Between the top of Northumberland Avenue and Charing Cross Station he observed another crowd of the same character, but in thicker numbers still.  Unwilling to eschew any emotion that thus stirred his fellow citizens, he approached the outskirts and waited, in hopes of gathering information without further inquiry.  But the crowd was doggedly silent.  Nearly all were reading the evening papers, and the few snatches of conversation that Mr. Clarkson caught appeared to be meaningless.  At last he ventured to accost a harmless-looking, pale-faced youth in a straw hat, who was reading the latest Star, and asked him what he was waiting for.

The youth looked him up and down from head to foot, and then slowly uttered the words:  “I don’t think!”

“I’m so very sorry for that,” said Mr. Clarkson, a little irritated, but, as he turned hastily away he reflected with a smile that, after all, one should be grateful to find imbecility so frankly acknowledged.

Next time he was more diplomatic.  Standing quietly for a while beside a good-tempered-looking man, who was evidently an out-of-work cab-driver, he yawned two or three times, and said at last:  “How long shall we have to wait, do you think?”

“Depends on cable,” said the cab-driver.  “Got a bit on?”

“Well, no; I haven’t exactly got anything on,” said Mr. Clarkson, uneasily; “but may I ask what cable you mean?”

“Don’t be silly,” said the cabman, and spat between his feet.

“Cheer up, long-face!” said another man, who had been listening.  “He only means the cable from the States.  Perhaps you’ve never heard of the White Man’s Hope?”

Light at last broke upon Mr. Clarkson.  “Of course,” he said, “it’s Independence Day!  I’ve seen the American flag flying from several buildings.  It has always appeared a most remarkable thing to me that we English people should thus ungrudgingly accept the celebration of our most disastrous national defeat.  Such entire disappearance of racial animosity is, indeed, full of future promise.  I suppose, if you liked, you might without exaggeration call it the White Man’s Hope?”

“Stow it,” said the cabman.

“No doubt the day is being marked in the United States by some special event,” Mr. Clarkson continued, “and you are waiting for the account?”

No one answered.  An American was reading aloud from a newspaper:  “If the Imperturbable Colossus gets knocked out, a general assault upon all negroes throughout the States may be expected to ensue.  The wail that goes up from Reno will be re-echoed from every land where the black problem sits like a nightmare on the chest.  It is not too much to say that a new chapter in the world’s history will open before our astonished eyes, so adequately is the gigantic struggle between the black and white races prefigured in the persons of their chosen champions.”

All listened with attention.

“That’s what I call thickened truth,” said the American, looking solemnly round.  “If that coloured gentleman with a yellow streak worries our battle-hardened veteran and undefeated hero of all time, the negro will grow scarce.”