The thing really started in the Parkā āat the Marble Arch endā āwhere weird birds of every description collect on Sunday afternoons and stand on soapboxes and make speeches. It isnāt often youāll find me there, but it so happened that on the Sabbath after my return to the good old metrop. I had a call to pay in Manchester Square, and, taking a stroll round in that direction so as not to arrive too early, I found myself right in the middle of it.
Now that the Empire isnāt the place it was, I always think the Park on a Sunday is the centre of London, if you know what I mean. I mean to say, thatās the spot that makes the returned exile really sure heās back again. After what you might call my enforced sojourn in New York Iām bound to say that I stood there fairly lapping it all up. It did me good to listen to the lads giving tongue and realise that all had ended happily and Bertram was home again.