Day after day he spent his time in the same manner at the
G.P.O.--asking questions of clerks, lounging in stone corridors,
sitting on wooden benches, thinking that the hour was coming and
finding that it did not come. He was one of a weary regiment of people
waiting for interviews. Clerks behind counters of inquiry offices
hunted him up in pigeon-holes, looked for him in files and on skewers.
"Oh, yes, let's see. You say you're the man from Rodchurch! That's
north or midlands, isn't it? You must ask in Room 45.... What say?
Down south, is it? Then you're quite right to ask here. No, we haven't
heard any more about it since yesterday."
At the end of each fruitless day he emerged from the vast place of
postponement feeling exhausted, dazed, stupefied. The sunlight made
him blink. He stood holding his hat so as to shade his eyes.
Then after a few minutes, as he plodded along Queen Victoria Street,
his confusion passed away, and he observed things with a clear
understanding. It was a lovely evening really and truly, and these
ponderous omnibuses were all carrying people home because the day's
work was done. The streets were clean and bright; and there was plenty
of gayness and joy--for them as could grab a share of it.
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