because we were profoundly confident of our collective capacity to keep
them _out_. Cynicism was the fashion. There was so much to say on the
great topic, and so little to read about it. The evenings seemed so
long; at half-past five, when the shops were closed, it appeared to be
much later. Nice people exchanged visits as usual, albeit they had to be
home at the disgustingly rural hour of nine o'clock, sharp. It was
amusing sometimes to watch the abnormal strides of fat men and women,
and to see them dodging the night patrol when they had to do a ten
minutes' walk in five. The patrol was not a policeman. Oh, dear, no; he
was far more stern, and had banished his politeness for three weeks. If
at nine-fifteen you wished to be directed to Jones Street, you would be
shown the way to the gaol instead. No explanations would be accepted, no
protests heeded, no excuses listened to; no consideration for persons,
no bank-balance however huge, would soften the inflexible patrol. "I did
not read the proclamation," would not do; you must have heard of it. You
might swear you had not, or _at_ the insulting sceptic, but he would
neither yield nor apologise. He was always armed with a rifle, and
accompanied by three or four men with ammunition. It was a common
experience with us to wake up during the night and list to the same old
hackneyed dialogue. "Halt!" in a voice of thunder, "who goes there?" "A
friend," would be the invariable response, the tone, pitch, and temper
of which would be regulated by the "pass" the friend had or had _not_ in
his pocket. "Advance, friend, and give the countersign," Excited
families would by this time have their heads thrust through the windows
to watch the _denouement_. Satisfactory explanations would generally
follow the final command; but occasionally a babel of recrimination
would ensue, and become gradually indistinct as the poor law-breaker was
hustled off to prison.

The people, for the most part, sat on their steps, discussing the events