indians in Broadway, or go buffalo hunting on Boston Common. You English, somehow, are never happy unless you are shooting something. But if I am not mistaken that group of large buildings is the Post Office.”
“Yes, sir, that is the Post Office,” Mr. Watkins answered. “And I think you will have to admit that it is the best-managed Post Office you ever saw.”