It certainly was! Great, top-heavy buses swung and lurched past them, some of them drawn by splendid horses, but still more with motors. The outsides of the vehicles were covered with all sorts of gay advertisements and signs, in bright and vivid colors; in this way, and in their tremendous numbers, they differ from the New York buses on Fifth Avenue.
“To-night, we will take you out for a ride on top of a bus if you like, John,” said Philip.
John, losing his shyness, began to ask questions, and to give his opinion of the things he saw.
“I think the buses are great! I shall always choose that seat just behind the driver, where I can talk to him. He must have fine stories to tell, doesn’t he, Philip? I like the hansoms, too. There really seem to be more hansoms than anything else in London! Just look, Betty, at that long row there in the middle of the street! I suppose they are waiting for passengers. And there’s a line of ‘taxis,’ too. My, but these streets are crowded! Fifth Avenue isn’t in it!”
Philip and Barbara looked at each other and smiled. All the sights which were so familiar to them, seemed very novel to their American visitors.
“I suppose it would be just the same to us, if we were to visit New York,” said Barbara. “Those bus-horses, which you admire, do look very fine at first, but the work is so hard on them, that they only last a very short time. Their days are about over now, for soon we shall have only the motor-buses.”
“Oh, what’s this place?” cried John excitedly. “I am sure I have seen pictures of it! Why, Philip, I think you once sent me some post-cards which showed this!”
“Oh, yes, this is Trafalgar Square,” broke in Mrs. Pitt. “People sometimes call it the center of all London. Here is the celebrated statue of Lord Nelson—here, in the middle; see all the flower-girls, with their baskets, around its foot. That large building, with the pillars, is the National Gallery, where I may take you to see the pictures. The church near it they call St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. Yes, it doesn’t seem a very appropriate name now, but once it really was ‘in the fields,’ it has stood here so long. Do you notice all the streets leading out from this great square? That way is the direction of the Strand and Fleet Street; Westminster Abbey is not far away; and you can see the towers of the Houses of Parliament—just there. You will soon grow more familiar with all this. Now, we must go this way, and before long, we shall be at home. I think you’ll be glad to rest after your tiresome journey. This is Regent Street, where many of the shops are. Aren’t they attractive?”
“Yes,” said John, “but how very low the buildings are! As far as I can see they are all of the same height. They are almost all yellow, too, and with the bright buses the scene is very gay.”
They rode along for some time, the silence being often broken by exclamations and questions. John and Betty could not understand how people avoided being run over when they all dashed across the street, right under the very noses of the horses. It was amusing to see people stumbling up the narrow, winding stairs of the buses, as they jolted along, and even the signs over the shops attracted some attention. They wondered if the King and Queen could shop in them all, for so many bore the words, “Jewelers to T. R. M.,” or “Stationers to Their Royal Majesties.” London seemed very large to them on this first drive—very strange and foreign, and they were glad when the cab drew up before a big house in a spacious square, and the rest cried, “Here we are at home!”
CHAPTER TWO
THE FIRST EVENING
The big library at Mrs. Pitt’s home was a fascinating place, the two visitors thought. The ceiling was high, the wainscoting was of dark wood, and the walls were almost entirely lined with book-cases. John was delighted with some little steps, which you could push around and climb up on to reach the highest shelves. This room suggested great possibilities to both the young visitors, for, as they were to stay many months, there would certainly be days when it would be too wet to go out, and they could by no means entirely give up their reading.
As they had felt rather chilly on their bus-ride that evening, the four young people all came into the library upon their return, and drew their chairs up to the tiny grate. Betty and John had greatly enjoyed this new experience, for they had been truly English. Having jumped aboard while the bus was moving slowly, near the curb, they had scrambled up the little steps and taken the seats behind the driver. They had not noticed much about where they were going, for it had all seemed a jumble of many lights, crowds of people, and noise. But John had slipped a coin into the driver’s hand, and there had been a steady stream of stories from that moment. London bus-drivers have plenty to tell, and are not at all loath to tell it—especially after the encouragement of a tip. John was delighted to hear about the time, one foggy Christmas Eve, when his friend had “sat for four hours, sir, without daring to stir, at ’Yde Park Corner.” John envied him the splendid moment when the fog had finally lifted and disclosed the great mass of traffic, which had been blinded and stalled for so long.
As John stood in front of the fire thinking it all over, he suddenly exclaimed, “It was fun to hear that driver drop his h’s; that was real Cockney for you!”
Betty looked puzzled for a moment, and then said, “Wasn’t it supposed that only people who had been born within the sound of the bells of old Bow Church could be real Cockneys?”
“That’s right, Betty; your history is good,” said Mrs. Pitt, who had just entered; “but John, I must tell you that dropping h’s is not necessarily Cockney. The peculiar pronunciation of vowels is what characterizes a true Cockney’s speech, but many others drop h’s—the people of Shropshire for instance.
“Do you children remember those quaint little verses about Bow Bells?” continued Mrs. Pitt. “In the days when Dick Whittington was a boy, and worked at his trade in London, it was the custom to ring Bow Bells as the signal for the end of the day’s work, at eight o’clock in the evening. One time, the boys found that the clerk was ringing the bells too late, and indignant at such a thing, they sent the following verses to him:
‘Clerke of the Bow Bells,
With the yellow lockes,
For thy late ringing,
Thou shalt have knockes.’
The frightened man hastened to send this answer to the boys:
‘Children of Chepe,
Hold you all stille,
For you shall have Bow Bells
Rung at your wille.’ ”
“That was bright of them,” commented John, as he rose to take off his coat.
Philip and Barbara had long since thrown off their wraps and pulled their chairs away from the fire, saying how warm they were. Even after John had dispensed with