There are, however, still a few Christian public houses off Shaftesbury Avenue where street vendors are admitted. I had spotted one of these, and about eight o’clock that evening I decided to stop active business, to buy myself a drink and to look round. The bar I chose was one of those cosy places where you sit on a high stool, close to the counter, which is flanked by a buffet, groaning with good things in the cheese and biscuit line, cold beef, ham and pickles, tomatoes and French mustard. I bought myself a glass of port, biscuit and cheese, borrowed an evening paper and waited events.

Presently a bunch of men came in, all in good spirits, after a day’s racing. Racing men are always kindly and most human, and I felt I was in for a good sale. I bided my time, and, when one of them started fumbling for a pipe, I intrigued the inevitable box towards him.

“Times are hard,” I said, with a sweet smile.

My victim, a tall, bearded creature with blue eyes, gave a sympathetic grin.