It was not bad sport--being in London entirely on our own hook. We asked
the way to Fleet Street, where Father says all the newspaper offices
are. They said straight on down Ludgate Hill--but it turned out to be
quite another way. At least _we_ didn't go straight on.

We got to St Paul's. Noel _would_ go in, and we saw where Gordon was
buried--at least the monument. It is very flat, considering what a man
he was.

When we came out we walked a long way, and when we asked a policeman he
said we'd better go back through Smithfield. So we did. They don't
burn people any more there now, so it was rather dull, besides being a
long way, and Noel got very tired. He's a peaky little chap; it comes
of being a poet, I think. We had a bun or two at different shops--out
of the shillings--and it was quite late in the afternoon when we got to
Fleet Street. The gas was lighted and the electric lights. There is a
jolly Bovril sign that comes off and on in different coloured lamps. We
went to the Daily Recorder office, and asked to see the Editor. It is a
big office, very bright, with brass and mahogany and electric lights.

They told us the Editor wasn't there, but at another office. So we went
down a dirty street, to a very dull-looking place. There was a man
there inside, in a glass case, as if he was a museum, and he told us to
write down our names and our business. So Oswald wrote--

OSWALD BASTABLE
NOEL BASTABLE
BUSINESS VERY PRIVATE INDEED