Middlesex Street or Petticoat Lane, and some of the slums. Next
morning it was pretty clear to me that two pounds don't go far in
the big town. I promptly boarded the first bus for Trafalgar
Square. The recruiting office was just down the road in Whitehall
at the old Scotland Yard office.

I had an idea when I entered that recruiting office that the
sergeant would receive me with open arms. He didn't. Instead he
looked me over with unqualified scorn and spat out, "Yank, ayen't
ye?"

And I in my innocence briefly answered, "Yep."

"We ayen't tykin' no nootrals," he said, with a sneer. And then:
"Better go back to Hamerika and 'elp Wilson write 'is blinkin'
notes."

Well, I was mad enough to poke that sergeant in the eye. But I
didn't. I retired gracefully and with dignity.

At the door another sergeant hailed me, whispering behind his hand,
"Hi sye, mytie. Come around in the mornin'. Hi'll get ye in." And
so it happened.

Next day my man was waiting and marched me boldly up to the same
chap who had refused me the day before.

"'Ere's a recroot for ye, Jim," says my friend.

Jim never batted an eye. He began to "awsk" questions and to fill